Nora Roberts - The Hollow

“Yes, he told her to run.”

“He knew what was about to happen. Not just that he’d pull Twisse into some other dimension for a few centuries, but what it would cost to do it.”

She put a fist to her heart, rubbed it there as she stared at Fox. “The people who were at the Pagan Stone.”

“About a dozen of them, as far as we can tell. That’s a lot of blood. That’s a major sacrifice.”

“You think he used them.” Slowly, carefully, she lowered to a chair. “You think he killed them. Not Twisse, but Dent.”

“I think he let them die, which being a lawyer I could argue isn’t the same by law. Depraved indifference we could call it, except for the little matter of intent. He used their deaths.” Fox’s voice was heavy on the words. “I think he used the fire-the torches they carried, and the fire he made, to engulf them, to scorch the ground, to draw from that act-one no guardian had ever committed, the power to do what he’d decided had to be done.”

The color died out of her face, leaving her eyes eerily green. “If it’s true, what does that make him? What does that make any of us?”

“I don’t know. Damned maybe, if you subscribe to damnation. I’ve been a subscriber for nearly twenty-one years now.”

“We thought, we assumed, it was Twisse who caused the deaths of all those people that night.”

“Maybe it was. In part, even if my idea’s crap, it was. How many of them would have gone to the Pagan Stone, looking to kill Giles Dent and Ann Hawkins if they hadn’t been under Twisse’s influence? But if we tip that to the side, and we look at the grays, isn’t it possible Dent used Twisse? He knew what was coming, according to the journals, he knew. He sent Ann away to protect her and his sons. He gave his life-white hat time. But if he took the others, that put a lot of bloodstains on the white.”

“It makes horrible sense. It makes sickening sense.”

“We need to look at it, and maybe when we do, we’ll know better what has to be done.” He studied her face, the shock that covered it. “Pack it in, go on home.”

“It’s barely two. I have work.”

“I can handle the phones for the next couple of hours. Take a walk, get some air. Take a nap, a bubble bath, whatever.”

Bracing a hand on the arm of the chair, she got slowly to her feet. “Is that what you think of me? That I crumble at the first ugly slap? That I can’t or won’t stand up to it? It took me a while to get my feet when I came to the Hollow-hang me -but I’ve got them now. I don’t need a goddamn bubble bath to soothe my sensibilities.”

“My mistake.”

“Don’t underestimate me, Fox. However diluted, I have that bastard’s blood in me. It could be, in the long run, I can handle the dark better than you.”

“Maybe. But don’t expect me to want that for you, or you overestimate me. Now you might have a better idea why I didn’t bring this up yesterday, or you might just want to stay pissed about it.”

She closed her eyes and steadied herself. “No, I don’t want to be mad about it, and yes, I have a better idea.” She also had a much better idea what Quinn had meant by her warning. Working, sleeping with, fighting beside. It was a lot to ask of a relationship.

“It’s hard to separate the different things we are to each other,” she said carefully. “And when the lines get blurred, it’s harder yet. You said, when I came in, you were feeling overwhelmed. You overwhelm me, Fox, on a lot of levels. So I keep losing my balance.”

“I haven’t had mine since I met you. I’ll try to catch you when you stumble if you do the same for me.”

And didn’t that say it all. She glanced at her watch. “Oh, look at that. I nearly missed my afternoon break. Only a couple minutes left. Well, I’d better put them to good use.”

She walked around the desk, leaned down. “You’re on break, too, by the way, so this office is closed for the next thirty seconds.” She laid her lips on his, brushing her fingertips over his face, back into his hair.

And there, she thought, as strange as it was, she found her balance again.

Straightening, she took his hand between both of hers for the last few seconds, then letting it go, stepped back. “Mrs. Mullendore would like to speak with you. Her number’s on your desk.”

“Layla,” he said when she reached the doorway. “I’m going to have to give you longer breaks.”

She smiled over her shoulder as she continued out. Alone, Fox sat quietly at his desk another moment, and thought of what a good man, even the best of men might do if all he loved was threatened.

WHEN THE SIX OF THEM WERE TOGETHER THAT evening in the sparsely furnished living room of the rental house, Fox read the passages from Ann’s journal that had flicked the switch for him. He laid out his theory, as he had for Layla.

“Jesus, Fox. Guardian.” Cal’s resistance to the idea was palpable. “It means he protected. He’d dedicated his life to that purpose, and all the lives he remembered before the last. I’ve felt some of what he felt, I’ve seen some of what he saw.”

“But not all.” Gage paced in front of the window as he often did during discussions. “Bits and pieces, Cal, and that’s it. If it went down this way, I’d say that these particular bits and pieces would be ones Dent would do his best to keep hidden, for as long as he could.”

“Then why let Hester go?” Cal demanded. “Wasn’t she both the most innocent there, and the most dangerous to him?”

“Because we had to be.” Cybil looked at Quinn, at Layla. “We three had to become, and Hester’s child had to survive for that to happen. It’s a matter of power. The guardian, lifetime after lifetime, played by the rules-as far as we know-and could never win. He could never completely stop his foe.”

“And becoming more human,” Layla added. “I was thinking that through today. Every generation, wouldn’t he have become more human, with all the frailties? But Twisse remained as ever. How much longer could Dent have fought? How many more lifetimes did he have?”

“So he made a choice.” Fox nodded. “And used the kind of weaponry Twisse had always used.”

“And killed innocent people so he could buy time? So he could wait for us?”

“It’s horrible.” Quinn reached for Cal’s hand. “It’s horrible to think about it, to consider it. But I guess we have to.”

“So if we go with this, you’re descendents of a demon, and we’re descendents of a mass murderer.” Cal shook his head. “That’s a hell of a mix.”

“We are what we make ourselves.” There was a whiff of heat in Cybil’s words. “We use what we have and we decide what we are. Was what he did right, was it justified? I don’t know. I’m not going to judge him.”

Gage turned from the window. “And what do we have?”

“We have words on a page, a stone broken in three equal parts, a place of power in the woods. We have brains and guts,” Cybil continued. “And a hell of a lot of work to do, I’d say, before we put everything together and kill the bastard.”

THERE WERE TIMES, TO FOX’S WAY OF THINKING, when a man just needed to be around guys. Things had been quiet since Block had pounded him into the sidewalk, and that gave him thinking time. Of course, one of his thoughts had been Giles Dent killing a dozen people in a fiery blaze, and that one wasn’t sitting well with anyone.

They were in the process of reading the second journal now. Though there’d been no stunning revelations so far, he kept his own notes. He knew it wasn’t always what a person said, or wrote, but what they were thinking when they said or wrote it.

It was telling to him that while she wrote about the kindness of her cousin, the movements in her womb, even the weather, the daily chores, Ann Hawkins wrote nothing of Giles or the night at the Pagan Stone for weeks after the events.