Nora Roberts - The Hollow

“Okay.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way.” He laid his hands on her shoulders. “Remember I’m a strong proponent of equality, of women’s rights. I’m going to protect you, Layla.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way. I’m going to protect you, too.”

He brushed his lips to hers. “I guess we’re set then.”

THEY MET AT CAL’S TO BEGIN THE HIKE ON THE path near his home. The woods had changed, Layla thought, since her previous trip. There had been snow then, pooled in pockets of shade, and the trail had been slick with mud, the trees barren and stark. Now, leaves were tender on the branches, and the soft white of the wild dogwoods shimmered in the slanting sun.

Now, she had a knife in a leather scabbard bumping against her hip.

She’d walked here before, toward the unknown, with five other people and Cal’s affable dog. This time, she knew what might be waiting, and she went toward it as part of a team. She went toward it beside the man she loved. Because of that, this time she had more to lose.

Quinn slowed, pointed at the scabbard. “Is that a knife?”

“Actually, it’s a froe.”

“What the hell’s a froe?”

“It’s a tool.” Cybil reached out from behind Layla to test the weight of the scabbard. “Used for cutting wood by splitting it along the grain. Safer than an ax. This one, by its size and shape, is probably a bamboo froe, and it’s used for splitting out the bamboo pins used in Japanese joinery.”

“What she said,” Layla agreed.

“Well, I want a froe, or something. I want a sheath. No,” Quinn decided. “I want a machete. Nice long handle, wicked curved blade. I need to buy a machete.”

“You can use mine next time,” Cal told her.

“You have a machete? Gosh, my man is full of hidden pockets. Why do you have a machete?”

“For whacking at weeds and brush. Maybe it’s more of a scythe.”

“What’s the difference? No.” Quinn held up her hand before Cybil could speak. “Never mind.”

“Then I’ll just say you probably want the scythe, as, traditionally, it has a long handle. However…” Cybil trailed off. “The trees are bleeding.”

“It happens,” Gage told her. “Puts off the tourists.”

The thick red ran in rivulets down bark to spread over the carpeting leaves. The air stank of burnt copper as they followed the path to Hester’s Pool.

There they stopped beside the brown water, and there the brown water began to bubble and redden.

“Does it know we’re here?” Layla spoke quietly. “Or is this the demon version of a security system? Can it think this kind of thing scares us at this point, or is it what Gage said? A show for the tourists?”

“Maybe it’s some of both.” Fox offered her a Coke, but she shook her head. “Security systems send out an alert. So if the Big Evil Bastard doesn’t know when we head in, it knows when we reach certain points.”

“And this is a cold spot-in paranormal speak,” Quinn explained. “A place of import and power. When we… Oh, Jesus.”

She wrinkled her nose as something bobbed to the surface.

“Dead rabbit.” Cal put a hand on her shoulder, then tightened his grip when other corpses rose to the bubbling surface.

Birds, squirrels, foxes. Quinn made a sound of distress, but she lifted her camera and began to document. Death smeared its stench on the air.

“It’s been busy in here,” Gage mumbled.

As he spoke, the bloated body of a doe floated up.

“That’s enough, Quinn,” Cal murmured.

“It’s not.” But she lowered the camera. Her voice was raw, her eyes fierce. “It’s not enough. They were harmless, and this is their world. And I know, I know it’s stupid to get so upset about… fauna when human lives are at stake, but-”

“Come on, Q.” Cybil draped an arm around her, turned Quinn away. “There’s nothing to be done.”

“We need to get them out.” Fox stared at the obscenity, made himself see it, made himself harden. “Not now, but we’ll have to come back, get them out. Burn the corpses. It’s not just their world, it’s ours, too. We can’t leave it like this.”

With a sick rage lodged in his gut, he turned away. “It’s here.” He said it almost casually. “It’s watching.” And it’s waiting, he thought, as he moved up to take point on the path to the Pagan Stone.

The cold rolled in. It didn’t matter that the cold was a lie, it still chilled the bones. Fox zipped up his hooded jacket, and kept the pace steady. He took Layla’s hand to warm it in his.

“It just wants to give us grief.”

“I know.”

His mind tracked toward the sounds of rustling, of growling. Keeping pace, he thought. Knows where we’re going, but not what we plan to do when we get there.

Thunder rumbled across a clear sky, and the rain pelted down from it to stab and pinch the skin like needles. Fox flipped up his hood as Layla did the same. Next roared the wind in frigid, sweeping gusts that bent trees and tore new leaves from their branches. He wrapped an arm around her waist for support, hunched his shoulders, and plowed through it.

Raindrops on roses, my ass, he thought, but kept his mind calm.

“All right back there?” He’d already looked with his mind, but was reassured by the affirming shouts. “We’re going to do a chain,” he told Layla. “Get behind me, get a good hold on my belt. Cal knows what to do. He’ll hook to you, pass it back.”

“Sing something,” she shouted.

“What?”

“Sing, something we all know the words to. Make a goddamn joyful noise.”

He grinned through the teeth of the storm. “I’m in love with a brilliant woman.” Songs everyone knew, he thought as Layla got behind him, gripped his belt. That was easy.

He launched with Nirvana, calculating that none of the six could’ve gotten through high school without picking up the lyrics from “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” The chorus of Hello! rang out defiantly while the diamond-sharp rain slashed. He tossed in some Smashing Pumpkins, a little Springsteen (he was the Boss for a reason), swung into Pearl Jam, sweetened it up with Sheryl Crow.

For the next twenty minutes, they trudged, one combative step at a time through the lashing storm, singing Fox’s version of Demon Rock.

It eased by degrees until it was no more than a chilly breeze stirring a weak drizzle. As one, they dropped onto the sodden ground to catch their breath and rest aching muscles.

“Is that the best it’s got?” Quinn’s hands trembled as she passed around a thermos of coffee. “Because-”

“It’s not,” Fox interrupted. “It’s just playing with us. But damned if we didn’t play right back. Wood’s going to be wet. We may have some trouble starting a fire.” He met Cal’s eyes as Cal unhooked Lump’s leash from his belt.

“I got that handled. We’d better get moving. I’ll take point for a while.”

The dog leaped onto the path. Huge and black, fangs gleaming, it snarled out threats. Even as Fox reached for his sheath, Cybil pushed to her feet. She drew a revolver from under her jacket, and coolly fired six shots.

The dog howled in pain and in fury; its blood smoked and sizzled on the ground. With one wild leap, it vanished into the swirling air.

“That’s for ruining my hair.” Cybil shook back the curling mess of it as she unzipped a pocket in her jacket for a box of ammo.

“Nice.” On his feet as well, Gage held out a hand. He examined the revolver-a trim.22 with a polished pearl handle. Ordinarily, he’d have smirked at that sort of weapon, but she’d handled it like a pro.

“Just something I picked up, through legal channels.” She took the gun back, competently reloaded.