Nora Roberts - The Hollow

“Wow.” Fox hated guns-it was knee-jerk. But he had to admire the… pizzazz. “That’s given the Big Evil Bastard something to think about.”

She slid it into the holster under her jacket. “Well, it’s no froe, but it has its merits.”

The air warmed again, and the evening sun sparkled on young leaves as they hiked the rest of the way to the Pagan Stone.

It rose from the burned ground in a clearing that formed a near-perfect circle. What every test had deemed ordinary limestone speared up, then spread altarlike in the quieting light of the spring evening.

“Fire first,” Cal decided, dragging off his pack. “Before we lose the light.” Opening the pack, he pulled out two Dura-Logs.

After the miserable journey there, Fox’s laughter was like a balm. “Only you, Hawkins.”

“Be prepared. We start one of these, tent wood around it, the flames should dry out the wet wood. Should do the job.”

“Isn’t he cute?” Quinn demanded, wrapping her arms around Cal for a cheerful snuggle. “Seriously.”

They gathered stones and branches, stripped off wet jackets to hang on the poles Fox fashioned in hopes the fire would dry them. They roasted Quinn’s contribution of turkey dogs on sharpened sticks, passed out Cybil’s brie and Layla’s sliced apples and ate like the starving.

As darkness settled, Fox broke out the Little Debbies while Cal checked the flashlights. “Go ahead,” he told Quinn as she gave the snack cakes a wistful look. “Indulge.”

“They go straight to my ass. If we live, I have to fit into my absolutely spectacular wedding dress.” She took one, broke it prudently in half. “I think we’re going to live, and half a Little Debbie doesn’t count.”

“You’re going to look amazing.” Layla smiled at her. “And the shoes we found? So exactly right. Plus, Cybil and I aren’t going to look shabby. I love the dresses we found. The idea of the plum with the orchid’s just-”

“I feel an irresistible urge to talk about baseball,” Fox said, and got an elbow jab from Layla.

Conversation trailed off until there was only the crackle of wood, the lonely hoot of an owl. So they sat in silence as the fat moon glowed like a white torch in a star-struck sky. Fox pushed to his feet to gather trash. Busy hands packed away food or added wood to the fire.

At a signal from Cybil, the women unpacked what Layla thought of as the ritual bag. A small copper bowl, a bag of sea salt, fresh herbs, candles, springwater.

As instructed, Fox poured the salt in a wide circle around the Pagan Stone.

“Well.” Cybil stepped back, studied the arrangement of supplies on the stone. “I don’t know how much of this is visual aids, but all my research recommended these elements. The salt’s for protection against evil, a kind of barrier. We’re to stand inside the circle Fox made. There are six white candles. Each of us lights one, in turn. But first, the springwater goes into the bowl, then the herbs, then the three pieces of stone-in turn. Q?”

“I printed out six copies of the words we need to say.” Quinn took the file out of her pack. “We do that one at a time, around the circle, as each one of us draws his or her own blood with Cal’s knife.”

“Over the bowl,” Cybil reminded her.

“Yeah, over the bowl. When the last one’s done that, we join hands, and repeat the words together six times.”

“It should be seven,” Layla said. “I know there are six of us, but seven is the key number. Maybe the seventh is for the guardian, or symbolizes the innocent, the sacrifice. I don’t know, but it should be seven times.”

“And seven candles,” Fox realized. “A seventh candle we all light. Shit, why didn’t we think of this?”

“A little late now.” Gage shrugged. “We got six, we go with six.”

“We can do seven.” Cal held out a hand to Layla. “Can I borrow your froe?”

“Wait. I got you.” Fox pulled out his knife. “This’ll work better. Let me see.” He picked up one of the thick, white columns. “Beeswax-good. I spent a lot of time working with beeswax and wicks growing up.” After he’d laid it on its side, he glanced at Cybil. “Any reason for the dimensions of these? The height?”

“No, but my sources said six.” She looked at Layla, nodded. “Screw the sources. Make us another candle.”

He set to work. The wax was going to do a number on his blade, he thought, but all things being right in the world, he’d be able to clean and sharpen it when he got home. It took time, enough that he wondered why the hell Cybil hadn’t picked up a half dozen tapers. But he cut off three inches, then took Layla’s tool to dig a well for the wick.

“Not my best work,” he decided, “but it’ll burn.”

“We light it last.” Layla scanned the other faces. “Light it together.” She had to take a breath to keep her voice steady. “It’s almost time.”

“We need the stones,” Cybil began, “and the ritual Boy Scout knife,” she added with a faint smile.

The boy came out of the woods, executing cheerful handsprings. The claws on his hands, his feet, dug grooves in the ground, and the grooves welled with blood.

“You should know we’ve used salt before.” Gage drew his Luger from the small of his back. “Didn’t do squat.” His brows lifted as the boy’s hand brushed the salt. It squealed in pain, leaped back. “Must be a different brand.” Even as Gage aimed, the boy hissed and vanished.

“We need to start.” With a steady hand, Cybil poured the water into the bowl, then sprinkled the herbs. “Now the stones. Cal, Fox, Gage.”

Thunder boomed, and with a flash of lightning, bloody rain gushed from the sky. The burned ground drank it, and steamed.

“It’s holding.” Layla looked up. “It’s not coming inside the circle.”

Fox held the stone inside his fist. He’d carried it with him like hope for nearly twenty-one years. And with that hope, he slipped it into the water after Cal’s. Outside the circle, the world went mad. The ground shook, and blood swam across it to lap and burn at the barrier of salt.

It’s eating it away, Fox thought, burning and eating away the barrier. He set his candle to flame, passed the lighter to Layla.

In the light of six candles, they laid hand over hand, fired the seventh.

“Hurry,” Fox ordered. “It’s coming back, and it’s pissed.”

Cal held his hand over the bowl, drew the knife across his palm as he read the words. As did Quinn, then Fox.

“My blood, their blood. Our blood, its blood. One into three, three into one. Dark with the light. We make this sacrifice, we take this oath.”

Screams, ululations neither human nor animal rolled through the dark. Tethered to the base of the stone, Lump lifted his big head to howl.

Layla took the knife, hissing against the quick pain as she read the words. Then her mind flew to Fox’s while Gage took his turn. The cold! It’s nearly through!

As the ground quivered underfoot, he clasped her bloodied hand with his.

The wind tore in. He couldn’t hear the others, not with his ears or his mind, but shouted the words, prayed they were with him. On the Pagan Stone, the seven candles burned with unwavering flame, and in the bowl, reddened water bubbled. The ground heaved, ramming him into the table of the stone with enough force to knock his breath away. Something like claws raked at his back. He felt himself spinning, impossibly. In desperation, his mind reached out for Layla’s. Then the blast of light and heat flung him blindly into the black.

He crawled, dragging himself over the ground toward the faint echo of her. He yanked his knife free, pulled himself over the bucking ground.

She crawled toward him, and the worst of his fears broke away when he found her hand. When their fingers linked, the light burst again with a sound terrible as a scream. Fire engulfed the Pagan Stone, sheathed it as leather sheathed a blade. In a deafening roar the flame geysered up toward the cold, watching moon. And it flew to ring the clearing in a writhing curtain of fire. In its savage light, Fox saw the others, sprawled on, kneeling on the ground.