Kim Harrison - The Hollows Series Books 1-4

Jenks never noticed when I quit listening. He hadn’t said a thing about his wing, so I knew he’d be okay. I slumped into the back of the booth and stewed, dead in the water with Jenks leaking dust as he was. I was royally Turned. If I came in empty-handed, I’d get nothing but full moon disturbances and bad charm complaints until next spring. It wasn’t my fault.

With Jenks unable to fly unnoticed, I knew I might as well go home. If I bought him some Maitake mushrooms, he might not tell the guy in appropriations how his wing got bent. What the heck , I thought. Why not make a party of it? Sort of a last fling before the boss nailed my broom to a tree, so to speak. I could stop at the mall for some bubble bath and a new disc of slow jazz. My career was taking a nosedive, but there was no reason I couldn’t enjoy the ride.

With a perverse glow of anticipation, I took my bag and the Shirley Temple, rising to make my way to the bar. Not my style to leave things hanging. Contestant number three stood with a grin and a shake of his leg to adjust himself. God, help me. Men can be so disgusting. I was tired, ticked-off, and grossly unappreciated. Knowing he would take anything I said as playing hard to get and follow me out, I tipped the ginger pop down his front and kept walking.

I smirked at his cry of outrage, then frowned at his heavy hand on my shoulder. Turning into a crouch, I sent my leg in a stiff half spin to trip him onto the floor. He hit the wood planking with a loud thump. The bar went silent after a momentary gasp. I was sitting on him, straddling his chest, before he even realized he had gone down.

My bloodred manicure stood out sharply as I gripped his neck, flicking the bristles under his chin. His eyes were wide. Cliff stood at the door with his arms crossed, content to watch.

“Damn, Rache,” Jenks said, swinging wildly from my earring. “Who taught you that?”

“My dad,” I answered, then leaned until I was in his face. “So sorry,” I breathed in a thick Hollows accent. “You want to play, cookie?” His eyes went frightened as he realized I was an Inderlander and not a bit of fluff out looking for a wild night of pretend. He was a cookie, all right. A little treat to be enjoyed and forgotten. I wouldn’t hurt him, but he didn’t know that.

“Sweet mother of Tinker Bell!” Jenks exclaimed, jerking my attention from the sniveling human. “Smell that? Clover.”

My fingers loosened, and the man scrabbled out from under me. He awkwardly gained his feet, dragging his two cohorts to the shadows with a whispered muttering of face-saving insults. “One of the bartenders?” I breathed as I rose.

“It’s the woman,” he said, sending a wash of excitement through me.

My eyes rose, taking her in. She filled out her tight, high-contrast uniform of black and green admirably, giving the impression of bored competence as she moved confidently behind the counter. “You flaking out, Jenks?” I murmured as I tried to surreptitiously pull my leather pants out from where they had ridden up. “It can’t be her.”

“Right!” he snapped. “Like you could tell. Ignore the pixy. I could be home right now in front of my TV. But no-o-o-o-o. I’m stuck spending the night with some beanpole of backward feminine intuition who thinks she can do my job better than me. I’m cold, hungry, and my wing is bent nearly in two. If that main vein snaps, I’ll have to regrow the entire wing. Do you have any idea how long that takes?”

I glanced over the bar, relieved to see that everyone had returned to their conversations. Ivy was gone and had probably missed the entire thing. Just as well. “Shut up, Jenks,” I muttered. “Pretend you’re a decoration.”

I sidled to the old man. He grinned a gap-toothed smile as I leaned forward. Wrinkles creased his leathered face in appreciation as his eyes rove everywhere but my face. “Gimme something,” I breathed. “Something sweet. Something that will make me feel good. Something rich and creamy and oh-so-bad for me.”

“I’ll be needing to see yer ID, lassie,” the old man said in a thick Irish accent. “Ye dunna look old enough to be out from under yer mum’s shadow.”

His accent was faked, but my smile at his compliment wasn’t. “Why, sure thing, hon.” I dug in my bag for my driver’s license, willing to play the game, since we both obviously enjoyed it. “Oops!” I giggled as the card slipped to fall behind the counter. “Silly little me!”

With the help of the bar stool, I leaned halfway across the counter to get a good peek behind it. Having my rear in the air not only distracted the menfolk admirably but afforded me an excellent look. Yes, it was degrading if you thought about it too long, but it worked. I looked up to find the old man grinning, thinking I was checking him out, but it was the woman I was interested in now. She was standing on a box.

She was nearly the right height, in the right place, and Jenks had marked her. She looked younger than I would have expected, but if you’re a hundred fifty years old, you’re bound to pick up a few beauty secrets. Jenks snorted in my ear, sounding like a smug mosquito. “Told you.”

I settled back on the stool, and the bartender handed me my license along with a dead man’s float and a spoon: a dollop of ice cream in a short glass of Bailey’s. Yum. Tucking the card away, I gave him a saucy wink. I left the glass where it was, turning as if scoping out the patrons that had just come in. My pulse increased and my fingertips tingled. Time to go to work.

A quick look around to make sure no one was watching, and I tipped my glass. I gasped as it spilled, and my distress wasn’t entirely faked as I lurched to catch it, trying to save at least the ice cream.

The kick of adrenaline shook me as the woman bartender met my apologetic smile with her patronizing one. The jolt was worth more to me than the check I found shoved into my desk every week. But I knew the feeling would wane as fast as it had come. My talents were being wasted. I didn’t even need a spell for this one.

If this was all the I.S. would give me, I thought, maybe I should blow off the steady pay and go out on my own . Not many left the I.S., but there was precedence. Leon Bairn was a living legend before he went independent—then promptly got wasted by a misaligned spell. Rumor had it the I.S. had been the one to put the price on his head for breaking his thirty-year contract. But that was over a decade ago. Runners went missing all the time, taken out by prey more clever or luckier than them. Blaming it on the I.S.’s own assassin corps was just spiteful. No one left the I.S. because the money was good and the hours were easy, that’s all.

Yeah , I thought, ignoring the whisper of warning that took me. Leon Bairn’s death was exaggerated. Nothing was ever proven. And the only reason I still had a job was because they couldn’t legally fire me. Maybe I should go out on my own. It couldn’t be any worse than what I was doing now. They would be glad to see me leave. Sure , I thought, smiling. Rachel Morgan, private runner for hire. All rights earnestly upheld. All wrongs sincerely avenged.

I knew my smile was misty as the woman obligingly swiped her towel between my elbows to mop up the spill. My breath came in a quick sound. Left hand dropping, I snatched the cloth, tangling her in it. My right swung back, then forward with my cuffs, clicking them about her wrists. In an instant it was done. She blinked, shocked. Damn, I’m good.

The woman’s eyes widened as she realized what had happened. “Blazes and condemnation!” she cried, sounding elegant with her Irish accent. Hers wasn’t faked. “What the ’ell do you think you’re doin’?”