The Hollows Series Books 1-4. Kim Harrison

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СКАЧАТЬ glanced at Jonathan, his shoulders hunched. There was the sound of sliding polyester as he pushed up his jacket sleeves, then pulled them back down. Tossing his hair from his eyes, Francis edged to the chair and sat on the very end. Stress drew the features on his triangular face tight, especially when Jonathan closed the door and stood behind him with his arms crossed and his feet spread wide. My attention flicked between them. What was going on?

      “Would you explain yesterday to me?” Trent said with a smooth casualness.

      Confusion made me blink, then my mouth dropped open in understanding. Frances worked for Trent? It would explain his fast advancement, not to mention how a short-order cook such as himself made witch. A chill ran through me. This arrangement wasn’t with the I.S.’s blessing. The I.S. had no idea. Francis was a mole. The cookie was a freaking mole!

      I looked at Trent through the wide leaves. His shoulders shifted slightly, as if agreeing with my thoughts. My nausea came rolling back. Francis wasn’t good enough for anything this slimy. He was going to get himself killed.

      “Uh—I—” Frances stammered.

      “My head of security found you spelled in your own trunk,” Trent said calmly, the barest hint of a threat in his voice. “Ms. Morgan and I had an interesting conversation.”

      “She—She said she would turn me into an animal,” Frances interrupted.

      Trent took a deep breath. “Why,” he said with a tired patience, “would she do that?”

      “She doesn’t like me.”

      Trent said nothing. Francis cringed as he probably realized how childish that sounded.

      “Tell me about Rachel Morgan,” Trent demanded.

      “She’s a pain in the—um—butt,” he said, flicking a nervous look at Jonathan.

      Trent took a pen in hand and twirled it. “I know that. Tell me something else.”

      “That you don’t already know?” Francis blurted. His pinched eyes were riveted to the revolving pen. “You’ve probably had your finger on her longer than on me. Did you give her a loan for tuition?” he said, sounding almost jealous. “Whisper in her I.S. interviewer’s ear?”

      I stiffened. How dare he suggest it. I had worked for my schooling. I’d gotten my job on my own. I looked to Trent, hating them all. I didn’t owe anyone anything.

      “No. I didn’t.” Trent set his pen down. “Ms. Morgan was a surprise. But I did offer her a job,” he said, and Francis seemed to sink in on himself. His mouth worked, but nothing came out. I could smell the fear on him, sour and sharp.

      “Not your job,” Trent said, his disgust obvious. “Tell me what she is afraid of. What makes her angry? What does she cherish most in the world?”

      Francis’s breath came in a relieved sound. He shifted, going to cross his legs but hesitating at the last, awkward moment. “I don’t know. The mall? I try to stay away from her.”

      “Yes,” Trent said in his liquid voice. “Let’s talk about that for a moment. After reviewing your activities the past few days, one might question your loyalties—Mr. Percy.”

      Francis crossed his arms. His breathing increased and he began to fidget. Jonathan took a menacing step closer, and Francis tossed his hair from his eyes again.

      Trent went frighteningly intense. “Do you know how much it cost me to quiet the rumors when you ran from the I.S. records vault?”

      He licked his lips. “Rachel said they’d think I was helping her. That I should run.”

      “And so you ran.”

      “She said—”

      “And yesterday?” Trent interrupted. “You drove her to me.”

      The tight anger in his voice pulled me out of my hut. Trent leaned forward, and I swear I heard Francis’s blood freeze. The businessman aura fell from Trent. What was left was domination. Natural, unequivocal domination.

      I stared at the change. Trent’s mien was nothing like a vamp’s aura of power. It was like unsweetened chocolate: strong and bitter and oily, leaving an uncomfortable aftertaste. Vamps used fear to command respect. Trent simply demanded it. And from what I could see, the thought never crossed his mind that it would be denied.

      “She used you to get to me,” he whispered, his eyes unblinking. “That is inexcusable.”

      Francis cowered in his chair, his thin face drawn and his eyes wide. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “It won’t happen again.”

      Trent’s breath slipped into him in a slow gathering of will, and I watched in horrified fascination. The yellow fish in the tank splashed at the surface. The hair on my back pricked. My pulse raced. Something rose, as nebulous as a whiff of ozone. Trent’s face went empty and ageless. A haze seemed to edge him, and I wondered in a sudden shock if he were pulling on the ever-after. He’d have to be a witch or human to do that. And I would’ve sworn he was neither.

      I tore my eyes from Trent. Jonathan’s thin lips were parted. He stood behind Francis, watching Trent with a slack mix of surprise and worry. This raw show of anger wasn’t expected, even by him. His hand rose in protest, hesitant and fearful.

      As if in response, Trent’s eye twitched and his breath eased out. The fish hid behind the coral. My skin eerily rippled, settling my fur flat. Jonathan’s fingers trembled, and he made fists of them. Still not looking from Francis, Trent intoned, “I know it won’t.”

      His voice was dust upon cold iron, the sounds sliding from one meaning to the next in a liquid grace that was mesmerizing. I felt out of breath. Shuddering, I crouched where I was. What the blazes had happened? Had almost happened?

      “What do you plan on doing now?” Trent asked.

      “Sir?” Francis said, his voice cracking as he blinked.

      “That’s what I thought.” Trent’s fingertips quivered with his repressed anger. “Nothing. The I.S. is watching you too closely. Your usefulness is beginning to fade.”

      Francis’s mouth opened. “Mr. Kalamack! Wait! Like you said, the I.S. is watching me. I can draw their attention. Keep them from the customs docks. Another Brimstone take will put me in the clear and distract them at the same time.” Francis shifted on the edge of his seat. “You can move your—things?” he finished weakly.

      Things, I thought. Why didn’t he just say biodrugs? My whiskers quivered. Francis distracted the I.S. with a token amount of Brimstone while Trent moved the real moneymaker. How long? I wondered. How long had Francis worked for him? Years?

      “Mr. Kalamack?” Francis whispered.

      Trent placed his fingertips together as if in careful thought. Behind him, Jonathan furrowed his thin eyebrows, the worry that had filled him almost gone.

      “Tell me when?” Francis begged, edging closer on his chair.

      Trent pushed Francis to the back of his chair with a three-second glance. “I don’t give chances, Percy. I take opportunities.” СКАЧАТЬ