three of them under my pillow, either. Brow creasing, I moved a mundane cookbook to serve as a buffer between my spell books and the demon tomes. So I was superstitious. So sue me.
The last two books slid into place, and I straightened, wiping my hands on my jeans while I looked at them sitting oh so nicely between the Country Farmâs Cookie Cookbook Iâd swiped from my mom and the copy of Real Witches Eat Quiche I had gotten from the I.S.âs secret Santa three years ago. You can guess which one I used the most.
Grabbing my bag, I headed out, boot heels clunking as I went down the hallway past Ivyâs and my bedrooms and bathrooms and into the sanctuary. The pews were long gone, leaving only the faded reminder of a huge cross above where the altar once stood. Stained-glass windows stretched from knee height to the top of the twelve-foot walls. The open raftered ceiling was dusky with the early twilight from the clouds, and I would use my panties as a sun hat if I could hear the whispered giggles of pixies plotting mischief up there again.
The large room took up half the heated space in the church, and it was empty but for my plant-strewn desk on the ankle-high stage where the altar had stood and Ivyâs baby grand piano just past the foyer. Iâd only heard her play it once, her long fingers pulling a depth of emotion from the keys that I only rarely saw in her face.
I snatched my keys from my desk in passing, and they jingled happily as I continued into the dark foyer. Squinting, I plucked my red leather jacket and cap from the peg beside the four-inch-thick, twin oak doors. At the last moment, I grabbed Ivyâs umbrella with the ebony handle before wedging the door open. There was no lockâonly a bar to lower from the insideâbut no one on this side of the ley lines would dare steal from a Tamwood vampire.
The door thumped shut behind me, and I flounced down the steps to the cracked sidewalk. The spring evening was balmy, the humidity of an approaching storm shifting the air pressure to make the robins sing and my blood quicken. I could smell rain and imagine the distant rumble of thunder. I loved spring storms, and I smiled at the fresh green leaves shifting in the rising breeze.
My steps quickened when I saw my car tucked in the tiny carport: a bright red convertible with two seats up front and two unusable seats in back. Across the street and a few houses down, our neighbor Keasley was standing at the edge of his front porch, his spine bent from arthritis and his head up as he tasted the changing wind. He raised a gnarly hand when I waved, telling me everything was fine with him. Unseen preschool-age kids were shouting, responding to the air pressure shift with less restraint than I was managing.
Up and down the street, people were coming out of their Americana middle-class homes, heads up and eyes on the sky. It was the seasonâs first warm rain, and only three days out of a new moon. The I.S. would have a busy night trying to rein everyone in.
Not my problem anymore, I cheerfully thought as I settled in behind the wheel of my car and took the time to put thetop down so I could feel the wind in my hair. Yeah, it was going to rain, but not for a few hours yet.
Saucy little red cap on my head, and wearing a snappy leather jacket to block the wind, I drove through the Hollows at a modest pace, waiting until I crossed the bridge and got on the interstate before I opened her up. The damp wind beating on my face brought every smell to me, sharper and more vivid than it had been for months, and the rumble of tires, engine, and wind muffling everything else was like freedom itself. I found myself inching past eighty when I saw the cruiser parked on an entrance ramp. It had the Federal Inderland Bureau emblem on it, and waving merrily, I tunked it down and got a headlight blink in return. Everyone in the human-run FIB knew my carâheck, they had given it to me. The FIB
The last two books slid into place, and I straightened, wiping my hands on my jeans while I looked at them sitting oh so nicely between the Country Farmâs Cookie Cookbook Iâd swiped from my mom and the copy of Real Witches Eat Quiche I had gotten from the I.S.âs secret Santa three years ago. You can guess which one I used the most.
Grabbing my bag, I headed out, boot heels clunking as I went down the hallway past Ivyâs and my bedrooms and bathrooms and into the sanctuary. The pews were long gone, leaving only the faded reminder of a huge cross above where the altar once stood. Stained-glass windows stretched from knee height to the top of the twelve-foot walls. The open raftered ceiling was dusky with the early twilight from the clouds, and I would use my panties as a sun hat if I could hear the whispered giggles of pixies plotting mischief up there again.
The large room took up half the heated space in the church, and it was empty but for my plant-strewn desk on the ankle-high stage where the altar had stood and Ivyâs baby grand piano just past the foyer. Iâd only heard her play it once, her long fingers pulling a depth of emotion from the keys that I only rarely saw in her face.
I snatched my keys from my desk in passing, and they jingled happily as I continued into the dark foyer. Squinting, I plucked my red leather jacket and cap from the peg beside the four-inch-thick, twin oak doors. At the last moment, I grabbed Ivyâs umbrella with the ebony handle before wedging the door open. There was no lockâonly a bar to lower from the insideâbut no one on this side of the ley lines would dare steal from a Tamwood vampire.
The door thumped shut behind me, and I flounced down the steps to the cracked sidewalk. The spring evening was balmy, the humidity of an approaching storm shifting the air pressure to make the robins sing and my blood quicken. I could smell rain and imagine the distant rumble of thunder. I loved spring storms, and I smiled at the fresh green leaves shifting in the rising breeze.
My steps quickened when I saw my car tucked in the tiny carport: a bright red convertible with two seats up front and two unusable seats in back. Across the street and a few houses down, our neighbor Keasley was standing at the edge of his front porch, his spine bent from arthritis and his head up as he tasted the changing wind. He raised a gnarly hand when I waved, telling me everything was fine with him. Unseen preschool-age kids were shouting, responding to the air pressure shift with less restraint than I was managing.
Up and down the street, people were coming out of their Americana middle-class homes, heads up and eyes on the sky. It was the seasonâs first warm rain, and only three days out of a new moon. The I.S. would have a busy night trying to rein everyone in.
Not my problem anymore, I cheerfully thought as I settled in behind the wheel of my car and took the time to put thetop down so I could feel the wind in my hair. Yeah, it was going to rain, but not for a few hours yet.
Saucy little red cap on my head, and wearing a snappy leather jacket to block the wind, I drove through the Hollows at a modest pace, waiting until I crossed the bridge and got on the interstate before I opened her up. The damp wind beating on my face brought every smell to me, sharper and more vivid than it had been for months, and the rumble of tires, engine, and wind muffling everything else was like freedom itself. I found myself inching past eighty when I saw the cruiser parked on an entrance ramp. It had the Federal Inderland Bureau emblem on it, and waving merrily, I tunked it down and got a headlight blink in return. Everyone in the human-run FIB knew my carâheck, they had given it to me. The FIB
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