The Witch with No Name (The Hollows Book 13) by Kim Harrison

Author:Kim Harrison [Harrison, Kim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2014-09-09T07:00:00+00:00

Eighteen

It was anguished and alone, even as others of its ilk hovered supportively nearby—forgotten and abandoned, curled into a tight ball in the center of my presence like a lion cub seeking comfort from a dead lioness—unresponsive even as everything about her screamed memories of comfort and warmth.

I saw myself through it, my dream cycling down to this tiny spot of torment until its heartache became mine. Confusion and betrayal soaked into me until I wept, not understanding. I’d searched for so long, and now there was nothing. I’d been forgotten, like a dream finding the window shut against it.

She doesn’t see, the mystic moaned to the others, and they clustered about it, trying to make it feel better, that it would become. But it wouldn’t.

I took a breath in my dream to shout that I saw them, that I was here, that I was. But a soft gong distracted me, blurring my intent. It came again, and my dream broke apart as the waves of sound moved through my unconsciousness and pushed me awake.

That’s Trent’s alarm, I thought groggily as a chill slipped under the covers. The bed moved and my weight shifted as Trent pulled from me, stretching to reach his phone.

I sighed, eyes closed as he rolled back, his warmth up against me now dulled with a sheet between us. The weight of a hand pressed into the bed at my left shoulder as he propped himself up over me and leaned to try to see my face. “Rachel, did you want to get up?” he whispered. “I can tell you what happens.”

A fuzzy-feeling smile came over me, and I rolled onto my back. Eyes opening, I tucked his hair behind one of his pointy ears as he hung over me. The light was dim with the coming sunrise since the drapes at the French doors to the garden were open, and it made his eyes dark. He was himself but different. “I like you best this way,” I said, seeing him rested and still soft with sleep, smelling of soap from his shower before he’d come to bed.

The bed shifted as he found my fingers and kissed the tips. “The sun doesn’t wait for lovers or villains. Up or not?”

I groaned, gaze on the elaborately painted ceiling of horses and the hunt. The sun had risen on the East Coast almost half an hour ago, and we both wanted to know if the demons and vampire souls had been pulled back to the ever-after. “Up,” I said, and his smile widened at the pained sound in my voice. This was insane, getting up at dawn, but I was starting to become used to it even if my stomach hurt and my thoughts were slow. Horrors, as my mother would say.

Trent kissed my fingertips again. “I’ll see if the coffee is going,” he said as he rolled to the edge of the bed, and I watched him, listless and unwilling to move yet. The faint light outlined his skin, accenting his abs and thighs defined by his horsemanship.

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