The Hollow (40 page)

“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.

All of them, all of them trapped inside a circling wall of flame while in its center, the Pagan Stone spewed more.

Together, he thought as the vicious heat slicked his skin with sweat. Live or die, it would be together. With his hand locked on Layla's, he pulled them both across the clearing. Then her arm was around him, and they were pulling each other. Cal gripped his forearm, dragged him forward. He met Gage's eyes. With the air burning, they once again clasped hands.

Together, Fox thought, as the deadly walls of fire edged closer. “For the innocent,” Fox gasped out against the smoke coating his throat. The fire, blinding bright, ate across the ground. There was nowhere to go and, he knew, only moments left. He pressed his cheek to Layla's. “What we did, we did for the innocent, for each other, and fucking A, we'd do it again.”

Cal managed an exhausted laugh, brought Quinn's hand to his lips. “Fucking A.”

“Fucking A,” Gage agreed. “Might as well go out with a bang.” He jerked Cybil against him, covered her mouth with his.

“Well, hell, we might as well try to get through it.” Fox blinked his stinging eyes. “No point in just sitting here getting toasted when we could . . . It's dying back.”

“Busy here.” Gage lifted his head, scanned the clearing. His smile was both grim and satisfied. “I'm a hell of a good kisser.”

“Idiot.” Cybil shoved him back, pushed up to her knees. Flames retreated toward the stone, began to slide up it. “It didn't kill us.”

“Whatever we did must've been right.” With dazzled eyes, Layla stared as the fire poured itself back into the bowl, shimmered gold. “I think what we did here, especially, finding each other, staying together.”

“We didn't run.” Quinn rubbed her filthy cheek against Cal's shoulder. “Any sensible person would have, but we didn't run. I'm not sure we could have.”

“I heard you,” Layla said to Fox. “Live or die, it was going to be together.”

“We swore an oath. Me, Cal, Gage when we were ten. The six of us tonight. We swore an oath. The fire's out.” He managed to gain his feet. “I guess we'd better go take a look.” When he turned to the stone, he was struck speechless.

The candles were gone, as was the bowl. The Pagan Stone stood in the moonlight, unmarred. In its center the bloodstone lay, whole.

“Jesus Christ.” Cybil choked the words out. “It worked. I can't believe it worked.”

“Your eyes.” Fox whipped around to Cal, waved a hand in front of his face. “How's the vision?”

“Cut it out.” Cal slapped the hand aside. “It's fine. It's just fine, good enough to see three's back into one. Nice job, Cybil.”

They walked toward it, and much as they had during the ritual, formed a circle around the stone on the stone.

“Okay, well.” Quinn moistened her lips. “Somebody's got to pick it up—meaning one of the guys because it's theirs.”

Before he could lift his hand to point at Cal, both Cal and Gage pointed at Fox. “Damn it.” He rubbed his hands on his jeans, rolled his shoulders, reached out.

His head fell back, his body convulsed. And as Layla grabbed him, he laughed like a loon. “Just kidding.”

“God
damn
it, Fox!”

“A little levity, that's all.” He scooped the stone into his hand. “It's warm. Maybe from the scary magic fire, or maybe it just is. Is it glowing? Are the red splotches glowing?”

“They are now,” Layla murmured.

“It . . . it doesn't understand this. It doesn't know this. I can't see . . .” Fox swayed, the world rocked around him. Then Layla gripped his hand, and it steadied again. “I'm holding its death.”

Nudging by Gage, Cybil edged closer. “How, Fox? How is that stone its death?”

“I don't know. It holds all of us now. You know, from what we did. Our blood is what fused it. And this is part of what can—will—end it. We have the power to do that. We had it all along.”

“But it was in pieces,” Layla finished. “Until now. Until us—all of us.”

“We did what we came to do.” Reaching out, Quinn brushed her fingertips over the stone. “And we lived. Now we have a new weapon.”

“Which we don't know how to use,” Gage pointed out.

“Let's just get it home, find the safest place to keep it.” Cal looked around the clearing. “I hope nobody had anything important in their pack, because they're incinerated. Coolers, too.”

“There go my Nutter Butters.” Fox took Layla's hand, kissed the wounded palm. “Wanna take a walk in the moonlight?”

“I'd love to.” Could there be a better time, she thought. Could there be a more perfect time? “Good thing I left my purse at Cal's. Which reminds me. Cal, I've got the keys in there, but I'd like to hang on to them if it's okay with you and your father.”

“No problem.”

“What keys?” Fox asked as he rubbed some soot off her face.

“To the shop on Main Street. I needed them so Quinn and Cybil could look it over with me. It's all fine for you to look at the space with carpenter eyes, or lawyer eyes, whichever, but if I'm going to open a boutique for women, I wanted women's eyes.”

“You're—what?”

“But I am going to need you, and hopefully your father, to go through it with me. And I'm going to charm your father into an I'm-in-love-with-your-son discount. Hopefully a deep discount because of deep love.” Fussily, she brushed at the dirt coating his shirt. “And the fact that even with the loan—and I'm counting on you to put in a really good word for me at the bank—I'm going to be on a very tight budget.”

“You said you didn't want it.”

“I said I didn't know what I wanted. Now I do.” Clear, green, amused, her eyes met his. “Did I forget to mention it?”

“Yeah, pretty much altogether.”

“Well.” She gave him a shoulder bump. “I've had a lot on my mind lately.”

“Layla.”

“I want my own.” She tipped her head to his shoulder as they walked. “I'm ready to go after what I want. After all,
Jesus
, if not now, when? By the way, consider this my twoweeks' notice.”

He stopped, took her face in his hands as the others trudged and limped by them. “Are you sure?”

“I'm going to be too busy supervising the remodeling, buying stock, fighting demons to manage your office. You'll just have to deal with it.”

He touched his lips to her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth, then grinned at her. “Okay.”

Exhausted, content, he walked with her behind the others on a path spattered with moonlight. They'd made magic tonight, he thought. They'd chosen their path, and found their way.

The rest was just details.

THE PAGAN STONE

SUN STREAKED PEARLY PINK ACROSS THE SKY, splashed onto blue, blue water that rolled against white sand as Gage Turner walked the beach. He carried his shoes—the tattered laces of the ancient Nikes tied to hang on his shoulder. The hems of his jeans were frayed, and the jeans themselves had long since faded to white at the stress points. The tropical breeze tugged at hair that hadn't seen a barber in more than three months.

At the moment, he supposed he looked no more kempt than the scattering of beach bums still snoring away on the sand. He'd bunked on beaches a time or two when his luck was down, and knew someone would come along soon to shoo them off before the paying tourists woke for their room-service coffee.

At the moment, despite the need for a shower and a shave, his luck was up. Nicely up. With his night's winnings hot in his pocket, he considered upgrading his ocean-view room for a suite.

Grab it while you can, he thought, because tomorrow could suck you dry.

Time was already running out; it spilled like that white, sun-kissed sand held in a closed fist. His twenty-fourth birthday was less than three months away, and the dreams crawled back into his head. Blood and death, fire and madness. All of that and Hawkins Hollow seemed a world away from this soft tropical dawn.

But it lived in him.

He unlocked the wide glass door of his room, stepped in, tossed aside his shoes. After flipping on the lights, closing the drapes, he took his winnings from his pocket, gave the bills a careless flip. With the current rate of exchange, he was up about six thousand USD. Not a bad night, not bad at all. In the bathroom, he popped off the bottom of a can of shaving cream, tucked the bills inside the hollow tube.

He protected what was his. He'd learned to do so from childhood, secreting small treasures away so his father couldn't find and destroy them on a drunken whim. He might've flipped off any notion of a college education, but Gage figured he'd learned quite a bit in his not-quite twenty-four years.

He'd left Hawkins Hollow the summer he'd graduated from high school. Just packed up what was his, stuck out his thumb, and booked.

Escaped, Gage thought as he stripped for a shower. There'd been plenty of work—he'd been young, strong, healthy, and not particular. But he'd learned a vital lesson while digging ditches, hauling lumber, and most especially during the months he'd sweated on an offshore rig. He could make more money at cards than he could with his back.