The Hollows Series Books 1-4. Kim Harrison

morning, Ms. Morgan,” Trent said as he breezed past my cage. He sat at his desk and began sorting through the strewn papers. “I was going to keep you here only until I got a second opinion on you. But I don’t know. You are such the conversation starter.”

      “Go Turn yourself,” I said, baring my teeth. Again, it was all chirps and chitters.

      “Really.” He sat back and twirled his pencil. “That couldn’t have been complimentary.”

      A knock made me scrunch out of sight. It was Jonathan, and Trent became busy as he came in. “Yes, Jon?” he said, his attention firmly on his calendar.

      “Sa’han.” The unusually tall man stood at a respectful distance. “Ms. Sara Jane?”

      “She has exactly the qualifications I need.” Trent put down his pencil. Leaning back in his chair, he took off his glasses and chewed idly on the tip of the earpiece until he noticed Jonathan watching with a prim, unspoken disapproval. Trent tossed them to the desktop with a bothered look. “Sara Jane’s younger sister wants off the farm to become a witch,” he said. “We must help excellence along in any way we can.”

      “Ah.” Jonathan’s narrow shoulders relaxed. “I see.”

      “If you would, find the asking price on Sara Jane’s home farm. I may like to dabble in the sugar industry. Get the taste of it, as it were? Keep the labor force. Move Hodgkin in as foreman for six months to train the present foreman in his methods. Instruct him to watch Sara Jane’s sister. If she has a brain, have him move her to where she has some responsibilities.”

      I wedged my head out my door, worried. Jonathan looked down his narrow nose at me in disgust. “With us again, Morgan?” he mocked. “If it had been up to me, I would have stuffed you down the garbage disposal in the employees’ break room and flicked the switch.”

      “Bastard,” I chittered, then flipped him off to make sure he understood.

      Jonathan’s few wrinkles deepened as he frowned. Long arm swinging, he smacked my cage with the folder in his hand.

      Ignoring my pain, I lunged at him, clinging to the bars with my teeth bared.

      He fell back in obvious shock. Flushing, the gaunt man pulled his arm back again.

      “Jon,” Trent said softly. Though his voice was a whisper, Jonathan froze. I clung to the bars, heart pounding. “You forget your place. Leave Ms. Morgan alone. If you misjudge her and she fights back, it’s not her fault but yours. You’ve made this mistake before. Repeatedly.”

      Seething, I dropped to the floor of the cage and growled. I hadn’t known I could growl, but there it was. Slowly, Jonathan’s clenched hand loosened. “It’s my place to protect you.”

      Trent’s eyebrows rose. “Ms. Morgan isn’t in the position to harm anyone. Stop it.”

      Eyes going from one to the other, I watched the older man take Trent’s rebuke with an acceptance I wouldn’t have expected. The two had a very odd relationship. Trent was clearly in charge, but remembering the bother in Trent’s face when Jonathan expressed his disapproval of Trent chewing his glasses, it seemed it hadn’t always been so. I wondered if Jonathan had seen to Trent’s upbringing, however briefly, when his mother, and then his father, had died.

      “Accept my apologies, Sa’han,” Jonathan said, actually inclining his head.

      Trent said nothing, returning to his papers. Though clearly dismissed, Jonathan waited until Trent looked up. “Is there something else?” Trent asked.

      “Your eight-thirty is early,” he said. “Shall I accompany Mr. Percy back?”

      “Percy!” I squeaked, and Trent glanced at me. Not Francis Percy!

      “Yes,” Trent said slowly. “Please do.”

      Swell, I thought as Jonathan ducked into the hallway and eased the door shut behind him. Francis’s interrupted interview. I paced the perimeter of my cage, nervous. My muscles were loosening, and the movement felt painfully good. I stopped as I realized Trent hadn’t taken his gaze off me. Under his questioning look, I slunk into my hut, ashamed somehow.

      I found Trent was still watching me as I curled my tail about myself, draping it across my nose to keep it warm. “Don’t be angry with Jon,” he said softly. “He takes his station seriously—as he should. If you push him too far, he’ll kill you. Let’s hope you don’t need to learn the same lesson he does.”

      I lifted my lip to show my teeth, not liking him giving me wise-old-man crap.

      A whiny voice pulled both our attentions to the hallway. Francis. I had told him I could turn into a mink. If he made the right connection, I was as good as dead. Well, more dead than I was. I didn’t want him to see me. Neither, apparently, did Trent.

      “Mmmm, yes,” he said, hastily getting up and shifting one of his floor plants to hide my cage. It was a peace lily, and I could see past its wide leaves and still stay hidden. There was a knock, and Trent called, “Come in.”

      “No, really,” Francis was saying as Jonathan all but pushed him in.

      From behind the plant, I watched Francis meet Trent’s eyes and swallow hard. “Uh, hello, Mr. Kalamack,” he stammered, coming to an awkward standstill. He looked more unkempt than usual, one of his laces peeping out from under his pants almost undone, and his stubble having grown from potentially attractive to ugly. His black hair lay flat, and his squinty eyes had faint, tired lines at the corners. It was likely Francis hadn’t been to bed yet, coming out for his interview at Trent’s convenience rather than the I.S.’s.

      Trent said nothing. He went to sit, easing behind his desk with the relaxed tension of a predator settling in beside the water hole.

      Francis 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