The Hollows Series Books 1-4. Kim Harrison

wondering if I ought to try to cover my bruise with a complexion spell. Standard makeup wasn’t going to cut it.

      Nick blundered out of the kitchen, almost running me down. He had a sandwich in his hand. “There you are,” he said, his eyes wide as he ran his gaze down to my pink slippers and back up again. “Do you want an egg sandwich?”

      “No, thanks,” I said, my stomach rumbling again. “Too much sulfur.” The thought flashed through me how he had looked, that black book in his grip as he flung out his hand and stopped that demon dead in its tracks: frightened, scared … and powerful. I’d never seen a human look powerful. It had been surprising. “I could use some help changing my wrist bandage, though,” I finished bitingly.

      He cringed, thoroughly destroying the picture in my head. “Rachel, I’m sorry—”

      I pushed past him and went into the kitchen. His steps were light behind me, and I leaned against the sink as I fed Mr. Fish. It was fully dark outside, and I could see tiny flashes of light as Jenks’s family patrolled the garden. I froze as I saw that the tomato was back on the windowsill. A wash of worry hit me as I mentally cursed Ivy—then my brow furrowed. Why did I care what Nick thought? It was my house. I was an Inderlander. If he didn’t like it, tough toads.

      I could feel Nick behind me at the table. “Rachel, I’m really sorry,” he said, and I turned, bracing myself. My outrage would lose all its effect if I passed out. “I didn’t know it would demand payment from you. Honest.”

      Angry, I brushed the damp hair from my eyes and stood with my arms crossed. “It’s a demon mark, Nick. A freaking demon mark.”

      Nick folded his lanky body into one of the hard-back chairs. Elbows on the table, he dropped his head into the cup his hands made. Looking at the table, he said flatly, “Demonology is a dead art. I didn’t expect to be putting the knowledge to practical use. It was only supposed to be a painless way to fulfill one of my ancient language requirements.”

      He looked up, meeting my eyes. His worry, the need for me to listen and understand, halted my next caustic outburst. “I’m really, really sorry,” he said. “If I could move your demon mark to me, I would. But I thought you were dying. I couldn’t just let you bleed to death in the back of some cab.”

      My anger trickled away. He had been willing to take a demon mark to save me. No one made him do it. I was an ass.

      Nick lifted the hair from over his left temple. “Look. See?” he said hopefully. “It stops.”

      I peered at his scalp. Right where the demon had hit him was a newly closed wound, red-rimmed and sore looking. The half circle had a line through it. My stomach clenched. A demon mark. Damn it all to hell, I was going to have to wear a demon mark. Black ley line witches had demon marks, not white earth witches. Not me.

      Nick let his shock of dark hair fall. “It will vanish after I pay back my favor. It’s not forever.”

      “A favor?” I asked.

      His brown eyes were pinched, pleading for understanding. “It will probably be information or something. At least, that’s what the texts say.”

      One hand clasped about my middle, I pushed my fingertips into my forehead. I really didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t as if Kotex made a pad for this kind of a thing. “So how do I let this demon know I agree to owe it a favor?”

      “Do you?”

      “Yes.”

      “You just did, then.”

      I felt ill, not liking that a demon had such a tie to me that it would know the moment I agreed to its terms. “No paperwork?” I said. “No contracts? I don’t like verbal agreements.”

      “You want it to come here and fill out paperwork?” he asked. “Think about it hard enough and it will.”

      “No.” My gaze dropped to my wrist. There was a small tickle. My face went slack as it grew to an itch and then a slight burning. “Where are the scissors?” I said tightly. He looked around blankly, and my wrist started to flame. “It’s burning!” I shouted. The pain in my wrist continued to grow, and I pushed at the gauze, frantically trying to get it off.

      “Get it off! Get it off!” I shouted. Spinning, I flipped the tap on full and shoved my wrist under the water. The cold water soaked through, quenching the burning sensation. I leaned over the sink, my pulse pounding as the water flowed, pulling away the pain.

      The damp night air breezed in past the curtains, and I stared past the dark garden and into the graveyard, waiting for the black spots to go away. My knees were weak, and it was only the rush of adrenaline that kept me upright. There was a soft scraping sound as Nick slid a pair of scissors to me across the counter.

      I turned off the tap. “Thanks for the warning,” I said bitterly.

      “Mine didn’t hurt,” he said. He looked worried and confused, and oh so bewildered. Grabbing a dish towel and the scissors, I went to my spot at the table. Wedging the blade through the gauze, I sawed at the soggy wrap. I flicked a glance up at him. Tall and awkward, he stood by the sink, guilt seeming to pour from his hunched posture. I slumped.

      “I’m sorry for being such a crab, Nick,” I said as I gave up on cutting it off and started to unwind it instead. “I would have died if it hadn’t been for you. I was lucky you were there to stop it. I owe you my life, and I’m really thankful for what you did.” I hesitated. “That thing scared the hell out of me. All I wanted was to forget about it, and now I can’t. I don’t know how to react, and yelling at you is very convenient.”

      A smile quirked the corner of his mouth, and he turned a chair so he could sit before me. “Let me get that for you,” he said, reaching for my hand.

      I hesitated, then let him pull my wrist onto his lap. He bowed his head over my wrist, and his knees almost touched mine. I really owed him more than a simple thanks. “Nick? I mean it. Thank you. That’s twice you saved my life. This demon thing will be all right. I’m sorry you got a demon mark helping me.”

      Nick looked up, his brown eyes searching mine. I was suddenly very conscious of how close he was. My memory went back to feeling his arms around me, carrying me into the church. I wondered if he had held me all the way through the ever-after.

      “I’m glad I was there to help,” he said softly. “It was kind of my fault.”

      “No, it would have found me no matter where I was,” I said. Finally the last wrap was gone. Swallowing hard, I stared at my wrist. My stomach twisted. It was entirely healed. Even the green stitches were gone. The raised white scar looked old. Mine was in the shape of a full circle with that same line running through it.

      “Oh,” Nick murmured, leaning back. “The demon must like you. It didn’t heal me, just stopped the bleeding.”

      “Swell.” I rubbed the mark on my wrist. It was better than a bandage—I guess. It wasn’t as if anyone would know what the scar was from; no one had been dealing with demons since the Turn. “So now I just wait until it wants something?”

      “Yeah.” Nick’s chair scraped as he stood up and went to the stove.

      I propped my elbows up on the table and felt the air slip in and out of my lungs. Nick stood at the stove with his back to me and stirred a stewpot. An uncomfortable silence grew.

      “Do you like student food?” Nick said suddenly.

      I straightened. “Beg pardon?”

      “Student food.” His eyes went to the tomato on the sill. “Whatever’s in the refrigerator over pasta.”

      Understandably concerned, I pushed myself upright and tottered over to see what was on the stove. Macaroni spun and rolled in the pot. A wooden spoon sat next to it, and my eyebrows rose. “Have you been using that spoon?”

      Nick nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

      I reached for the salt