The Hollows Series Books 1-4. Kim Harrison
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Jenks shouted, incensed. “You sack of sweat stink. I’ve got farts that smell sweeter than you. Think you’re better than me? Poop ice cream cones, do you? Call me a bug! Rachel, let me do him now!”
“No,” I said softly, my dislike for Francis dipping into real aversion. “I’m sure Francis and I can come to an understanding. All I want is a ride out to Trent’s estate and that interview. Francis won’t get into trouble. He’s a victim, right?” I smiled grimly at Jenks, wondering if I could keep him from dosing Francis after such an insult. “And you aren’t going to nack him afterward. Hear me, Jenks? You don’t kill the donkey after he plows the field. You might need him next spring.” I leaned into Francis, breathing into his ear. “Right, cookie?”
He nodded as much as he could, and I slowly let him go. His eyes were on Jenks.
“You squish my associate,” I said, “and that vial will spill on you. You drive too fast, the vial will spill. If you attract attention—”
“I’ll dump it all over you,” Jenks interrupted, the light playfulness in his voice replaced with a hot anger. “You tick me off again, I’ll spell you good.” He laughed, sounding like evil wind chimes. “Got it, Francine?”
Francis’s eyes squinted. He resettled himself in his seat, touching the collar of his white shirt before he pushed the sleeves of his jacket to his elbows and took the wheel. I thanked God that Francis had left his Hawaiian shirts at home in deference to his interview with Trent Kalamack.
Face tight, he jammed the keys in the ignition and started the car. Music blared, and I jumped. The sullen way Francis cranked the wheel and threw the car into gear made it obvious he hadn’t given up; he was playing along until he could find a way out. I didn’t care. All I needed was to get him away from the city. Once clear, it would be nappies for Francis.
“You’re not going to get away with this,” he said, sounding like a bad movie. He waved his parking pass at the automated gate, and we eased into the bright light and late morning traffic with Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer” blasting. If I hadn’t been wound so tight, I might have enjoyed it.
“Think you could put more of that perfume on, Rachel?” Francis said, a sneer twisting his narrow face. “Or are you wearing it to cover your pet bug’s stench?”
“Shut him up!” Jenks shouted. “Or I will.”
My shoulder tensed. This was so stupid. “Pix him if you want, Jenks,” I said as I turned down the music. “Just don’t let any of that brew hit him.”
Jenks grinned and flipped Francis off. Pixy dust fanned over him, unseen by Francis but clearly visible from my angle, since it reflected the sun. Francis reached up to scratch behind an ear.
“How long does it take?” I asked Jenks.
“’Bout twenty minutes.”
Jenks was right. By the time we had gotten out from under the shadow of buildings, through the burbs, and into the country, Francis put two and two together. He couldn’t sit still. His comments got nastier and nastier, and his scratching more and more intense, until I pulled the duct tape out of my purse and threatened to tape his mouth shut. Red welts had appeared where his clothes met his skin. They oozed a clear liquid, looking like a bad case of poison ivy. When we hit deep country, he was scratching so much it seemed a struggle to keep the car on the road. I had been watching him intently. Driving a stick didn’t look hard.
“You bug,” he said with a snarl. “You did this to me Saturday, too, didn’t you!”
“I’m gonna spell him!” Jenks said, the high pitch of his voice making my eyes ache.
Tired of it all, I turned to Francis. “All right, cookie. Pull it over.”
Francis blinked. “What?”
Idiot, I thought. “How long do you think I can keep Jenks from tagging you if you keep insulting him? Pull over.” Francis glanced nervously between the road and me. We hadn’t seen a car in the last five miles. “I said, pull over!” I shouted, and he swerved to the dusty shoulder in a rattling of pebbles. I turned the car off and yanked the keys from the ignition. We lurched to a stop, my head smacking against the rearview mirror. “Out,” I said, unlocking the doors.
“What? Here?” Francis was a city boy. He thought I was going to make him walk back. The idea was tempting, but I couldn’t run the risk of him being picked up or finding his way to a phone. He got out with a surprising eagerness. I realized why when he started scratching.
I popped the trunk, and Francis’s thin face went blank. “No way,” he said, his skinny arms raised. “I’m not getting in there.”
I felt the new bump on my forehead, waiting. “Get into the trunk or I’m going to teach you how I spell mink and make a pair of earmuffs out of you.” I watched him think that over, wondering if he would make a run for it. I almost wished he would. It’d feel good to tackle him again. It had nearly been two whole days. I’d get him into the trunk somehow.
“Run,” Jenks said, circling above his head with the vial. “Go on. Dare you, stink bag.”
Francis seemed to deflate. “Oh, you’d like that, eh, bug?” he said with a sneer. But he wedged himself into the tiny space. He even gave me no trouble when I duct-taped his hands in front of him. We both knew he could get out of the wraps given enough time. But his superior look faltered as I held my hand up and Jenks landed on it with the vial.
“You said you wouldn’t,” he stammered. “You said it would turn me into a mink!”
“I lied. Both times.”
The look Francis gave me was murderous. “I won’t forget this,” he said, his jaw clenching to make him look even more ridiculous than his boat shoes and wide-cuffed slacks. “I’m coming after you myself.”
“I hope you do.” I smiled, dumping the vial over his head. “Nighty night.”
He opened his mouth to say more, but his expression slackened as soon as the fragrant liquid hit him. I watched, fascinated, as he fell asleep amid the scent of bay leaf and lilac. Satisfied, I slammed the trunk shut and called it good.
Settling uneasily behind the wheel, I adjusted the seat and mirrors. I hadn’t ever driven a stick before, but if Francis could do it, I sure as heck could.
“Put it in first,” Jenks said, sitting on the rearview mirror and mimicking what I should do. “Then give it more gas than you think you need while you let up on the clutch.”
I gingerly pushed the stick back and started the car.
“Well?” Jenks said from the mirror. “We’re waiting.…”
I pushed the gas pedal and let up on the clutch. The car lurched backward, slamming into a tree. Panicking, I pulled my feet from the pedals, and the car stalled. I stared wide-eyed at Jenks as he laughed. “It’s in reverse, witch,” he said, darting out the window.
Through the rearview mirror, I watched him zip to the back and assess the damage. “How bad is it?” I asked as he came back.
“It’s okay,” he said, and I felt a wash of relief. “Give it a few months, and you won’t be able to see where it was hit,” he added. “The car’s busted, though. You broke a taillight.”
“Oh,” I said, realizing he’d been talking about the tree, not the car. My nerves were jittery as I jammed the stick forward, double-checked it, and started the car again. Another deep breath, and we lurched forward on our way.
Jenks turned out to be a passable instructor, enthusiastically shouting advice through the window as I practiced starting from a dead stop until I got the hang of it. My newfound confidence evaporated as I turned onto Kalamack’s