Chapters (43)
- The Outlaw Demon Wails
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- The Undead Pool: An Excerpt
- Chapter 2
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Also by Kim Harrison
- Credits
- About the Publisher
Tired, I leaned back against the sink and tried to figure it out. I didn’t feel good. I was running on a lack of sleep, lack of food, and lack of understanding. I didn’t want to think anymore. I just wanted to hide or cry on someone’s shoulder. My eyes pricked with the warmth of tears, and I turned away. I wasn’t going to cry in front of Keasley. Ceri and I were arguing. Ivy was hiding. I didn’t have any friends to turn to. Depressed, I glanced at the two men, both staring at me with an awkward concern. I had to get out of here.
“Jenks,” I said breathily, looking at the salt-strewn kitchen. “I’m going to my mom’s. Keasley, I’m sorry. I have to go.”
Feeling airy and unreal, light-headed, I pushed past the solemn witch and followed the creeping path of the water into the hallway. I was headed for the door, and I grabbed my bag in passing. I couldn’t stay here. My mom might just be nuts enough to understand and sane enough to help. Besides, she might know a charm to reverse a forget potion. And then Ivy and I were going to nail Kisten’s killer to a broomstick.
Fourteen
My mom’s kitchen had changed since the last time I’d sat at the table eating cereal. A strong herb scent was heavy in the air, though I didn’t see any. There weren’t any spell pots or ceramic spoons in the sink either, but the redwood smell rolling off of her when she’d answered the door in her fuzzy leopard-print robe told me that she’d been spelling heavily recently.
Now she smelled like lilac, with only the faintest aroma of redwood to mar it. I thought it funny she was trying to hide from me that she was making and selling charms under the table. Like I would turn my mom in? The I.S. wasn’t necessarily generous in their pensions to widows—even those whose spouses worked in the Arcane Division—and it probably wasn’t enough to meet the soaring property taxes of what had once been a middle-class neighborhood.
The afternoon light coming in the kitchen window was bright as I sat glum and weary, eating cereal out of a cracked bowl in my usual spot. Lucky Charms. I didn’t know which was more disturbing, the possibility that the box was the same one from the last time I’d had breakfast here, or the possibility that it wasn’t.