Page 72 of Home to the Hollow

“I’m in Burkettsville meeting with clients, drugar. Don’t you have lessons this evening?”

“Yes, but the kids and I just arrived at my studio to set up and there’s a mysterious-looking pirate chest in the middle of the fucking floor!” I hiss, moving closer to the small pack of angry animals as they make threatening noises at it.

The panic in his voice is clear as day, though I’m sure he’s trying to hide it. “I can’t be there in a reasonable time frame, Tilly. The doc went to the city to meet the lab techs about the tests, and the pup was on the farm with that fancy pants Sheikh. None of us are available. Do you have a weapon?”

I roll my eyes inward. Of course, he thinks I need someone to ride to the rescue. What I really wanted was to make sure none of them left this thing and once I verified it wasn’t, ask if they’d come open it with me. “Teddy, I’m always armed, even if it’s my fists. I don’t need you idiots to save me; I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t some big surprise. Now that I know it isn’t, I’ll leave the pack in here to guard it and open the side door for the kids. We can deal with it after I’m done.”

“What if it’s set to explode? Get out of there!” he shouts, his voice clanging in my head like a bass drum.

I walk a little closer, taking one pod out to listen. “Doesn’t seem to tick, Captain Hook. I think we’re okay.”

“For fuck’s sake, Tilly, they trained you for the FBI. You know bombs don’t tick anymore!”

This shouldn’t be funny, and I shouldn’t start laughing, but his exasperation is tickling me. Edgar Olivier Boone III is like a hysterical chick in a hostage situation, and I’m standing three feet from a metaphorical dead man’s chest. Also, my eagle is swooping around like it’s going to land on my head to protect me.

The whole thing is out of a Mel Brooks movie.

“Teddy… I… I… don’t think… it’s dangerous,” I wheeze.

“You have lost your mind,drugar, and I don’t have time to argue. Get the animals out of the room and post them by the door to keep people from going in. Teach your lessons, and when we arrive, we’re having a serious conversation about your cavalier attitude about your safety.”

“Yes, Dad,” I deadpan, glaring at the picture of him on my phone as if he can feel my irritation.

“I told you I prefer Daddy, Tilly. We can’t play that game if you don’t say it right,” he practically purrs.

I snort, shaking my head as I walk away from the chest. “I’ll slit my own wrists first, Boone. Get bent, you perv.”

Clicking the end button before he can respond, I grin to myself. I’m playing a dangerous game, taunting him like that, but it makes the muscles in my abdomen clench, so I’ll keep doing it.

Maybe Iama brat, after all.

* * *

“My mother saysyou were a loser in high school. How are you qualified to teach me?”

Sucking in a deep, calming breath, I look at the petite blond middle schooler with a fake smile. “Britannia, it’s not appropriate to speak to me like that, nor is it good manners to repeat rumors.”

She pops her gum for the fiftieth time, her eyes sharp behind her ridiculously oversized glasses. I’m certain they’re not real, and that she wears them when she doesn’t need them to see tests my ability to control my eye roll.

Ophelia Jane Longworth’s eldest daughter is a carbon copy of her mother in everything but looks. Her expensive hipster clothing, top of the line supplies, and shitty attitude scream privileged teen, but her talent is real. I could help her advance her innate skill more than any student I’ve encountered in the Hollow, but her mother has filled her head with garbage.

“I asked a question. I’m not looking for crappy Dr. Phil witticisms. My therapist bills four hundred dollars an hour and her degree is from Stanford. Just tell me what I want to know,” she replies as she turns back to her easel with a shrug.

Christ, I want to punch this little shit in the mouth.

“My BAs in illustration and business are from State U, but my masters in education is from Cornell. However, if you’re fishing for higher status, it will please you to know that my doctorate in abnormal psychology is from Harvard. I also took a year of painting at the Sorbonne, and a year of sculpting atSapienzain Rome. Does that satisfy your curiosity?” I can’t help but grin when her facade drops a bit, clearly impressed by the credentials I worked so hard to attain over the years.

Her shoulder lifts nonchalantly, and she sighs. “I suppose so. Beggars can’t be choosers in this backwater hell hole.”

I’ve never been so glad I don’t teach middle school in my entire life. The split between the Formative and Finishing schools cuts off after seventh grade and this darling witch is a seventh grader. It doesn’t help me for next year, but by then, I hope she’s convinced her parents to send her to some rich bitch boarding school like Miyako or Swallowtail.

Good riddance to bad rubbish, Niecy would say.

“Glad you feel comfortable settling. Now, it’s almost time to end our session. You need to clean up your supplies and put your work on the rack for next week. After that, you can go find your companions.”

“It’s bullshit that they have to stay in that room with your mangy bird and those raggedy cats. At least they have Coach Edgar’s purebreds to keep them company.”

I take another calming breath, willing myself not to give in and snap at the snarky Ophelia clone. That was OJ’s favorite schtick in high school—anyone not as rich as the elites were trashy and beneath her. Low bred was the term she preferred, and it takes as much effort not to smack her kid as it did her.

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