Page 90 of Home to the Hollow

“Thank you, Heraclea.” Nelia stands and claps her hands. “Members and guests, we will now take a series of votes. After I ask, you will raise your hand only if your answer is ‘aye’. Are we clear?”

Murmurs are her response, and the mayor turns to my father, who nods. He’s stayed quiet since Doyle handed him his ass, and I can’t say I’m disappointed in the slightest. The old geezer has been asking for a comeuppance like this for almost as long as I’ve been alive.

“The first question being voted on is should we should charge Jolene Athena Whitley with an unprovoked attack on Amy Matilda Behle?”

Hands raise, but they are limited to the Behle family cheering section. Relief floods my chest as Wolfie rejoins our section and leans in to whisper, “That’s the most important part, Edgar. Your plan worked well.”

I sigh, nodding as Nelia counts the votes and declares the vote has concluded. “I’m glad it did, but it could have gone awry just as easily.”

“Since we’ve cleared Jolene, there will not be a vote on reversing the charges. The ultimate question is should we refer Amy Matilda Behle for further investigation for violating the accords?”

Mayor Cornelia Sykes just sent a warning shot across the bow of the founding families, and the result will change the shape of the town for good. If we’d had a principal in school as strong as her, maybe Tilly wouldn’t be as damaged as she is.

Keeping her safe tonight was only a step towards making the mistakes of the past right, but by the look on the faces of my fellow housemates, I’m headed in the right direction.

And my Pop can absolutely get fucked if he doesn’t like it.

I See Red

None of their fucking cars were here when I got home and that put me in an even fouler mood than when I was speeding home like a member of the Andretti family. I stomped into my house with my companions in tow, flicking on lights and tossing my shit left and right. I’m not a slob normally, but I’m too irritated to focus on niceties.

Wanting my guys to see me as a woman who can take care of herself does not mean I’m cool with being ignored. Even a quick emoji would have been better than stony silence, and I’m furious that neither they nor my supposed BFF could make the time to acknowledge my existence tonight.

Fuck all of that.

I wasfineon my own before they all came traipsing in, demanding my attention and affection, and I’ll be fine if they’ve all gotten bored with it.

After I tore through the house cursing a blue streak, I changed into a comfortable set of yoga clothes and banged my way through, giving the animals their dinner. When I found I wasn’t the least bit hungry despite not having ‘real food’ all day, I let out a screech of frustration and headed for the basement to find weapons.

Precision fury always helps me find my zen.

Knives fly from my fingertips as I aim at the posts with rapid precision. Each one has a blown up vinyl yearbook photo of the bitches who tormented me in high school, and I painted the bullseye right between their stupid eyes. I had Seer set them up a few weeks ago, and I’m glad I did.

Don’t judge me; it’s therapeutic.

I run out of tossers and with a grunt of irritation; I trudge over to pull the hilts so I can load up another round. Stupid, evil witches. Dumb, bonehead dudes. Flaky, unpredictable friends. Everyone is off doing their own thing while I’m trying to process my parents being murdered, a confrontation with a weirdo in a bar, and that all of this is tied to the very town I’m living in. Not to mention, I just got splashed all over Creation in an article that accused me of being the Whore of Babylon.

It’s not like I have a fewthingsgoing on that might require a littlesupport.

Jekyll follows me as a line up on the next throwing line—five feet farther than the warm up line I started at—and looks up at me in concern. I don’t know if that’s because he knows I’m upset or because he knows I’m trying to practice while angry and loaded down with an extra thirty-five pounds of emotional support python coiled around me from ankle to shoulder. I’ll admit, it’s making my routine harder, and I have to focus on the balance a hell of a lot more keenly when I let my knives fly.

Maybe there’s money in training like this? I wonder if Isis would like some friends…

Shaking my head, I return my gaze to the post with Amy’s picture. I don’tcareif people want to pass their fifties-esque, Southern Boomer hypocrite moral judgements on my lifestyle—their opinions weren’t asked for or needed. However, Idocare if those articles affect my ability to run my business or investigate, I now have to ramp up. Fitting in is a huge part of the fabric of this community, and in order to work my way into people’s confidence, they have to feel they can relate to me.

Pictures naming me the town harlot are going to set me back for weeks, if not longer. I’m going to get called in to the office at school again, and I’ll spend far too much time issuing whatever statement Jax comes up with that prevents them from firing me for a moral clause or voiding my contracts at the studio. It’s going to be a PR nightmare, and I have better things to do with my time.

Plus, I have no patience for town gossips meddling in my personal life. This isn’t the life I expected when I moved back, but I have every right to find happiness in whomever or whatever form I choose. If I want one of the Nip/Tucks’ opinions on something, I’ll happily beat it out of them.

Letting another tosser fly, I grin maniacally when it nails Amy right in the new nose she got for her Sweet Sixteen. That would teach her—it’s a shame I can’t give her the same trim off the end in real life. It might force her to eat a serving of humble pie, and maybe she’d back the fuck off for a bit. Hyde mrrps behind me, and I turn, giving her a rueful expression. “No, I will not assault her unless I’m defending myself. It’s not my style, and I’d prefer not to add hypocrite to my resume. But it sure as hell feels good tothinkabout knocking her down a few pegs.”

The animals settle in as I continue to burn off the frustration at my situation and the absence of the people I depend on to manage the wild ebb and flow of my emotions. Once I’ve warmed up, I move back another five feet, and then another, groaning when I just don’t have the arm strength to make the arc at that distance. I didn’t MISS the posts on the last round, but I didn’t cause a cosmetic emergency for my idiotic bobblehead targets, either.

More’s the pity.

I grumble under my breath about the limitations of my muscle development and scoot forward to the first line. The next set of exercises is the hardest, and I’m only accurate about forty percent of the time. With the turbulence in my heart and mind, I can’t guarantee I’ll even swing that, but I’m not the kind of girl to give into bullshit emotional stuff anymore. Turning, I wave the cats back, and give a piercing whistle so Eury will land. I don’t want the darkness and my less than laser focused concentration to result in a tragedy. When everything is quiet and calm, I pull the headband off my head and over my eyes.

The sounds of the night dull to a low roar as I look deep inside of myself, envisioning the placement of the posts, the feel of the light breeze, and the rustle of the grass blades around me. Silence descends in my mind, the only thing in my head a sharp picture of the first target.

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