Page 160 of Home to the Hollow

Only if we all want to die.

Week Four

Ihaven’t seen my Tíogair since the other night, but I’m not worried. Awakening her hunger was immensely satisfying, and even if she takes a minute to reconcile what happened, I can deal with that.

After she ran away, I went home, biding my time until the hour grew late enough here for it to be morning on the Mount. Time moves differently there, but in the early 1900s, my irksome uncle declared they would run parallel to the human time zone of wherever it was located geographically. His decree forced his children to stop moving their home so frequently, but it also makes it impossible to figure out if I’m going to show up in the middle of the night by accident.

It’s not like they send out postcards when they move the damned mountain.

Currently, they’re settled off the coast of England, so they’re six hours past the meridian. Before that, they were just outside of New York—it just depends on the whims of one or more of my relatives. Some random event will catch their interest and they’ll move within range so they can meddle.

Dear Auntie wasn’t particularly helpful, unfortunately. She brushed off my questions about my father’s species and mating, preferring to discuss her opinion on current events and what mischief the family is getting word in edge wise.

Immortals can be dreadfully dull and self-centered when they surround themselves with an echo chamber.

In all my years of existence, I’ve never heard of someone with my bloodline finding a mate. Sure, some of my aunts and uncles took spouses; hell, some of them were even faithful to them. Their progeny had tumultuous love lives as well, but mating is typically a lower tier supernatural custom. Since my mother can’t be arsed to name my father, I don’t have the luxury of knowing if that part of me is why I feel the pull.

I’ve made my own way for eons, so I’ll figure this intriguing development out on my own. I’m quite certain Jolene has more mates than the four of us, and perhaps one of them will shed light on the subject. She seems to attract a veritable cornucopia of rare men; myself included.

My goal for the day is to dive into the records room at the Town Hall. She was there after she first arrived, and I’d like to see just what history she was keen on pouring over. I pried some information out of Mayor Nelia about why my Tíogair moved home and now that I’m working with facts rather than Aldous’ gossip; I have an inkling why she was digging into the archives.

Jolene is trying to figure out why she was rejected by the FBI.

I could give her that answer without lifting a finger, and I’ve considered breaking the oath to do so. This newfound desire to make someone besides myself happy is odd, and it’s irritating that I can’t solve the problem for her. It would only make things worse, though, to open her eyes when her mind wasn’t ready.

Not to mention, all of her men are going to have to grovel for a bit when she figures out we’ve been lying to her. It won’t matter that we were bound by a sacred oath rumored to be sealed with a spell so nasty that it drives oath breakers mad. Our girl will be furious, and there will be Hades to pay.

I’m prepared to kneel for her again when she demands it.

As I walk down the street to grab a slice of pizza, a sudden wave of emotion hits me. I shake my head to clear it, then look around to figure out what in the merry fuck is going on. I’m no empath like the vet, nor am I accustomed to accessing others’ thoughts without specifically endeavoring to do so. But this is pure, unbridled rage and I feel it pump through me as if it’s my own.

How very bizarre.

I follow the thread of the fury, walking down the street until it expands into a throbbing fire in front of the office of theHollow Hollar. The yelling inside makes deciding to intervene easy—Amy Matilda Behle is threatening someone, and I’d lay money I know who it is. Throwing the door open, I take in the scene in front of me before I unleash anything I can’t take back.

A shiny snake bigger than my forearm surrounds Amy, gasping for air and gurgling invectives as it coils tighter. My Tíogair looks like she’s trying to placate the reptile, and all of her furry companions are standing in attack position. The rest of the bobbleheads who work with Amy are wringing their hands and whimpering—not lifting a finger to help either of the women locked in some weird version of a standoff.

Life in Whistler’s Hollow has gottensomuch more fun since Jolene came to town.

“Aye, lass. Looks as though you’ve got a bit of a cat on a melodeon here. Allow me to assist,” I say as I give her my most helpful smile.

“Doyle, baby, stop this freak from killing Amy!”

Arching a brow, I try to remember which simpleton this is. I’ve tried dating a few of the town’s elite and eligible, but I found their inability to think for themselves lead me to grow before the main course. This one might be… Barbie? No, not Barbie, maybe… Belinda?

Shit, I will not be much help if I can’t calm this situation down.

“Bambi,” I begin, watching for acknowledgement and breathing an internal sigh of relief when I hit the mark. “I am not, nor have I ever been, yourbaby. I wasn’t even my mum’s baby for very long. Nowshut upand let the adults handle this, you twit.”

Jolene smirks and I beam as she turns to me. “Well, Lucky, I woke up this morning, and decided since the paper called me everything short of a snake charmer, I’d try my hand at the hat trick.”

I burst out laughing; I can’t help it. The article in the paper was bound to be trouble, but I’d hoped someone would handle it before she found out. Boone seemed like the likely candidate, though it appears he fell down on the job and I have to clean up his mess. Sidling up to my Tíogair, I whisper in her ear, “I believe you know exactly how to accomplish that feat, but let’s try it on the real one together, aye? Talk to the git before the melters in here get their friend killed.”

Her frustrated look is adorable, but she steps closer and does as I asked. “Come on, dude. Amy won’t even taste good. You will not squeeze the bitter out of her, and when you go to chow down, she’s gonna give you indigestion. Hell, she givesmean ulcer and I’m not trying to digest her mean ass.”

Watching as the serpent bobs its head and scent the air, I wait. I can definitely make it let the dipshit loose, but I think thismightbe a new companion, and if so, my Tíogair needs to learn to control it. Otherwise, there will be hell to pay if it gets out and starts hunting her enemies on its own. She keeps murmuring, and it finally loosens its coils one by one, and Amy’s rattling breaths get deeper. After a few minutes, it unwinds from the woman and slithers over to our girl, wrapping around her leg and sliding upwards.

Ooh. Nowthisis a picture I can get into—she looks like a goddess and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t remind me of home.

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