Chapter Five
Hollen
This is terrible.
It had started with a uniform that was at least a size too big. The cuffs of the pure white jacket hung past his knuckles, catching on everything from plates to silverware. They had already caused a massive spill, sending an entire pot of tea to the floor to splash across the polished wood in a steaming river.
The rose-tinted brown smudge that he’d caught against the chest was never coming out, and Munro hadn’t allowed him back out on the floor after the first debacle. It had only been a trial run before any patrons had arrived, but Hollen had struck out with two left feet and a bundle of nerves.
Thank goodness I caught the teacups. He had a feeling that they were worth a lot more than he was. Another blessing was that other than himself, Munro, and the chef, the place was deserted so far.
It didn’t help his embarrassment when George started cackling, the deep sound bouncing off the inside of his skull. He’d only heard George laugh a handful of times, but this one was the worst by far. A few comedies on television had had a similar reaction, but at least Hollen had been laughing along with him that time.
“Shut up,” Hollen hissed under his breath, pulling his shirt away from his body and trying to get the stained spots off under the running tap of warm water. He was almost soaked, with water dripping from the edges of his jacket and into his similarly stained pants, some landing on the kitchen floor and streaming along the grout lines of the soft, white tile.
“Are you going to insist on making even more of a mess back here than you did at the front of the house?” asked Munro. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and his jaw set. There was a dirty and soaked towel in his hand, presumably from cleaning the mess Hollen had left.
He hadn’t taken his eyes off Hollen—not even for a moment. The glare that followed him from one space to the next was unreadable and unwavering, making his hands shake and his mouth dry.
“No, sir,” said Hollen, shutting the water off and squeezing what he could from the fabric. Diluted brown water dripped into the sink, leaving splotches of color against the stainless steel. When he let go, the shirt hung as a wrinkled mess, still stained but now soaked and probably ruined beyond repair. “I hope this isn’t dry clean only.”
“It was,” said Munro, letting out a sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose before mumbling something under his breath that Hollen didn’t catch.
Hollen smoothed his shirt the best he could, wincing at the final result. “What was that?”
The chef was busy at work a few feet away with one earbud in his ear. Munro hadn’t introduced them, and the man hadn’t said a word. Hollen had caught a few curious gazes, though, and one snort when Hollen had first rushed into the kitchen sans teapot.
“Can you sous-chef?” Munro gave him another look. “Never mind. If you can’t handle boiled water then I dread to see what you would do with a knife. You’re on dish duty until further notice.”
What am I doing with my life? Hollen’s knuckles gave a pang of protest, the skin flaring from the short dunking in warm water. There was no amount of lotion in the world that would repair what a few weeks had done. “I can work a dishwasher. No problem.”
He hadn’t spotted the usual dish set up with the solid metal box lowered by the bar that would wash a hundred dishes in minutes. But there had to be more to the kitchen. The parts he’d seen were almost tiny, with just enough space for the chef and one more person. Every available counter was filled, and each oven poured out more heat each time it was opened.
Munro smirked, lifting the corner of his lips. “We only hand wash here.” He grasped a plate from the nearby counter, holding it up. The gold rim still shimmered, the intricate details etched like nothing Hollen had ever seen except for the pot he had shattered. “These are worth more than you could fathom.”
Hollen wilted, trying not to slouch his shoulders. Running a dishwasher was terrible enough, but hand washing was beyond imagination. The night before had been packed with people all drinking from similar fancy dishes. His hands would be fried by the end of one shift.
“Sure thing,” said Hollen, grasping the dish from Munro’s hand and spinning it so the details caught the light. “I think Adair’s grandma has something like this, but we were never allowed to use them. She always called them her guest dishes and had them in a glass cabinet.”
His finger hit a chipped corner on the dish, and it nearly slipped from his grasp, flickering against the light. He scrambled, catching it at the last moment and bringing it to his chest.
“That’s enough of that,” said Munro, plucking it from his hands before it could hit the floor. He rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a loud sigh. “My son better have a good reason for sending you to me.”
Hollen beamed. “I’m cute.” He smoothed his shirt. “Maybe not right now because I’m a little wet, but trust me. You’re going to absolutely love me. And I’m a hard worker you can count on. I never call in sick, so don’t worry about trying to find coverage for me.”
“Just take this to the laundry,” said Munro, waving his hand to cut off Hollen’s rambling. He passed Hollen the towel that was stained and soggy. “The towels and tablecloths can be washed in cold water, but we send the uniforms away.”
“Yes, sir.” Hollen emphasized the latter, flipping the towel around so it didn’t drip and create yet another mess. “Uh, where is that exactly?”
“At the end of the hall, take a right then the first left. There is a laundry facility there. You’ll find a new uniform for yourself and a spot to set your…soiled one.” With that, Munro waved him away, approaching the chef and eyeing up the fresh dough he was kneading.
“Already?” asked the chef, sending a raised eyebrow his way as Hollen ducked out of the kitchen.
As soon as he was around the corner and out of the kitchen, Hollen slumped his shoulders, leaning his back against the wall.
“ It could be worse ,” said George, startling Hollen as he broke his silence. “ I could be in a pizza place .”
Haha. Hollen rolled his eyes. “That would be a relief at this point,” said Hollen, taking a deep breath and starting down the hall. If dishwashing really was his fate, then he wouldn’t last long. But the pay Munro had mentioned was too tantalizing to walk away from. Three shifts and he could have their rent squared away. Another week and he could get that jacket he so desperately needed.
Hollen pushed away from the wall as laughter came from the kitchen, the chef’s chuckle lightening the air. “How do you know, Munro? He seems to have some major issues.”
That was such an understatement. Sometimes bosses were just not nice people, putting money and productivity before anything else, but Munro took that to the next level, treating it more like a passion. Hollen wouldn’t be surprised if the place was filled with tiny spy cameras so he would be able to micromanage the place that much more efficiently.
The hall darkened the farther he got from the kitchen, antique wood lining each side, along with a single painting of a sunset. A fluorescent light flickered ominously, sputtering out for a second before it struggled to turn back on. Warmth faded to something dank that clung to the cold material of his soaked uniform, making it stick to his skin. He let out a shudder, slowing his step.
“Did we miss a turn or something?” Hollen glanced over his shoulder, but he didn’t see any doorways that led off the hall. The turn from the kitchen and the red exit sign looked so far away, flickering in and out of view.
“ If you knew what was best for you, you’d drop off your laundry and get out of this place ,” said George. His presence slithered over Hollen’s skin, prickling his nerves.
“I’m not giving up this job,” said Hollen, pausing and grasping the wall as a shiver racked his body. It was cold and slippery beneath his touch, the dampness of the wood impossible for oak that looked freshly polished and almost new. Something twisted in his belly, and he looked over his shoulder again. “Are you sure this is the right way?”
George didn’t answer this time, his presence retreating to something Hollen could almost ignore. There was no choice but forward in search of the turn, then another. It didn’t seem possible—the restaurant so warm that he’d been sweating beneath his clothes. Now he was freezing, every alarm in his mind going haywire.
It was almost completely dark by the time he hit the end of the hall, a small red light in the corner the only thing that gave him anything to see by. There could have been two doors or five in front of him, and he wouldn’t have been able to tell.
“George?” Hollen whisper, shivering in the dark. Reaching for the wall, he met only empty air, nearly losing his balance. He was frozen in the dark with no way to know forward or backward, the light that had guided him flickering out completely.
Something shifted—a shadow or a trick of his mind—and he shrank back, tripping over his own feet. He landed on his ass, letting out a hiss at the sting. His heart pounded, his breath heavy in his own ears.
Something isn’t right. A creaking noise had the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as a small slit of light appeared on the wall. He could see the edge of a door appear as it drifted wider, the warmth of light calling to him. There were voices, too—loud ones.
Scrambling to his feet, he raced to the door, blinking in the light as he slipped inside. It was hot, even hotter than the kitchen and somewhat stuffy. As his eyes adjusted, the room came into view, and he nearly stumbled right back out again. This is not the laundry.
The voices lulled, the conversation dulling as they seemed to notice Hollen standing there, clutching the doorknob behind his back. Some of the faces peering his way seemed familiar, as if they had been the ones spotted around the tables the night before. The man in green velvet was there, but this time he had on some kind of purplish satin that clung to his body.
There were about twenty of them, only two women amongst the men, and all of them looking his way within a minute. They were gathered around a large, black table, the surface clear and so dark that it seemed to suck the very light from the room. At the end there was what could only be called a throne, carved of thick wood and polished until it shined.
Beside that was something similarly shaped that could never be used as a seat, the base and arms made of jagged antlers instead of wood. Each tip was dipped in something that shone silver in the light. Hopefully, it was a decoration, because it would be absolute torture to sit in something like that, with the sharpened points pressing into his flesh, piercing him any time he shifted.
“ Run ,” whispered George, the sound resounding in his skull. Hollen shook him off, clutching his hands together.
“Hi,” said, Hollen, waving his hand with a tentative smile on his lip. “I think I took a wrong turn. Any idea where the laundry is?”
The man in satin tilted his head, his grip going tight on the strange cane he carried.
There was no answer except for the looks, most of them morphing into glares. “Sorry for disturbing you.”
Hollen took a step back, wilting under the gazes that seemed to burn right through his damp clothes. He couldn’t find the doorknob behind him, only the carved stretch of wood that promised to be impossible to break through. If it had been his door at home, he could have just broken it down with one foot aimed through the material.
“Did Munro send you down here, little one?” The closest man fully turned to him, closing the distance between them. He was dressed in something that could only be called a bath robe that ended mid-thigh. With all the others, he stood out, a startling intensity to the way he approached with his gaze locked on Hollen.
Hollen’s heart picked up, and he pressed his back hard against the wood. What the hell is this place? It didn’t make any sense to have a meeting room like this in a teahouse unless there was some kind of front for a mafia or gang. He swallowed.
“Y-yes.” Hollen glanced over his shoulder, but he couldn’t spy the knob. He fisted his shirt, making the wrinkles so much worse. “I took a wrong turn.” Rent is due this week. He bit the inside of his cheek. Even if Munro was a mafia boss, he still paid well.
“I recognize you,” said the man. He had chocolate-brown eyes and matching hair that fell in wavy strands to just above his broad shoulders. He would have stood out if Hollen would have passed him on the street between the red bath robe that was loosely tied at his waist and that gaze that got stronger with every step. “You’re the little treat that wouldn’t leave the other night. Munro hired you.”
“Yes,” said Hollen, his voice barely above a whisper. There was nowhere to go when the man reached out, his hands solid links of chain rooting him in place.
“That makes us friends,” he said, widening his grin until his teeth were on display. They were strange—slightly too big for his mouth, like ill-fitting dentures. They were sharp, too, the tips promising to leave quite the mark if Hollen ever got too close. “Call me Rhys.”
“That’s such a nice name,” said Hollen, doing his best not to stare as he failed to tug himself from Rhys’ grip. “Is it Greek?” He stared at the ground when he realized how sheer the robe was. There was nothing underneath, not even the smallest scrap of underwear to hide that he was certainly carved like a Greek god.
The others were all staring at them, silent as Rhys ran his tongue over his teeth, flashing a smile as he leaned in. They all had that same look in their eye, one that had Hollen on absolute edge with every muscle in his body tensed and ready to flee. The last time he’d felt this way, he’d ended up with a nasty cat scratch infection and a demon in his thoughts.
“Welsh,” said Rhys, scrunching his nose as he inhaled sharply. “If Munro was going to send us a treat, he could have sent us something a little less bland.”
“Um.” Hollen jerked his arm, but Rhys held strong, curling his fingers until they were digging into the bone. It ached, likely bruising him instantly. “I need to go. Let me go, please.”
“Not before introductions,” said Rhys, turning and dragging Hollen toward the group. As they drew closer, he realized that the table they were gathered around wasn’t wood but thick black rock that stood on pillars of dark stone. The grain was etched over the surface that gleamed in the lights above. It had to be worth a fortune.
How the hell someone had managed to carry something like that down a dark hallway with no lights was beyond him.
“This is Corby,” said Rhys, pausing at the first man. He didn’t have Rhys’ height or his build, closer to Hollen’s height, but he still managed to be intimidating in a suit with his hair slicked back. His eyes were so pale that the blue looked nearly white. “But perhaps you’ve met him already. He’s Erie’s…father.”
Hollen shook, furrowing his forehead in confusion. “I thought Munro was his dad.” He could’ve sworn that was what George had said. There was no answer or confirmation in his head, George suspiciously quiet as Hollen’s heart threatened to break out of his chest.
“Munro is like a father to us all,” said Rhys, rubbing at his chin. “Corby, myself, and even Kail here.” He motioned across the table to a young man who seemed like one of the only ones who wasn’t interested in what was going on. His face was completely blank, his green eyes giving nothing away.
Rhys let out a small laugh before he turned back to Corby. “Do you want him?”
Corby let out a huff before turning his head away. There was a sneer on his lips, his nose scrunched with something that could only have been disgust.
“I thought not.” Rhys dragged him on.
Why does it feel like I’m being bid on like cattle? Only I’m the cow with the broken leg that no one wants? There was no use in struggling. Rhys was too strong, his grip unbreakable as he dragged Hollen across the room, carefully avoiding the corner of the massive table.
“Is there a point to this?” One of the few women spoke up, her red hair matching her sour look. “I came here to discuss something of importance, but all I’ve been able to do is look at your naked ass while you play with your food.”
Rhys sent her a scowl, his grip going so tight that Hollen whimpered, his knees going weak. There were tears in his eyes, threatening to fall. Run. Run! There was nothing he could do.
“Kail,” said Rhys, gesturing to the one with green eyes. Kail drew back, the first flicker of startled emotion passing over his features.
“Rhys, are you sure—” Kail started.
“I thought not,” said Rhys, scrunching his nose before he jerked Hollen toward the table. His robe slipped as he crowded Hollen toward the black surface, pushing him back as his legs hit the edge.
“What are you doing?” asked Hollen, trying to avoid looking at Rhys’ exposed chest while grasping at his robe to keep him from falling as he was herded and pushed, seconds away from sprawling across the ominous black expanse.
The table was freezing against the thin material on the back of his thighs, the sensation creeping over his skin and tugging against him. He shivered, every hair standing on end at the pure unnatural feel of it.
“Introductions, of course.” Rhys licked his lips before pushing at Hollen’s chest, the movements irresistible. Hollen tried to struggle, but defeat soaked him the moment his back met the obsidian surface.
Every ounce of warmth was sucked from him in an instant, the burning coolness radiating straight to his bones. It soaked through him—in him—contaminating each muscle and nerve until there was nothing but the cold. He could barely keep his eyes open, his chest heaving as if the air had turned to molasses.
When Rhys grinned, Hollen caught the sight of sharp teeth that had his stomach falling straight into a pit of despair. Everything makes sense now. The strange and aromatic teas, the late-night hours, the hunger and intensity in more than one person’s gaze in the room.
“You’re a vampire,” said Hollen, relaxing back and giving in to the overpowering cold. He was surprised George hadn’t just come out and told him. He let out a laugh, curling his fingers against the table. “Wow, I can’t believe I missed that. I am such an idiot. George, I get it now. You win.”
George, you bastard. You could have said something. He couldn’t budge, his limbs sealed to the table with a glue that seemed like it would never wear thin.
Rhys took a half-step back with his forehead furrowed, a frown etched on his lips, seemingly like a touch of fear mixed with the hunger.
The first day George had settled into his brain and had spoken to him was also the day that Hollen had asked him what George had deemed to be ‘too many questions.’ But hell, if demons existed, then that meant that other things did too, like vampires, werewolves, and Santa Claus. George had told him all about the former, only scoffing when Hollen had insisted he wanted to know more about Santa Claus.
If George had been seeking fear and silence in Hollen, then he hadn’t found it, having to deal with every ridiculous theory that Hollen sent his way. Are vampires related to bats, or is that just a myth? But what about silver— They really aren’t allergic?
Still, Hollen hadn’t been convinced. Seeing was believing, George had told him before retreating into silence that day. And maybe that was easy to say for a hitchhiker, but Hollen had explored most parts of the city and had come up with nothing more than a few drug deals and one very questionable guy who’d thought bathing was just cleansing his body for Satan.
Hollen laughed, the sudden warmth in his chest breaking the hold on his limbs. He rolled off the table, landing on the floor near Kail with a thud. Kail didn’t move, not even as a few whispers broke out.
The one Rhys had called Corby lunged for him, grasping him by the soaked front of his shirt. The laugh died on his lips.
“You are astoundingly human,” said Corby, tightening his grip. “Fickle, useless with the fruitless existences of sixty years or so. How did a tiny speck like you come across something you have no business in knowing?”
“Corby.” Kail reached out, placing a hand on Corby’s shoulder. “He was obviously bluffing.”
Corby snarled, shrugging off the touch. “You’re too young to understand what’s at stake here. The others may pretend to be in the dark, but we all know about your own human lover, Kail. Even if you try to hide him away in your home, how many people has he told?”
Corby turned his dark eyes back to Hollen. “Tell me, or I’ll end you. All it would take is a squeeze.” He twisted his hand, tightening the collar of Hollen’s shirt until it strained against his throat.
“Um.” Hollen bit his lip, grasping at his shirt and trying to tug the collar wider. It was no use. The material too thick to tear. “George told me.” He choked it out, Corby releasing him a moment later.
A gasp pushed through his lips as he was thrown back onto the table, the cold clutching him instantly. His head bounced against the hard rock, his ears ringing.
“This is what I’m talking about,” said Corby, curling his hand into a fist and slamming it down on the table. Even through the solid rock, Hollen felt the tremble of the blow. It only lasted a moment before Corby snatched his hand back, shaking out his fingers.
“I thought vampires were supposed to be fun,” said Hollen, flinching as Rhys circled the table and reached for him. Everything slowed, the room wavering. “Like sparkly and fast and stuff.”
He’d never watched the movies himself, but he’d heard the reviews and the whispers of his past female coworkers. Apparently, the bloodsucking beasts of the past were pure myth conceived by terrified villagers with no Wi-Fi. George had even told him vampires could go out into the daylight with no problem and snack on garlic if they so chose.
Corby hissed, his sharp teeth on display along with narrowed eyes. He was a true predator that Hollen was poking with a stick.
“Bleed him dry,” said Corby, scratching his nails over the surface of the table, keeping the pads of his fingers away from the stone. “I want him dead.”
Oh dear. Hollen wrapped his arms around his legs, shuddering against the impenetrable cold. He could barely keep his eyes open, his ears ringing as mumbled voices broke out around him.
“I knew this would happen with that bastard as our leader,” said Corby, curling his lips so every tooth was on display. He growled, slapping his hand against his thigh. “Mingling with other groups—fucking humans and encouraging us to turn them.” He glared across the room at a woman who snarled back. “It’s bad enough trying to keep our existence off the internet, but now he’s throwing us out there. He wants us to be known.”
There were murmurs from a few, some nodding along.
Can I go now? Hollen swallowed down the question. No matter how hard he hugged his legs, the cold seeped deeper, leaving his muscles stiff and fragile. His heart, that had been racing, slowed to steady beats, then slower until he could scarcely feel it, leaving his head swimming.
“Corby,” said Rhys, the tie of his robe nearly all the way undone. He shifted, glancing to the door, then back to the assembly, glaring at Hollen, who was just out of reach. No one seemed to want to simply climb on the table to retrieve him.
“Silence,” said Corby, turning on Rhys. “The only reason you are here is because you don’t know when to close your legs.”
Rhys flinched, grasping the edges of his robe and drawing them tighter.
“Once I rip this one’s throat out, you’ll be next…then our precious Covi,” said Corby, swiping at Hollen. Hollen flinched, shrinking into himself as much as he could. They were all around him, his escape dwindling away.
“Is there a problem?”
Munro’s voice cut through the commotion with the force of a meteor, wiping the sneer from Corby’s face. His gaze flickered over the others, then to Hollen, lingering for only a moment. That look was long enough to fill Hollen with a tiny bit of warmth to fight against whatever was gripping him.
“I-I.” Corby started, taking a step back. “This human knows about us. We have to kill him.” He stuttered, retreating until he could slip behind Kail. Kail raised a clearly unimpressed brow.
That first meeting of Munro when Hollen had tossed intimidation aside with sheer stubbornness had apparently only given him a small peek at how overpowering Munro could be. People parted for him, making a space where there had been no escape before. The murmurs were plucked from the air, all eyes on him.
Hollen couldn’t look away as Munro came near, stopping just short of the edge of the table. His lips were set in a line, the ice in his eyes morphed into pure fire. His presence smothered everything but the scent of tea and the brutal cold that seeped deeper into his bones with each heartbeat.
“Hollen, come here,” said Munro, offering his hand. A few strands of hair escaped from his hair tie, slipping over his shoulder.
Hollen shivered, his teeth chattering. There was nothing but cold—not even a whisper from George to reassure him. It was worse than sitting on cement in the depth of winter or diving into water filled with ice. The obsidian was wrong to the very lines etched across the surface.
He edged toward Munro, gasping when his warm, outstretched hand touched him. He could lose himself in that touch, goosebumps bursting over his skin as relief flooded him. When he slipped from the edge, his heart stuttered, flickering into its normal rhythm almost instantly.
Munro’s grip was loose as he slowly tugged Hollen closer, barely a few inches between them and a spice of heat. Munro’s broad shoulders and chest filled his vision, his neck pale beneath his dress shirt. There was a small stain on the collar—something brown that had probably been of the deepest red.
“Now tell me,” said Munro, sliding his fingers over Hollen’s chin and tilting his head. “Who told you a silly tale about vampires? Who told you the fable was not as much of a myth as you thought. Was it my son?”
Hollen tried to look away, but Munro held his gaze. His breath caught, draining from his lungs in a long sigh. There was more than blue in his gaze, the flecks of his iris standing out. If he looked close enough, he could imagine seeing himself, his lips tinted blue but his cheeks flushed pink. One blink and he could fall into a sleep that there would be no reason to wake up from.
I was wrong. Munro wasn’t intimidating in the least, his eyes a warm thought that lingered in his own. He wasn’t sure why he’d ever feared him when there was a heat spreading from where they were touching, his lips tingling as he licked them. It wouldn’t be hard to push his hands into Munro’s hair, freeing it all from the tie to let it roam free. Some would fall across his shoulders with Hollen’s fingers still tangled in the strands. It looks so soft.
Munro narrowed his eyes, the displeasure seeping straight into Hollen’s chest with the thud of a whip. “Answer the question, Hollen.”
“George.” Hollen’s voice was barely above a whisper. “George told me.” It was true, but then why did it feel like a betrayal? Munro probably wanted more from him than a simple name that could have belonged to thousands of people in the country.
“Hmm, I don’t believe I know him.” Munro smoothed his thumb over Hollen’s cheek, and his eyes fluttered shut on their own. He licked his lips again, hoping to feel the scratch of that thumb against his tongue. Bergamot and chamomile soaked into his senses, warming him with a tranquil peace. He could lay back on the stone and just sleep.
“He’s my friend,” said Hollen. It took every ounce of effort to get the words out, his stomach twisting with guilt at the same time his chest filled with something sweet.
“Eyes open, sweetheart,” said Munro.
Hollen tried to resist opening his eyes to the stark light and audience, but Munro was so persuasive—so pretty. There was so much more to see, like the lashes that brushed against his cheeks that were two shades darker than his hair, and the small scar on his chin that hid so well.
Munro was still smiling when Hollen opened his eyes, a hesitant reluctance in his gaze. He hadn’t stopped moving his thumb, teasing Hollen’s senses.
“Tell me about George,” said Munro, his words dripping with warm syrup that slithered straight into Hollen’s lungs. There was something else beneath the spices, rich and deep with tones that were almost like leather.
George stirred in his mind, snapping his trance. “ Don’t tell him anything .”
His voice was so sharp that Hollen flinched away, breaking Munro’s gaze and leaving his skin bare. The warmth disappeared in a wisp of smoke, the sodden cling of his clothes and the cold of the table so near that it ached.
But George’s words were worse than all of it, carving straight through his brain until his vision blinked. It almost sent him to his knees as his vision dimmed, the bright lights of the room lost in shadow.
“Sorry,” said Hollen, covering his eyes with one hand. Fuck, that stings. George was usually so quiet, but in the few times he’d yelled, it had never hurt so bad. It had never made him want to hurl his dinner in front of strangers, shivering while they showed off their fangs.
“I should go,” said Hollen. He peeked through his fingers, spotting the door and stumbling toward it. No one moved to stop him, not even Munro, who still had his hand outstretched. “Sorry. I can’t stay.” He staggered, wiping at his nose when he felt something drip. His hand came away smeared with blood.
This is not good.
The blood seemed to end the stillness and the shock in a single heartbeat. Rhys lunged for him, leaping over the table with his lips curled over his teeth. He hissed when he touched the surface with his hand, but it didn’t stop his momentum.
Corby reacted a moment later, grabbing Rhys and throwing him back, only to rush ahead himself, closing the distance too quickly to be natural. Rhys hit the far wall, so close to the throne that the edge of his robe caught on one of the wicked curved antlers, the delicate fabric tearing to pieces.
Munro was the only barrier left, and he struck like a serpent, grabbing Corby around the neck as he tried to pass. There was a scream as Munro drew him close, whispering something into Corby’s ear that Hollen couldn’t hear.
Hollen turned away, running for the door and slipping through it before Corby had the chance to break free. His footsteps echoed as he ran out into the darkness and under the blinking lights.
His breathing came in harsh pants, his lungs filling with the copper scent as more blood dripped down his face. Each step was an effort as his legs went leaden.
The white of his uniform soaked red as he ran through the kitchen and straight out the door, hardly noticing that every seat in the place was still empty. Someone called out for him with a voice he vaguely recalled as the chef’s, but he didn’t look back.
He didn’t stop until he was a block from home, his throat sore and his breathing a ragged mess. Tears and snot had dried on his face, leaving itchy tracks behind. There was no one on the street in the darkness with the sun faded into fog.
“Holy hell,” he said, ducking into the closest alley and leaning against the wall for support. The lamppost at the end gave him the only light to see by, turning every tiny thing into wicked shadows.
His chest heaved, his stomach churning as the taste of bile rose in his throat. He turned his head to the side, waiting for it to pass. The blood had dried on his face in a sticky film, but he could see the dark shadow on his clothes that was definitely never coming out.
“ I told you to run ,” said George, his voice soft like he’d hadn’t just tried to break Hollen’s skull in two. Even though he was quieter now, the words still sent an ache through him, the synapses aching as if they’d been burned.
“Yeah, but ask nicely next time,” said Hollen, scrubbing at his face and trying to scratch some of the blood away. Pulling his shirt over his head, he wiped his face down before tossing it to the closest dumpster. “And just for that, I’m applying at that other pizza place next.”
George grumbled, shifting behind Hollen’s eyes. “ Just take us home .”