The Hollow by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online
Authors: Nora Roberts
because I figured you needed me to be. The fact is, you donât need as much help as I thought. As you thought.â
âNo, youâre wrong. I do need help. I need you to teach me.â She walked to the window to look out at the dark. âBecause Gage was right. If I keep letting this be a problem for me, itâs a problem for all of us. And if Iâm going to use this ability, I have to be able to control it so Iâm not walking into peopleâs heads right and left.â
âWeâll start working on it tomorrow.â
She nodded. âIâll be ready.â And turned. âWould you tell the others I went on up? Itâs been a very strange day.â
âSure.â
For a moment, she just stood, looking at him. âI want to say, and Iâm sorry if it embarrasses you, but thereâs something exceptional about a man who has the capacity to love as deeply as you do. Cal and Gage are lucky to have a friend like you. Anyone would be.â
âIâm your friend, Layla.â
âI hope so. Good night.â
He stayed where he was after sheâd gone, reminding himself to stay her friend. To stay what she needed, when she needed it.
Three
IN THE DREAM IT WAS SUMMER. THE HEAT GRIPPED with sweaty hands, squeezing and wringing out energy like water out of a rag. In Hawkins Wood, leaves spread thick and green overhead, but the sun forced its way through in laser beams to flash into his eyes. Berries ripened on the thorny brambles, and the wild lilies bloomed in unearthly orange.
He knew his way. It seemed Fox had always known his way through these trees, down these paths. His mother would have called it sensory memory, he thought. Or past-life flashes.
He liked the quiet that was country woodsâthe low hum of insects, the faint rustle of squirrels or rabbits, the melodic chorus of birds with little more to do on a hot summer day but sing and wing.
Yes, he knew his way here, knew the sounds here, knew even the feel of the air in every season, for he had walked here in every season. Melting summers, burgeoning springs, brisk autumns, brutal winters. So he recognized the chill in the air when it crawled up his spine, and the sudden change of light, the gray tinge that wasnât the simplicity of a stray cloud over the sun. He knew the soft growl that came from behind, from in front, and choked off the music of the chickadees and jays.
He continued to walk the path to Hesterâs Pool.
Fear walked with him. It trickled along his skin like sweat, urged him to run. He had no weapon, and in the dream didnât question why he would come here alone, unarmed. When the treesâdenuded nowâbegan to bleed, he kept on. The blood was a lie; the blood was fear.
He stopped only when he saw the woman. She stood at the small dark pond, her back to him. She bent, gathering stones, filling her pockets with them.
Hester. Hester Deale. In the dream he called out to her, though he knew she was doomed. He couldnât go back hundreds of years and stop her from drowning herself. Nor could he stop himself from trying.
So he called out to her as he hurried forward, as the growling turned to a wet snicker of horrible amusement.
Donât. Donât. It wasnât your fault. None of it was your fault.
When she turned, when she looked into his eyes, it wasnât Hester, but Layla. Tears streaked her face like bitter rain, and her face was white as bone.
I canât stop. I donât want to die. Help me. Canât you help me?
Now he began to run, to run toward her, but the path stretched longer and longer, the snickering grew louder and louder. She held out her hands to him, a final plea before she fell into the pool, and vanished.
He leaped. The water was viciously, brutally cold. He dove down, searching until his burning lungs sent him up to gulp in air. A storm raged in the woods now, wild red lightning, cracking thunder, sparking fires that engulfed
âNo, youâre wrong. I do need help. I need you to teach me.â She walked to the window to look out at the dark. âBecause Gage was right. If I keep letting this be a problem for me, itâs a problem for all of us. And if Iâm going to use this ability, I have to be able to control it so Iâm not walking into peopleâs heads right and left.â
âWeâll start working on it tomorrow.â
She nodded. âIâll be ready.â And turned. âWould you tell the others I went on up? Itâs been a very strange day.â
âSure.â
For a moment, she just stood, looking at him. âI want to say, and Iâm sorry if it embarrasses you, but thereâs something exceptional about a man who has the capacity to love as deeply as you do. Cal and Gage are lucky to have a friend like you. Anyone would be.â
âIâm your friend, Layla.â
âI hope so. Good night.â
He stayed where he was after sheâd gone, reminding himself to stay her friend. To stay what she needed, when she needed it.
Three
IN THE DREAM IT WAS SUMMER. THE HEAT GRIPPED with sweaty hands, squeezing and wringing out energy like water out of a rag. In Hawkins Wood, leaves spread thick and green overhead, but the sun forced its way through in laser beams to flash into his eyes. Berries ripened on the thorny brambles, and the wild lilies bloomed in unearthly orange.
He knew his way. It seemed Fox had always known his way through these trees, down these paths. His mother would have called it sensory memory, he thought. Or past-life flashes.
He liked the quiet that was country woodsâthe low hum of insects, the faint rustle of squirrels or rabbits, the melodic chorus of birds with little more to do on a hot summer day but sing and wing.
Yes, he knew his way here, knew the sounds here, knew even the feel of the air in every season, for he had walked here in every season. Melting summers, burgeoning springs, brisk autumns, brutal winters. So he recognized the chill in the air when it crawled up his spine, and the sudden change of light, the gray tinge that wasnât the simplicity of a stray cloud over the sun. He knew the soft growl that came from behind, from in front, and choked off the music of the chickadees and jays.
He continued to walk the path to Hesterâs Pool.
Fear walked with him. It trickled along his skin like sweat, urged him to run. He had no weapon, and in the dream didnât question why he would come here alone, unarmed. When the treesâdenuded nowâbegan to bleed, he kept on. The blood was a lie; the blood was fear.
He stopped only when he saw the woman. She stood at the small dark pond, her back to him. She bent, gathering stones, filling her pockets with them.
Hester. Hester Deale. In the dream he called out to her, though he knew she was doomed. He couldnât go back hundreds of years and stop her from drowning herself. Nor could he stop himself from trying.
So he called out to her as he hurried forward, as the growling turned to a wet snicker of horrible amusement.
Donât. Donât. It wasnât your fault. None of it was your fault.
When she turned, when she looked into his eyes, it wasnât Hester, but Layla. Tears streaked her face like bitter rain, and her face was white as bone.
I canât stop. I donât want to die. Help me. Canât you help me?
Now he began to run, to run toward her, but the path stretched longer and longer, the snickering grew louder and louder. She held out her hands to him, a final plea before she fell into the pool, and vanished.
He leaped. The water was viciously, brutally cold. He dove down, searching until his burning lungs sent him up to gulp in air. A storm raged in the woods now, wild red lightning, cracking thunder, sparking fires that engulfed