All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(122)

Emmett grimaced, and his hand tightened on my waist. “Keep going.”

“Vie Eliot?” the voice called again.

“We’re almost there,” Emmett said. “Whoever it is, let ’em blow themselves.”

“Mr. Eliot, as an official representative of the state of Wyoming, I need you to stop right there. Getting in that car will make you a run away, at which point I will have to ask the sheriff and his deputies to locate you and return you.”

I rotated towards the voice, freeing myself from Emmett to stand and stare into the darkness. “Yeah? And who the hell are you?”

A woman emerged from the dark corner of the hospital. She was tall, even taller than I was, and built wide from hips to shoulder like an iron smokestack. Long, dark hair snapped in the wind. When she got closer, I could see her face. She was Native American, and she had large, dark eyes, almost as dark as the Wyoming sky. Nobody would call her pretty, not ever, not even under a full moon, but her wide, solid face looked honest enough.

As she approached, Emmett slapped a protective arm over my chest, but I shrugged past him. The woman held out her hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, I shook. Now that I understood the inner sight, it was an easy thing to keep it closed. Or, in this case, to open it, although my head ached with exhaustion. For a moment, I saw those overlapping images again: the ultra-textured world, as it was filtered through my third eye, and in front of me, the Native American woman with the ghost of a . . . a coyote slinking around her neck. Then I let my ability surge across our connected hands, and the world around me vanished as I entered her mind. I slid my hands through that darkness, searching for danger, malice, anger. Instead, I found myself staring up at a pair of heavy, metal gates.

Then the vision broke, and my breath caught as the woman chuckled and rolled her heavy shoulders. “It’s been a long time since someone tried that.”

She knew. She knew what I’d done and somehow . . . she’d stopped me.

“Tried what?” Emmett said, bumping against my shoulder, every inch of him broadcasting a very clear signal to the woman: watch out.

But she didn’t answer him, and she didn’t let go of my hand. Instead, through my inner sight, I watched as a rush of golden energy coursed along her arm, through our connected hands, and into me. Her touch was light, less than a feather, but it was there as she tried to read what I was thinking. I slammed my third eye shut. A look of surprise crossed her face, and the ghostly coyote slinking around her neck vanished.

“Who are you?” I asked again.

She loosed my hand, wiped her palms on thick, industrial looking jeans, and smiled. “I’m Genevieve Coyote In Sage. I’m your social worker.”





“My—” I said, unable to finish the words as I stared at the woman standing in front of me.

“What are you talking about?” Emmett said, planting himself even more firmly in front of me. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

“Mr. Bradley, please step aside.”

“How do you know who I am?”

“Go ahead,” I said, squeezing his arm. “She’s just doing her job.”

“Like fuck,” Emmett said. “Let’s see some identification, and let’s see some paperwork. Otherwise, I’m taking Vie home. My dad’s a lawyer and—”

“I know perfectly well who your father is, Mr. Bradley. And I know you’re worried about your friend.” She smiled again, first at Emmett, then at me. It was a broad, open smile, as wide as a barn door. You couldn’t hide a damn thing behind that smile. When Emmett opened his mouth, she raised a finger and produced her ID and a set of papers. “Everything’s right there, Mr. Bradley. Even your father would agree.”

“Jesus Christ,” Emmett said, flipping through the pages. “This is like a fucking textbook.”

“I’ve had a very difficult time finding you, Vie. You don’t make it easy. When the sheriff called and told me he had you at the hospital, I thought you might make an early exit, and when I saw Mr. Bradley drive up in his fancy car—” She shrugged with a smaller smile. “I know you two have a habit of getting in trouble together.”

“What else do you know?” Emmett said.

“Leave it, Emmett,” I said.

“Like fuck,” he repeated, turning to glare at me over his shoulder. “She’s—”

“It’s time for you to go home, Emmett.”

Lowering his voice, Emmett said, “Vie, you’ve been through hell today. Let me take you home. We’ll figure this out tomorrow.”

I shook my head and stepped around him. “All right,” I said. “Mrs. . .”

“Coyote in Sage. But I’d prefer if you call me Ginny. All my friends do.”

“All her friends do,” Emmett muttered.

“Go home,” I said again.

He smacked the stack of pages into my chest. “You,” he said, leveling a finger at Ginny, “better take damn good care of him. You know he’s a hero, right?”

“Sweet Jesus,” I said. “Emmett. Go.”

“Twice. He’s a fucking hero two times over, so don’t go putting him in some shitty group home.”

I planted my hand on Emmett’s chest and shoved. He stumbled, flashed me a tiny smile, and then gave Ginny one last, furious look. “I’m not joking.” Then he strutted to the Porsche and drove away.