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Trouble with the Cursed




  BY KIM HARRISON

  BOOKS OF THE HOLLOWS

  DEAD WITCH WALKING

  THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UNDEAD

  EVERY WHICH WAY BUT DEAD

  A FISTFUL OF CHARMS

  FOR A FEW DEMONS MORE

  THE OUTLAW DEMON WAILS

  WHITE WITCH, BLACK CURSE

  BLACK MAGIC SANCTION

  PALE DEMON

  A PERFECT BLOOD

  EVER AFTER

  THE UNDEAD POOL

  THE WITCH WITH NO NAME

  THE TURN

  AMERICAN DEMON

  MILLION DOLLAR DEMON

  TROUBLE WITH THE CURSED

  ACE

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2022 by Kim Harrison

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  ACE is a registered trademark and the A colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Harrison, Kim, author.

  Title: Trouble with the cursed / Kim Harrison.

  Description: New York: Ace, [2022] | Series: Hollows

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021045058 (print) | LCCN 2021045059 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593437513 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593437537 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.A78355 T76 2022 (print) | LCC PS3608.A78355 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021045058

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021045059

  Cover design by Katie Anderson

  Cover art by Chris McGrath

  Book design by Kristin del Rosario, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_6.0_140170202_c0_r0

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  By Kim Harrison

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For Tim

  CHAPTER

  1

  It wasn’t even ten yet, and the cicadas were already screaming in the hot, muggy air. Uncomfortable, I fidgeted, my sandals scraping the time-warped porch boards as I impatiently waited for Pike to pick the lock of the dilapidated Victorian he’d tagged as an unregistered blood house. It was stifling under the overhang and scraggly street trees. My camisole and shorts seemed woefully inappropriate to be kicking vampire ass in, but Pike had promised it was a five-minute thing. In, out, iced coffee and Band-Aids before noon.

  Traffic was a distant hum, the bars and restaurants a comfortable two blocks away. It was a perfect location for a blood house where consenting vamps could finish out their evening or, more often, where others could hide from unwanted attention. Working on all levels, blood houses gave the highly charged, highly dangerous vampires a secure place to indulge and find refuge—often at the same time.

  The age-old dichotomy didn’t make sense until you saw it in action, but vamps, both living and dead, had an unfailing need to protect the distressed even as they endangered those they professed to love. When it went bad, the abuse went bone-deep, fueled by the trust these houses engendered. Why it was up to me, a witch-born demon, to ferret out and “gently” correct the problem was a long story with a short motive. I didn’t like bullies.

  Tired, I tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. The humidity was breaking through my anti-curl charm and the red mass was frizzing right out of my braid. “I thought you had a key,” I muttered, and Pike, crouched at the lock, softly swore.

  “Yeah. Me too.” Pike’s low, intent voice pulled an unexpected pulse of libido from me, and I shifted to put more space between us in the hopes he wouldn’t notice. It was the pheromones he was unconsciously kicking out, not a real attraction. It didn’t help that Pike wasn’t your usual living vampire, his unerring, classic beauty still showing under a disturbing number of scars. There was a hint of gray in his short-cut hair, evidence of his early-thirties maturity. His light shirt and slacks were cut for ease of movement, his languid grace held a definite pull, and when his eyes went black? Da-a-amn.

  But it was Pike’s confidence that elevated him beyond the usual living vampire, and I was secure enough in my relationship with Trent to admit that he was . . . well . . . mmmm. Most vamps were confident on the outside, but Pike was truly comfortable in his skin. It set him apart, as did his numerous scars, most of which had been gained from his brothers trying to kill him as opposed to bedroom fun. Working under my protection was safer than him being on his own, but that’s not why he had agreed to do it.

  In contrast, my few scars were recent, almost hidden behind what passed as a tan for me. I missed my old ones—scars, that is—the ones that had real meaning. My almost-dormant vampire bite hidden under the curse-virgin skin tended to drive the undead wild, something that wasn’t actually advantageous in my line of work.

  “I got up early for this,” I grumbled, tucking my sunglasses into my bag before gingerly sitting on the edge of the dusty porch chair. The residential street wasn’t busy, and my eyes narrowed as I tracked the passing car, frowning as the black Crown Victoria parked at the curb.

  Doyle.

  Pike glanced up, his incredible senses attuned to my sudden unease. Doyle worked for Inderland Security, an I.S. detective now if I remembered right. That the living vampire was watching us break into an unregistered, and therefore illegal, blood house didn’t bode well.

  “So . . . did you ask me to help this morning because Doyle is following you?” I said.

  Frowning, Pike returned to picking the lock. “He’s not following me. He’s watching the house. Same as I am.” Pike’s weight shifted as he tried a new angle. “He’s probably waiting for us to do the hard part, then swing in and take credit for it. The I.S. wants this place shut down as much as we do.”

  True. I stood, hands on my hips as I stared provocatively at Doyle. Vampires were weird contrasts. The un
dead ones did ugly things thinking it was love, the living ones endured ugly things thinking it was love, but they both had a protective streak a mile wide. True, it was a little warped in the long undead, but no one liked underage predation, and that’s why we were here.

  Unlike the I.S., I didn’t need three days on a missing person’s report before I opened up a can of ass-kickery. So when Kip, Pike’s number one, had failed to report in after tracking three missing teens here, Pike had called me. I didn’t know the small woman well, but Pike both trusted and relied on her.

  “You think Doyle will give us trouble?” I said as Doyle grinned, showing me his short but sharp canines as he took a picture of us. “We have probable cause.”

  “No.” Pike frowned. His eyes lost their rim of brown as his pupils dilated, and the delicious scent of vampire incense rose in the stifling air, reminding me of when I had been younger and stupid. Still smells good, though, I thought, a pheromone-induced quiver of angst and desire rising before I stifled it. Sensing it, Pike smirked. I liked working with Pike, even if resisting his vampiric charms was often a challenge. I loved Trent, but finding someone to kick ass with was difficult, and Ivy had been stuck in DC for months.

  “Maybe I should have brought Jenks,” I muttered, and his smile vanished. But truth be told, I didn’t need my usual backup for this. It was part rescue, part reminder to a few uppity vamps that the law was there for the living and dead. Still, I was beginning to regret telling Jenks to stay home. Standing outside a door this long looked unprofessional.

  “You need some grease?” I said as I checked my phone for the time.

  “I’ve got this.” Frustrated, Pike angled the pick another way.

  “I can check to see if there’s a back door,” I offered, wanting a coffee.

  “There’s no back door,” he said flatly. “Will you shut up so I can concentrate?”

  Well, excu-u-u-uuse me. I stood, going to the dirty window to put a hand to my face to peer in at the front room. Jenks could have been in and out by now, verifying the floor plan that Ivy would have dug up online somewhere. But this was Pike’s run, not mine. I was here to help. If we ever got in. Frustrated, I checked my phone again, attention returning to Doyle as I tucked it in my pocket. Damn it, he was laughing. “Maybe Doyle has a key,” I said sourly.

  Pike exhaled heavily. “Yes. Why don’t you go and ask Doyle if he has a key.”

  Ooh, sarcasm! I’d had enough, and as the cicadas sang in an irritating whine, I strengthened my grip on the nearest ley line and mulled over which “find” spell would work best. Nearly all worked on auras, and the undead didn’t have much of one unless they had just fed—and then it wasn’t even theirs. Most finding charms didn’t work well underground, either, which was where this was going to end up. I knew it. Many of Cincinnati’s original homes had sub-basement floors, and this was one of Cincy’s older “ladies.”

  The ley line slipped into me like sunshine, warm and tingling to my toes. I let the unfocused energy pool up in my chi, then spindled a wad of it in my thoughts before I let the energy find a path back into the ground and make me part of a circuit. “Invenio,” I whispered, feeling the energy take direction and the charm invoke. With the force of creation running through me, I opened my second sight.

  Distorted as if by flame, the image of an open field in the ever-after wavered into existence, overlaying reality in a disjointed double vision. The front room became indistinct, almost like colored chalk lines. I wasn’t exactly seeing through walls, but they didn’t exist in the ever-after, and the effect was the same. Pike’s aura was obvious beside me, but nothing else. The upstairs was clear as well. If Kip or the kids she was trying to find were here, they were downstairs.

  “We’re clear aboveground,” I said as I let my second sight drop—and the image of an open field vanished and reality returned. I held on to the line, though, letting it continue to run through me like a second sun. “Excuse me,” I said as I picked up the porch chair. Gut tight, I slammed it into the big front window. Glass shattered inward in a satisfying feeling of give, and then the chair rolled across the faded, crushed carpet to thump into the wall. Smirking, I reached in to unlock the door from the inside.

  Pike slowly got to his feet, his dark eyes going from the broken window to me. “You are no fun when you’re in a hurry, you know that?”

  “I have things to do today.” My gaze went to the black Crown Victoria, my brow high in challenge. “Maybe Doyle will get off his bear-claw-fat ass and either help or arrest us now.”

  But the vampire didn’t move, watching us as he talked to someone on his phone. A faint but insistent tingling in my fingers became stronger. It had been growing since the chair smashed the window. Charmed? I wondered as I made a fist to drive away the uncomfortable sensation. It would explain why Pike had been trying to finagle the lock.

  “Dual electronic- and magic-based alarms,” Pike said as he dabbed the sweat off his forehead with a patterned, silk handkerchief. “They know we’re here.”

  My attention flicked to the camera tucked under the porch overhang. They’d known the instant our feet had hit the worn floorboards. His “lock picking” had been a psychological ploy. As had been me smashing in the front window.

  “At least we know it won’t be ringing at the I.S.” I turned to Doyle. “Hey!” I shouted, and his phone conversation hesitated. “You coming?”

  Smirking, Doyle ended his call and settled back, pretending to sleep.

  “My tax dollars at work.” Pike ran a hand over his short, styled hair, smoothing it.

  “Just as long as they don’t cite me for destruction of private property and illegal entry and revoke my runner’s license.” It was the one thing I paid on time every year, ensuring I stayed a certified, independent runner. I’d been one now for over four years, one of a handful in Cincinnati, and certainly the most well-known. With that, probable cause, and a filed complaint, I had a reason to be here—though the busted window might be questionable.

  “There’s usually a door downstairs in the kitchen.” His mood suddenly closed, Pike ghosted past me into the house.

  I followed, my steps short to avoid the glass. Immediately I stepped to the side, pausing to get a feel for the place. I didn’t like that there’d been a magical alarm, and even less that I’d tripped it. Jenks would have warned me.

  Pike’s shoes were silent as he vanished into what was obviously the kitchen with its faded linoleum floor and bland yellow cupboards. It was air-conditioned cool in here, but I left the door open for Doyle, scanning the faded wallpaper and scratched floorboards. What little furniture there was was old and mismatched, giving it the look of Early American College Student. There were no obvious cameras, but I knew we were being watched. Feeling sassy, I pulled my splat gun and checked the hopper in a show of defiance. The cherry-red, Glock-size, air-powered paintball gun was my go-to, but instead of paint, mine shot sleepy-time potions.

  Oh, I had plenty of spells at my fingertips, but some whiny baby always claimed they were dark magic, which meant paperwork proving they weren’t and possibly a visit before a judge for a show-and-tell. Besides, the potion-based spells in my gun were easy to break with salt water. Even the human-run Federal Inderland Bureau, or FIB, knew how. My spoken, ley line–based charms were harder to undo, and I was anything but accommodating. Yeah. Right.

  My head came up at the sliding thump from the kitchen. “You good, Pike?”

  “Yeah . . .” he said, voice strained, and I started over, my sandals clinking on the broken glass.

  Nose wrinkled against the faint smell of vampire, I halted in the open archway. Everything in the kitchen, apart from Pike, was old and small—clean, though, as if just wiped down. The only window was shut and too small to easily wiggle out of. “Do you think they left?” I asked as Pike tapped the floor and walls of the broom closet.

  “Perhaps.” Pike paused,
listening for an echo. “Kip tracked the vamp who’d been seen talking to the teens here. Either they caught her and she’s being held, or she simply needs help getting them out. Either way, Kip wouldn’t leave them. Not even to make a call.” Frowning at the closet, Pike exhaled. “Hence me asking for help.”

  Head down, he put his shoulder against the fridge and pushed it from the wall to study the strip of grimy linoleum he uncovered. No door. I wasn’t going to feel guilty for ogling his muscular shoulders as they bunched and moved in the effort. “Besides, Doyle is out there,” he said as he easily moved the oversize fridge back in a hiccuping sound of plastic and linoleum.

  “Bedroom closet?” I offered. “They know we’re here, but they will ignore us unless we find the way down.”

  “Bedroom closet,” he agreed. His pace slipping into an eerie, overly fast glide, Pike went for the bedrooms. Again I followed, my steps crunching on the broken glass.

  Doyle was still at the curb when I glanced out the broken window, making me wonder if we might have stumbled on one of Constance’s kickback moneymakers that the I.S. would just as soon ignore. But even the I.S. had to admit that me taking Cincinnati over from Constance was already showing benefits. The streets had been pleasantly quiet the last few months, like a held breath as you look across the room to someone you love or hate. Cincinnati’s vampires were waiting—not to see if I had the chops to keep them in line, but if I would make good on my promise of a spell that would allow them to keep their souls when they died their first death.

  Unfortunately the complex curse was currently stuck in FSCA hell. Apparently the Federal Spell and Charm Administration wasn’t yet convinced undead vampires having access to their original souls was a good idea. Neither were the long undead in DC. And so we waited.

  “Good God,” Pike said, balking at the door of the overdone, black and pink bedroom with bleeding hearts, lightning bolts, and heartthrob posters, but I strode in, sure this was where the stairs had to be, at the heart of badass girldom. We only had to find them.

  At his nod, I tossed my bag to the bed and stood eight feet back before the closed closet door, my feet spread for balance and splat gun pointed. His eyes shifting to a pupil-wide blackness, Pike flicked the closet door open with a vampire quickness. I tensed, but it was only a standard, empty four-by-six. Slowly my braced arm drooped.