by Kim Harrison
Twisting wildly, Bis brought his wings in close, diving for a gutter drain.
“Oh-h-h-h-h no-o-o-o!” Jenks exclaimed, ducking his head.
Wings back, winging furiously in the sudden dark, Bis hit the wall with a grunt, sliding down to land in a sludge of water and goo. Putrid muck splashed up, coating Jenks in cold. Shaking his head, he lay on Bis and tried to figure out what happened.
I’m in a hole, he realized, his pulse hammering hard enough to shake him. I’m alive.
Above him, the wind shrieked, sounding like a woman screaming in battle. Bis shifted underneath him, and Jenks put a finger to his own lips when the gargoyle’s eyes opened. Together they listened to the destruction as glass shattered and heavy things hit the earth. Slowly the roaring wind faded to leave the frightened calls of people and the growing sounds of sirens.
Shaking, Bis began to wheeze in laughter. “Pigeon poop. That was close,” he said, sitting up slowly until Jenks took to the air.
Jenks’s flash of anger at Bis’s mirth dissolved as he realized they were okay and they would both live to see the sun rise. “Watch this! I’ll get her to follow me, Bis!” he said, shaking his wings until a sludgy dust spilled from him to light the hole.
Bis stood shin-deep in the muck, his skin shifting toward pink as he upped his body temp. Appreciating the warmth, Jenks moved to his shoulder and tried to wipe the muck off his clothes. Matalina wouldn’t be happy, and he enviously watched the mud dry and flake off Bis.
“Think she’s gone?” Bis asked as he gazed up to the rectangle of brighter dark.
Jenks darted to the opening and the fresher air to hover with his head in the opening. Hands on his hips, he whistled long and low. “She tore up the street,” he said loudly, looking up at the broken streetlights. “Power’s out. Cops are coming. Let’s get out of here.”
The scrabbling of claws made him shiver, and he made the quick flight to the sidewalk when Bis slid out like an octopus. Bis shook his wings and sniffed at his armpits, then turned black to remain unnoticed. The sirens were coming closer, seeming to pull the distraught people together.
Frowning, Bis somberly clicked his nails in a rhythm that Jenks recognized as Mozart as he took in the tossed cars and broken windows. Fingers shaking, Jenks wedged a sweetball out of his belt pack and sucked on it, replenishing his sugar level before he started to burn muscle.
“Do you think all nymphs were like that?” Jenks asked, glad the muck hadn’t gotten to his snack.
“Beats me.”
With a push of his wings, Bis was airborne. Jenks joined him, shifting to fly above him where they could still talk. The night air felt heavy and warm, unusually muggy as they flew straight down the street and to the park. Only a small section of the city was without power, and it looked like the park was untouched.
“Maybe we should check on Vincet,” Jenks said, and the gargoyle sighed, turning back to the cooler grass to check, but Jenks was already thinking about tomorrow. He had promised to help Vincet, and he would—even if it was a dryad trapped in a statue by a warrior nymph.
He had to help these people, and he had to do so before midnight tomorrow.
THREE
Even from inside the desk, Jenks could hear Cincinnati waking up across the river. Under the faint radio playing three houses down, the deep thumps of distant industry were like a heartbeat only pixies and fairies could hear. The hum of a thousand cars reminded him of the beehive he’d tormented when he was a child and living in the wild stretches between the surviving cities. It wasn’t a bad life, living in the city—if you could find food.
Worried, he sat in his favorite chair, thinking as his family lived life around him. The doll furniture he reclined in had been purchased last year at a yard sale for a nickel, but after stripping it down, reupholstering it with spider silk, and stuffing it with down from the cottonwood at the corner, he thought it was nicer than anything he’d seen in any store Rachel had taken him in. Nicer than Trent Kalamack’s furniture, even. Distant, he rubbed his thumb over the ivy pattern that Matalina had woven into the fabric. She was a master at her craft, especially now.
A faint sifting of dust slipped from him to puddle under the chair, but his glow was almost lost in the shaft of light slipping in through the crack of the rolltop desk. The massive oak desk with its nooks and crannies had been their home for the winter, but after Matalina had perched herself on the steeple last night to wait for his return, she’d breathed in the season and decided it was time to move. So move they did.
The voices of his daughters raised in chatter were hardly noticed, as was the bawdy poem four of his elder sons were shouting as they cheerfully grabbed the corners of the long table made of Popsicle sticks and headed for the too-narrow crack.
Matalina’s voice rose in direction, and the rolltop rose just enough. It wasn’t until Matalina sent the rest of them out to scout for a nest of wasps to steal sentries from that it grew quiet. All his children had lived through the winter. It was a day of celebration, but the weight of responsibility was on him.
Responsibility wasn’t new to him, but he was surprised to feel it—seeing as it was coming from an unexpected source. He’d always felt bad for pixies not as well off as he, but that was as far as it had ever gone. A part of him wanted to tell Vincet that he chose badly and he’d have to move, newlings or not. But Vi clinging helplessly to him had gone through Jenks like fire, and the smell of the newlings on Vincet kept him sitting where he was, thinking.
Jax had been his first newling he’d managed to keep alive through the winter. Jih, his eldest daughter, had survived in Matalina’s arms that same season. Scarcely nine years old, Jih had moved across the street alone to start a garden, and Jax left to follow in his father’s footsteps by partnering with a thief instead of devoting himself to a family and the earth.
Jenks had never wanted more than to tend a spot of ground, but four years ago, forced by a late spring and suffering newlings, he’d shamefully taken a part-time job as backup for Inderland Security, finding that he not only enjoyed it, but was good at it. Working for the man had eventually evolved into a partnership with Rachel and Ivy, and now he was on the streets more than in the garden. Turning his back on his first independent job wasn’t going to happen. Blowing up the statue wouldn’t be the hard part—it would be getting around Daryl to do it.
A nymph and a dryad, he thought sourly as he sucked on a sweetball in the quiet. Why couldn’t it be something he knew something about? Nymphs had vanished during the Industrial Revolution, and the dryads had been decimated by deforestation shortly after that. There was even a conspiracy theory that the dryads had been responsible for the plague that had wiped out a big chunk of humanity forty years ago. If so, it had sort of worked. The forests were returning, and eighty-year-old trees were again becoming common. Nymphs, though, were still missing. Sleeping, maybe?
And what about Daryl, anyway? A deluded nymph, Sylvan had said. A goddess, Daryl claimed. There were no gods or goddesses. Never had been, but there were documented histories of Inderlanders taking advantage of humans, posing as deities. He frowned. Her eyes were downright creepy, and he hadn’t liked demons being mentioned, either.
Jenks started, jerking when his chair moved. The breeze of four pairs of dragonfly wings blew the red dust of surprise from him, and he looked up to find four of his boys trying to move his chair with him in it. They were all grinning at him, looking alike despite Jumoke’s dark hair and eyes, in matching pants and tunics that Matalina had stitched.
“Enough!” Matalina called out in a mock anger, her feet in a shaft of light, a dusting rag in her hands, and a flush to her cheeks. “Leave your papa alone. There’s the girls’ things to be moved if you need something to do.”
“Sorry, Papa!” Jack said cheerfully, dropping his corner to make the chair thump. Jenks’s feet flew up, and his wing bent back under him. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Dust a little,” Jaul said, tangling his wings with J
ack’s, and Jack dusted heavily, shifting as he pushed him away. “The fairies will think you’re dead,” he finished, sneezing.
“Come and carry you away,” Jumoke added, his wings lower in pitch than everyone else’s. It made him different, along with his dusky coloring, and Jenks worried, not liking how Vincet had looked at him as if he were ill or deformed.
Jake just grinned, his wings glittering as he hovered in the background. Apart from Jumoke, they were the eldest in the garden now, as fresh-faced and innocent as they should be, strong and able to use a sword to kill an intruder twice their size. He loved them, but it was likely this would be the last spring they’d help the family move. Jack, especially, would probably find wanderlust on him this fall and leave.
“Go do what your mother said,” he grumped, grabbing four sweetballs from the bowl beside him and throwing them to each boy in turn. “And keep your sugar level up! You’re no good to me laid flat out in a field.”
“Thanks, Papa!” they chorused, cheeks bulging. It kept them quiet, too.
Matalina came closer, smiling fondly as she shooed them out. “Go on. After the girls’ room, find the big pots and fill them. Check for cracks. I’m soaking spider sacks tomorrow for the silk. They’ve been in the cool room all winter. If we’re not careful, we’re going to have a hatching. I’m not going to make your clothes out of moonbeams, you know.”
“Naked in the garden is okay with me,” Jumoke mumbled, and Matalina swatted him.
“Out!”
“Remember what happened the last year?” Jaul said, his words muffled from the sweetball as they headed for opening.
“Webs everywhere!” Jack said, laughing.
“Yeah, well you’re the one that moved the sacks into the sun,” Jumoke said, and they were gone, the dust from them settling in a glowing puddle to slowly fade.
“How else was I going to win the bet as to when they were going to hatch?” came faintly from outside the desk, and Jenks chuckled. It had been an unholy mess.
Slowly their voices vanished, and Jenks watched Matalina’s expression, gauging her mood as she smiled. Wings stilling, she walked across the varnished oak wood to settle next to him, their wings tangling as she snuggled in against him. Slowly their mingling dust shifted to the same contented gold.
“I can’t wait to get back into the garden,” she said, gazing at the pile of laundry across the room. “I’ll admit I don’t like moving day, but I’ll not set myself to sleep like that again with the fear of guessing who might not wake up with me in the spring.” Reaching to the bowl, she deftly twisted a sweetball into two parts and handed him half. “You’re quiet. What’s got your updraft cold this morning?”
“Nothing.” Setting his half of the sweet back in the bowl, he draped his arm over her shoulder, moving his thumb gently against her arm. Remembering the smell of the newlings, he dropped his gaze to her flat belly, not swelling with life for more than a year now. His wish for sterility might have extended her life—but had it also made her last years empty?
Setting her sweetball aside as well, Matalina shifted from him, pulling out of his reach to sit facing him. “Is it the pixy that you and Bis went into Cincinnati to help? I’m proud of you for that. The children enjoy watching the garden when you’re gone. They feel important, and they’ll be all the more prepared when they’ve a garden of their own.”
A garden of their own, he thought. His children were leaving. Vincet’s children were so young. His entire adult life was before him. “Mattie, do you ever wish for newlings?” he asked.
Her eyes fell from his, and her breath seemed to catch as she stared at the piles of clothes.
Fear struck Jenks at her silence, and he sat up to take her hands in his. “Tink’s tears. I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I thought you didn’t want any more. You said . . . We talked about it . . .”
Smiling to look even more beautiful, Matalina placed a fingertip to his lips. “Hush,” she breathed, leaning her head forward to touch his as her finger dropped away. “Jenks, love, of course I miss newlings. Every time Jrixibell or any of the last children do something for the first time, I think that I’ll never see the joy of that discovery on another child’s face, but I don’t want any more children who won’t survive a day after me.”
Worried, he shifted closer, his hands tightening on hers. “Mattie, about that,” he started, but she shook her head, and the dust falling from her took on a red tinge.
“No,” she said firmly. “We’ve been over this. I won’t take that curse so I can have another twenty years of life. I’m going to step from the wheel happy when I reach the end, knowing all my children will survive my passing. No other pixy woman can say that. It’s a gift, Jenks, and I thank you for it.”
Beautiful and smiling, she leaned forward to kiss him, but he would have none of it. Anger joining his frustration, he pulled away. Why won’t she even listen? Ever since he’d taken that curse to get lunker-size for a week, his flagging endurance had returned full force. It had fixed his mangled foot and erased the fairy steel scar that had pained him during thunderstorms. It was as if he was brand-new. And Mattie wasn’t.
“Mattie, please,” he began, but as every other time, she smiled and shook her head.
“I love my life. I love you. And if you keep buzzing me about it, I’m going to put fairy scales in your nectar. Now tell me how you’re going to help the Vincet family.”
He took a breath, and she raised her eyebrows, daring him.
Jenks’s shoulders slumped and his wings stilled to lie submissively against his back. Later. He’d convince her later. Pixies died only in the fall or winter. He had all summer.
“I need to destroy a statue,” he said, seeing the clean wood around him and imagining the dirt walls Vincet was living between, then remembering the flower boxes he and Mattie had raised most of their children among. He was lucky, but the harder he worked, the luckier he got.
“Oh, good,” she said distantly. “I know how you like to blow things up.”
His mood eased, and he shifted her closer to feel her warmth. Pixies had known how to make explosives long before anyone else. All it took was a little time in the kitchen. And a hell of a lot of nitrogen, he thought. “By tonight,” he added, bringing himself back to the present, “to help free a dryad.”
“Really?” Eyeing him suspiciously, Matalina popped her half of the sweetball into her mouth. “I ’ought ’ay were cut ’own in the great deforestation of the eighteen hundreds. ’Ave they emigrated in from Europe?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But this one is trapped in a statue, existing on energy right off a ley line instead of sipping it filtered from a tree. He’s been slipping into Vincet’s children’s minds when they sleep, trying to get them to break his statue.” He wasn’t going to tell her the dryad had accidentally killed one. It was too awful to think about.
Matalina stood, rising on a burst of energy to dust the ceiling. “A city-living dryad?” she murmured, cleaning wood that would lay unseen for months if Rachel continued her pattern and avoided her desk even after they vacated it. “Tink loves a duck, what will they think of next?”
Jenks reclined to see if he could see up her dress. “Blowing it up isn’t the problem. See, there’s this nymph,” he said, smiling when he caught a glimpse of a slim thigh.
She looked down at him, her disbelief clear. Seeing where his eyes were, she twitched her skirt and shifted, eyes scrunched in delight even as she huffed in annoyance. “A nymph? I thought they were extinct.”
“Maybe they’re just hiding,” he said. “This one said something about waking up. She was having a hard time breathing through the pollution.” Until she came after us.
Flitting to the opening in the desk, Matalina shook her rag with a crack. “Hmmm.”
“She’s got this goddess . . . warrior vibe,” he said when Matalina returned to the ceiling. “Mattie, the woman is scary. I think if I get the dryad free, the nymph will follow him and leave Vincet i
n peace.”
Again Matalina made that same doubt-filled sound, not looking at him as she dusted.
“Freeing the dryad is the only way I can help Vincet,” Jenks said, not knowing if Matalina was unsure about Sylvan or the nymph. “He’s only been on his own for a year, and he has three children and passel of newlings. He’s done so well.”
Matalina turned at the almost jealous tone in his words, the pride and love in her expression obvious. “You were nine, love, when you found me,” she said as she dropped to him, her wings a clear silver as they hummed. “Coming from the country with burrs in your hair and not even a scrap of red to call your own. Don’t compare yourself to Vincet.”
He smiled, but still . . . “It took me two years to be able to provide enough for Jax and Jih to survive,” he said, reaching up to take her hand and draw her to him.
His wife sat beside him, perched on the very edge of the couch with her hands holding his. “Times were harder. I’m proud of you, Jenks. None has done better. None.”
Jenks scanned the nearly empty desk, the sounds of his children playing filtering in over the radio talking about the freak tornado that had hit the outskirts of Cincinnati last night. Not wanting to accept her words, he pulled her to sit on his lap, tugging her close and resting his chin on her shoulder and breathing in the clean smell of her hair. He could have done better. He could have given up the garden and gone to work for the I.S. years sooner. But he hadn’t known.
“You need to help this family,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “I don’t understand why you do some of the things you do, but this . . . This I understand.”
“I can’t do it alone,” he said, grimacing as he remembered Daryl controlling the wind, taking the very element he lived in and turning it against him.
“Wasn’t Bis a help?” she asked, sounding bewildered.
Jenks started, not realizing what his words had sounded like. “He was the perfect backup,” he said, his words slow as he remembered almost being squished, and then Bis’s frantic flight in the streets. “He’s no fighter, but he yanked my butt out of the fire twice.” Smiling, Jenks thought he couldn’t count how many times he’d done the same for Rachel. “I’d ask Rachel to help,” he said, “but she won’t be home until tomorrow.”
