Into the Woods: Tales From the Hollows and Beyond

by Kim Harrison

  “I hope you brought more din-din than that,” Jenks said as they passed the last one, and Trent breathed easier, shuddering as he turned his back and paced forward, his light swinging in a predictable arch: floor, walls, ceiling.

  “They have a very narrow temperature and light preference,” Trent said softly, realizing why there were no guards at this end of the tunnel. “A few more feet in, and we’ll be fine. I hate to say it, but they’re a genetically modified spider that my father came up with before he moved out east. It was his doctoral thesis.” And then a modified virus destroyed the world, and genetic research was outlawed. Trent’s thoughts shifted back to the spiders; he began to see a sliver of wisdom in it.

  “Nice,” Jenks said sarcastically, still on his shoulder. “Hey, you don’t have any of these in your garden, do you?”

  “They must survive on whatever stumbles in,” he said, ignoring Jenks’s question. “That’s why no animal scat or guards. It smells better now, don’t you think?”

  Jenks’s wings hummed to make a draft on Trent’s neck, but he didn’t fly away. “You, ah, don’t have any of these, right?” he asked again, and Trent only smiled. Leave the pixy guessing.

  A bright dust spilled down Trent’s front, and seeing no more webs, Jenks took to the air, his wings doing as much as Trent’s light to illuminate the tunnel. “Okay, killer spiders. Check. What do you have for the guards at the other end?”

  Frowning, Trent checked his watch. Maybe he should chance running some of this. He could use a warm-up. “I’ve got a doppelgänger glamour,” he said, ducking a low spot. Which might be harder than anticipated if I can’t tap a line.

  Jenks sighed so heavily that Trent could hear him. “Pixy pus, Trent. Why are you doing this?” he said, gesturing to include the narrowing tunnel. “You’re risking your life, everything you and your family worked for. Couldn’t you and Ellasbeth have come to some sort of joint custody thing instead of Elven Death Quest 2000?” The pixy shivered, a shade of green briefly joining the silver sparkles sifting down to show where they’d been. “Not that I’m not having a fun time here and all with the spiders.”

  Trent’s smile faded, and he pushed himself into a faster pace, hunched as he fought both the rising incline and the lowering ceiling. “Ellasbeth didn’t tell me Lucy existed, even after her birth. I found out through a mutual ‘friend.’ ”

  It had been Lee, and the anger he’d felt at the time rushed back, as bright and shiny as the day he’d found out.

  “You sure she’s yours?” the pixy said dryly, and Trent eyed him. “Sorry. Okay, you’re bitter. I get that, but what are you going to do if we get in there, and she’s holding the baby? You’re not going to kill her. Right?”

  As Trent tightened his grip on the light, his thoughts went to the sleep charms in his pack. “Of course not,” he said, but it took longer than it should for the words to pass his lips. “Lucy is my child as much as hers, and Ellasbeth won’t share. Believe me, I tried.” A chunk of harder rock made a curtain of pink and red, and he slipped around it, having to turn sideways. “It’s not just Lucy, it’s the voice of the people that Ellasbeth won’t let go of.”

  The tunnel past the rock curtain was smoother, and he picked up the pace, the light bobbing wildly. “You lost me,” Jenks said, a stable spot of light flying beside him.

  The weight of the cliff pressed down on his thoughts more than he had anticipated. “Lucy is the first elf born without the demon curse destroying her genetic integrity. I would’ve given the cure freely, obviously, but Ellasbeth stole it, hoping that I’d not know about Lucy until it was too late.” Again the bitterness rose, thick and choking, and he carefully pushed it to the back of his mind to brood over later. Anger would cause him to make mistakes. He could be angry after it was over. “As the first elf born free of the demon curse, she represents our future. Whoever has custody of her will be listened to, and things need to change if we are going to survive the resurgence of our numbers.”

  Jenks frowned, his brow furrowed. “How can more babies be dangerous? I don’t get it.”

  “Neither does Ellasbeth,” he muttered, then took a breath to collect his thoughts as he jogged uphill. “No one likes a minority suddenly becoming prosperous. Especially the vampires,” he said softly, and Jenks’s dust shifted to a startled gold. “The more elves are born, the more obvious it will become what we are. Without a public species awareness, we will be divided and not survive the increased attention our rising numbers will bring.” That, and they needed the endangered species protection laws to keep the vampires from picking them off one by one as they had done to the banshees. “If Lucy remains with the Withons, nothing will change and we will die even as we are poised to recover. Besides,” he muttered, checking his watch, “if we come out of the closet, I won’t have to kill so many people.”

  For a moment, Jenks was silent, then he said, “You could just come out.”

  Trent nodded wearily, recalling the hours he’d argued this with Quen. “I could on a personal basis, yes, and I intend to, but no one will follow me unless . . .” Steps slowing, Trent aimed the flashlight deep into the rising tunnel. “I need to prove myself,” he said, embarrassed. “Not to myself, but everyone else. Everything I’ve done is on the coattails of my father.”

  Jenks’s wings were almost silent, and the pixy landed on his shoulder, clearly cold. “Elf quest. Right. I got that part. You have to steal a child before you can have one.”

  Trent shifted his head as he jogged forward, trying to see the pixy, failing. “No. That’s not it. You pixies have your own right of passage. If you can’t make it on your own, you die.”

  “Yeah,” Jenks said matter-of-factly, “but that’s because if we don’t, it’s because we’re stupid and shouldn’t pass on our genes.”

  A quick glance at his watch, and worry spiked through him, pushing him back into a faster pace. “Or unlucky. Stealing children is a tradition that once kept our species alive, rightfully abandoned when my father found a way to arrest the degradation of our genome. I’m not proud of it, but traditions die hard, and stealing an infant, especially a royal infant with extended protection, will prove to the remaining elves that I will see us all through the next hundred years or so.” He slowed, feeling the ground start to level out. There were cobbles worked into patches, and the ceiling was higher. Almost he could walk upright. They were close, and his fingers tingled. “It’s an assurance that my decisions will be made to benefit everyone else before myself, that I’ll risk my safety for the health of our species as a whole.”

  The image of the man dying in the woods flashed before him. And how considerate was it to tear Lucy from her mother and grandmother? He liked Mrs. Withon. Liked her a lot.

  A flush of guilt warmed him, and he slowed to a walk, breathing hard and legs aching from the angle of climb. What the hell was he doing here, forced to rob a cradle in order to see his own child?

  “Even if you have to kill someone to do it,” Jenks said as if reading his thoughts.

  Grimacing, he checked his watch again. Jenks was right. The agreement he had entered into had forced him to use ultimate resolutions. Perhaps he should grow up and call it what it really was—murder. He could’ve worked harder to arrange a joint custody, but he’d been angry with Ellasbeth. She hadn’t been thinking responsibly, either, and it was hard not to fight when both people feel betrayed. He needed to learn the art of setting his personal feelings aside. This could have been avoided. Somehow.

  Jenks’s wings hesitated, and Trent watched as the pixy dropped several feet, his dust seeming to flicker as he caught himself and rose back up again. “Listen!” he said in excitement, eyebrows arched high in the dim light. “Do you smell that? I’ll be right back.”

  Trent took a breath to stop him, but Jenks had darted off, and Trent changed his motion, stopping altogether and breathing deeply, ears straining. Nothing. But pixies were said to have the best senses in Inderland.

  The air felt warmer, a
nd figuring they’d found the end, he slipped a finger into his belt pack, finding his spelling ribbon and looping it around his neck, tucking it behind his collar and shirt. His cap was next, and he reached out to touch his consciousness to the nearest ley line, wincing as the energy flowed and his head felt as if it had been clamped in a vise.

  “Bless it back to the Turn,” he whispered, easing his hold on the slightly greasy feeling line tasting of broken rock and lightening until his headache eased. He could do the doppelgänger charm. Fast magic was out, but invoking the spell in his pocket was a definite possibility, even if it did hurt like hell.

  Relief cascaded over him, strong enough to make him feel foolish. Face reddening, he looked down at the cap and ribbon in his tight grip. He didn’t know if he believed in the Goddess his magic called on, even if he had seen what had to be her touch in his magic, felt her laugh at his clumsy attempts to achieve the impossible. There in the dark, buried by broken mountains and surrounded by shattered lines of power, he closed his eyes, desperate.

  Let me do this without killing anyone, he prayed, ribbon and cap in his hand. Give me the speed and surety in action to be merciful in deed. Give this to me, and I will . . . He hesitated, feeling within him a gathering of foreign will, a great eye among thousands turning to him in speculation and consideration. He didn’t know if it was real or imagined as his heart pounded, but he knew that despite what Quen said, the means did not justify the ends. If he won his daughter through a careless disregard of life, he would become what he most hated. Taking life was not damning; taking it carelessly and without respect was.

  Trent swallowed hard, his pulse hammering. Give me strength today, and I will strive to find within me the person who can be both, he thought, not sure what he meant, but it felt right—as if his promise to not give up on his foolish attempt to be two things was enough of a sacrifice—or amusement—for the trickster goddess his ancestors had both worshipped and called upon for their magic.

  Breath shaking as he exhaled, Trent opened his eyes, fingers trembling faintly as he looped the ribbon behind his neck and fixed the cap on his head. Something felt different, even if it was his imagination. Embarrassed again, he turned his penlight off and slipped it in his pocket. Again he touched the top of his head to reassure himself his cap was on, then strained to hear the slightest sound. His heart beat loud in his ears, and just when he had decided Jenks was in trouble, the pixy returned, his glow and wing clatter breaking the silent dark with the abruptness of a shot. A surprising relief spilled through Trent, and he steeled his expression.

  “No guard,” Jenks said, pulling up short as he realized the light was out. “But they don’t need one with the setup they have. It’s slicker than snot on a frog.” His attention flicked to Trent’s cap and ribbon. “You can do your magic now?”

  “More or less,” Trent hedged.

  “Huh,” Jenks snorted. “In my experience in working with you lunkers, more or less means I work more ’cause you’re less than up to it.”

  “I’m fine.” Frowning, Trent started forward.

  “Which means F’ed in extreme,” Jenks said, but he was laughing, making the sound of wind chimes in the pixy dust lit dark. “Seriously, just how heavily will you be leaning on me?”

  Annoyance flashed through Trent. Sensing it, Jenks slowed and his wing hum dropped in pitch. Trent stopped, wanting to explain but lacking the words. Jenks wasn’t a babysitter, which was the feeling Trent always had gotten from Quen. He’d proven to be an admirable help, dependable, resourceful, and best of all, not trying to change his plan but work within it. He was stupendous at his job, and it was obvious why Rachel put her trust in the pixy before anyone else.

  But trust came hard to him as well, and old guards fall slowly. Continuing to withhold information from Jenks in order to preserve a feeling of independence wasn’t only useless, but made him look bad. Shoulders slumping, he dropped his head. Jenks was waiting for him when he looked up.

  “You’re right,” he said, and Jenks’s dust flashed. “Ley line magic is going to hurt, but I can invoke the doppelgänger charm and possibly manage a burst of defensive magic in a pinch. Making a protective circle is out, seeing as my connection will be flimsy at best.”

  His dust sifting down brightening, Jenks nodded, his lack of a smart-ass comment clearly stating that he knew something had changed—and that he appreciated it. “Ten feet ahead is a wooden door with a narrow airhole to feed the fire with,” Jenks said, his voice stronger somehow. “There’s no lock. Once you’re through, you’ve got a three-by-three shaft with a ladder older than my grandmum’s underwear which leads to a tiny space behind the fireplace. You go through a slit, and you’re in the fireplace. It’s going, by the way. Big-ass fire made out of maple and oak. Are your tights fire retardant?”

  Trent winced. “To a certain point,” he said hesitantly, and Jenks smirked.

  “I’ll dust the fire down for you,” he offered, and again Trent was ashamed at how he had been thinking of Jenks as a tool, not an equal member. “They probably think the fire is enough of a guard since the kitchen is empty. There’s lots of people passing in the hall.” He hesitated as Trent adjusted his cap. “We’re still good to go, right?”

  Adrenaline zinged through him, and he thought of his promise, vowing to see it through. Then he thought of his private jet waiting on the tarmac. He wanted this to be over and he and Lucy on it in the worst way. “Yes. Thank you for the layout. It’s far better than what I had.”

  Jenks’s wings hit a higher pitch, and he darted toward the door like a glowing hummingbird. Trent followed, waving his dust aside and taking care not to disturb the tiny chunks of plaster since they were deep within the fortress and who knew what the Withons had listening. The escape tunnel was extremely clever. If it needed to be used, it’d be an easy matter to slip past a banked fire, then build the fire high to disguise the opening. By the time the fire had died down and someone thought to even look for the escape tunnel, the fleeing monks would be miles away. That’s not how they would be escaping, though.

  The glow of Jenks’s light dipped once and then held steady, and Trent winced as the tiny door materialized in his glow: three feet tall and two wide, with an elaborately carved latticework to allow for the passage of air. Jenks was sitting on the lintel and dangling his legs, his falling dust being pulled through the airholes. Crouching before it, Trent touched the wood to find it was warm. The fireplace was indeed in use.

  “The latch is a lever on top of the frame,” Jenks said, rising up to show him. “It’s stuck, but you could probably get it.”

  Trent’s fingers searched, and his eyes met Jenks’s when he felt the smooth warmth of iron snuggled into the door frame. If you didn’t know it was there, it would have been impossible to find. Together they smiled, and the adrenaline thumped through him in time with his heart. His thoughts darted back to his promise. Maybe he could do this without leaving death behind him. Maybe with a pixy’s help he could do what needed to be done, and not kill anyone.

  “Give me a sec to see if there’s anyone in the kitchen,” Jenks said as he took to the air. “The fire is going to flair when you open the door.” It went dark as he darted through the latticework, and Trent nodded, even though the pixy was gone. Almost immediately he was back, giving him a glowing thumbs-up through the latticework.

  Exhaling his tension, Trent worked the latch and slipped through. An unexpected billow of smoke eddied down the shaft, quickly dissipating as the natural flow of air was reestablished when he shut the door. Eyes smarting, he stood in the narrow shaft, looking up at the soft glow of firelight and the sound and smell of burning wood.

  “Hurry, before anyone comes back!” Jenks prompted from the top of the ladder, and Trent tentatively put his weight on the lowest rung. The oak felt old, but it was the rope holding it together that he was concerned about; holding his breath, he edged himself upward, trying not to shake or stress the bindings more than he had to.

&nbs
p; The heat grew with ever step. He was sweating by the time he reached the top and clambered into a narrow four-by-two room, solid rock on all sides, ceiling, and floor—except for the narrow one-foot slit that led to the back of the fireplace. An orange glow of heat poured through it, and Trent tried to breathe shallowly as Jenks sat on the top rung of the ladder and basked.

  “I got this,” he said as his wings hummed into invisibility and he lazed into the air. “I’ll shout when it’s safe. Don’t dawdle. It doesn’t last long.”

  Dawdle? Trent thought, pulling his hand back from the wall when he touched it and found it hot. He liked the warmth, but this was like a sauna turned death trap.

  The orange glow on the walls dimmed, and he moved to the slit, shoulders stiffening. “Now!” Jenks’s voice came faintly.

  “God help me, I’m trusting a pixy with my life,” he whispered, then plunged through, his back scraping. He stopped, shocked as he ran into the heat as if it was a wall. No wonder they hadn’t put a guard here. His toes were almost in the fire, the firebox not as large as the one in his great room, but large enough to put his desk into—and seemingly every inch of it was near the ignition point. The coals glowed dully, and the blackened wood smoldered under Jenks’s dust. On the far side of him, flames flickered still. Beyond the hearth was an industrial-looking kitchen with several cooking stations, bright lights, stone walls, and very high ceilings with ventilation slits among the waist-thick support beams.

  “Move your lily white elf ass!” Jenks shouted from the nearest stainless steel counter, and Trent jolted into motion.

  Hair lifting from the draft, Trent lurched over the chunks of smoldering wood, smelling his shoes start to melt. Grimacing, he leaped out of the firebox, landing on the raised hearth made of natural stone. Behind him, the fire whooshed upward, Jenks’s dust spent.

  “Jenks, that is as impressive as anything I’ve ever seen,” he whispered, dumbfounded and grateful as he watched the three-foot-high flames, feeling as if he had been baptized by fire. But then both his and Jenks’s heads came up at the noise in the hall—military steps and a woman’s voice raised in complaint.