Into the Woods: Tales From the Hollows and Beyond

by Kim Harrison

  “Harold?”

  He felt Jenks shift under his cap; clearing his throat in a negative sound, Trent shuffled forward, feeling his pants as if looking for it.

  “Oh God,” Megan moaned, standing with her hip cocked. “Please don’t tell me you dropped your pass? I bet you lost it in the kitchen killing that rat.”

  “Rat?” The man with the portable scanner met Megan’s eyes, then Trent’s. Eyebrows high, he reached for the two-way on his belt.

  It was getting out of control, and Trent tensed. “Ah-a-a-a,” he muttered, talking more to Jenks than the man with the scanner. He couldn’t take this many people down, even with Jenks’s help. He might be able to escape, but he wasn’t leaving without his daughter. He could go back and get the pass. Maybe duck out of sight and send Jenks. He was faster.

  He met the man’s eyes, trying to look sheepish. Putting a hand in the air as if asking for him to wait, he started to back up. The man with the scanner frowned, his eyes flicking behind Trent as if telling the guards to stop him. Trent’s fingertips began to tingle even as he forced his shoulders to slump, trying to look harmless. The man before him was the biggest threat. He would go down first. If he could get his pistol, he might be able to take three more down before the rest reacted. Perhaps not. They seemed immune to violence, even Megan.

  The click of the door opening shocked through him, and his attention jerked to the nursery along with everyone else’s. Around him, the guards pulled themselves together as if for a superior they had no respect for—reluctantly and with sour glances. A sliver of stone floor and white walls showed beyond the door, and then it was eclipsed as Ellasbeth strode through, looking more frazzled and tired than he’d ever seen her.

  Trent shifted to a halt, his bare feet silent on the cold floors. His expression carefully blank, he studied her, this woman who had promised they would bring the elves back to greatness together, then stole both the technology and his child that would bring it about. His hands were clenched, and he opened them. Megan was watching him.

  Ellasbeth’s yellow hair was pulled back into a ponytail, something he’d never seen before. It made her look younger, more vulnerable, and with her height and natural athleticism, he was reminded of the professional women’s volleyball team he’d once met. She had a degree in nuclear transplantation, but she looked more like a student than the professor she was. No makeup marked her, and she looked better for it, even if her green eyes were tired and droopy. It was nearing noon, a time when elves would be napping if they had a choice, but he thought her tired look was due more to the stresses of having a new baby than lack of sleep.

  She was wearing cream-colored pants and a matching suit coat as if it were a casual Friday—like she would ever unknot her emotions enough to partake in one. If her expression was even halfway pleasant, he might feel guilty for what he was about to do, but only anger filled him—anger at her lack of understanding, anger at her inability to see beyond her immediate self, anger she had embarrassed him in front of Cincinnati’s elite by walking out on him at their wedding, giving him an ultimatum that he had no immediate control over, anger at himself that he was jealous she was doing what she wanted, not sacrificing all for the betterment of their species.

  Trent fought to keep his anger out of his eyes as he dropped his gaze to her tiny feet, wrapped in an elaborate silk and bamboo fabric instead of shoes. It was all the rage, from what he understood, something to make the feet look even smaller, but he didn’t understand the appeal. Swallow the anger, he thought. It won’t help you now.

  “Ixnay on the at-ray,” Megan whispered from the side of her mouth as the tired woman beckoned the man with the scanner to her. “I’ve got a day off tomorrow, and I’m not spending it hunting for vermin!”

  “Good, you’re here,” Ellasbeth said curtly, her narrow nose in the air as if she smelled something rank as she looked them all over. “I was hoping I’d find you lazing about in the hall. Megan, Lucy is asleep, but do wake her up to give her a bottle. I want her to go down this afternoon after her mental stimulation period, and she simply won’t if you don’t wake her up now.”

  Mental stimulation? Is that her word for playtime? Trent thought, edging toward Megan.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Megan said politely. “Is Mrs. Withon here yet?”

  Ellasbeth looked down the breezy hall. “No, but I’m sure you can handle it until she arrives. I’m going to be busy the rest of the day with my guest.”

  That would be me, Trent thought, thinking his ploy with the radio was paying off handsomely. They were probably still looking for them, then.

  “I’m sure I can,” Megan said sourly, half under her breath, and Ellasbeth turned, her motion to leave halted with a severe abruptness.

  “Excuse me?”

  The men surrounding them stiffened, and Megan smiled politely. “Of course, ma’am.”

  Ellasbeth eyed her, clearly having heard the first comment. Trent looked past her and the still-open door into the softly lit room, his pulse quickening and his feet itching to move. He was going to see his daughter.

  “Go on, get in there,” Ellasbeth said as she gestured. “Both of you. I’ll be happy when I can get rid of all of you tomorrow. None of you are worth the salt that runs in your veins.”

  “Ma’am . . .” the man with the scanner said, his eyes flicking to Trent’s, and Ellasbeth glared at Megan and Trent, still standing next to her.

  “What are you waiting for? God to say go?” Ellasbeth barked. “Get in there! She’s alone!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Megan said, looking neither left or right as she smartly walked past Ellasbeth. Trent, too, made for the door, giving the scanner man a shrug as he entered. It was obvious that he wasn’t happy about not seeing that scrap of paper that was still around Harold’s neck, but he clearly didn’t have the authority to countermand Ellasbeth’s petulant demands.

  Or perhaps he didn’t care, Trent thought as he turned in the doorway to give Ellasbeth one last look. The man with the scanner was wearing an ugly expression. Ellasbeth was already twenty feet down the hallway, her feet silent in her silken wrappings and her nose in the air. Her rapid but shuffling pace hesitated as if feeling his eyes on him, and Trent slipped inside and shut the door before she could turn.

  The soft sounds of the distant ocean and the wind rushing through the monastery were cut off with a shocking suddenness, replaced by a warm, moist air carrying the strains of classical guitar. After the chill breezes in the hallway, it felt stuffy, and Trent scanned the twenty-by-twenty featureless room without looking as if he was. It was clearly an outer chamber of some sorts, the whitewashed walls empty and the floors bare. Megan showed her ID again to an older, somewhat overweight man sitting on a folding chair next to an open archway. Beyond it was a darkened room.

  Trent’s pulse hammered, and Jenks stomped on his head until Trent looked away from the open doorway, putting his hungry gaze on the floor as he tried to hide his growing excitement. He hadn’t been expecting a nursery guard, and he wanted to save his questionable sleep charms for getting out of here. Trent grimaced, remembering his promise to not respond with a fatal force unless necessary. Why was it always necessary?

  “Hi, Harold,” the old man in the chair said, casually gesturing him forward. “It’s stupid, but I need to see your ID.” His eyes rolled, going to the camera in the corner as he sighed.

  Trent’s jaw clenched. Even better. Someone was watching. There was no lock on the door, and even if there was, there was no other way out of here. The room had no windows, and his explosive gum wouldn’t work on three-foot-thick walls. Even if he put this man down, someone would be alerted and be in here in seconds.

  “I got this,” Jenks whispered, and Trent blinked, remembering Rachel telling him that Jenks was a camera expert.

  It took all his boardroom polish to keep a casual smile as he approached the man in the chair, trying not to shiver as Jenks tugged at Harold’s hat and slipped out at the nape of Trent’s neck, t
ickling him. “Yeah, ah, here,” Trent said softly, trying to cover the sound of Jenks’s wings in the empty, echoing room. Fortunately Megan had gone into the nursery, and the lights were slowly brightening as she woke Lucy up as naturally and as slowly as possible.

  He didn’t want to meet his daughter screaming in fear at the sound of another man dying. Perhaps he should use one of the sleep potions. The man was old and deserved his respect.

  Digging in his pocket for one as if it was his badge, Trent watched the man’s eyes dart over his shoulder, widening as they went to the camera in the corner. His gaze came back to Trent, alarm in them as he reached for his pistol. He’d seen Jenks.

  Damn.

  “We’re good!” Jenks said, his voice muffled, and Trent moved.

  The older man was rising, his hand fumbling at his holster, and Trent sprang forward to meet him, flipping the top to the sleep potion vial as he went. It splashed across his startled expression, and then the man’s eyes rolled back.

  “I’m sorry, old man,” Trent said, easing him to the floor, his jaw clenched. He had one charm left. One. And he wasn’t sure how long the one he’d used would even last.

  “We’re on a loop,” Jenks said as he zipped down from the corner, clearly cheerful in that he’d been needed. “I’ll check out the nursery before you go in.” Hovering over Trent’s shoulder, he put his hands on his hips and looked down. “That was fast.”

  “You had better not have killed Bob,” Megan said, and Jenks swore, darting up to the ceiling.

  Trent rose as well, backing up with his hands raised as he eyed her smart-looking pistol. It could be one of those splat guns that Rachel was so fond of, but he doubted it. “He’s not dead.”

  Megan’s harsh expression eased, and she motioned for Trent to move away from the downed guard. “I thought you were Kalamack,” she said, then flicked her weapon again. “You should have come last night. The night nurse isn’t as good as me. Ribbon off. Hat too. And if I feel you tap a line, I’m going to plug you. Move!”

  Motions slow, he pulled the ribbon from his neck, and Megan’s eyes ran him up and down in appreciation as the charm went with it and he looked like himself again. Her grip on her weapon tightened, and she lifted her chin to point at the hat. Disgusted, he took that off too, letting both ribbon and hat drop to the floor. It was official. He was without magic, such as it had been. Trent made fists of his hands, frustrated. “What gave me away?” he asked, seeing Jenks slip into the nursery. Lack of magic or not, this wasn’t over.

  “You stink like fireplace and strained peas, and I could hear your bare feet on the tile even though it looked like you were wearing boots. You didn’t take a pan in with you into the pantry, but I heard someone get hit with one. Harold thinks I’m a foulmouthed harlot, and you opened the door for me and let me hold your arm. Did you kill him?”

  Shaking his head, Trent realized why the woman had made him walk with her. She was still going to go down, but now it would be harder. One potion left. The trick would be how to get it out of his belt pouch. He wasn’t going to kill her. Trent’s heart thudded.

  “You got me,” Trent said, ears straining for any sound from Jenks. “Why did you wait?”

  Megan knelt beside the old man, never taking her eyes from him or her aim wavering. “There’s a five-million-dollar reward for the person who catches you,” she said, motioning him to move to the other end of the room before she felt for a pulse. “I don’t like to share.”

  Trent thought of the ten men in the hallway, probably down to six again. In here, though, there was only two, and she clearly cared for the old man. “Ah, I normally abhor people trying to hire my help from under me,” he said, pitching his voice low, “but would you consider putting that pistol down and coming to work for me for a ten-million bonus?”

  The woman smiled, her weapon’s aim never shifting. “Tempting, but I wouldn’t survive to spend it. The hands-off agreement you and Ms. Tight-ass have extends to Lucy, not people who you steal with her. Over there where I can see you. By the wall.”

  “I understand.” Tension pulled him tight, making his motion smooth as he moved to the far wall away from the nursery. “If we were talking about anyone other than the Withons, I’d tell you I could offer adequate protection, but you understand I can’t.” Jenks was looking at his daughter. It was enough to drive him insane.

  Finally the woman glanced down, her fingers touching the guard’s jugular for a pulse.

  Trent lunged, his eyes widening as the gun she was pointing at him went off with a soft puff. Twisting wildly, he tried to evade the potion pellet headed right for him, but he was too close. He wasn’t going to make it. Grimacing, he tapped a line and tried to set a circle, but his bruised neural net sent a pulse of agony through him, and it flickered and died before it formed.

  “Got it!” Jenks shouted gleefully, a bright streak of silver darting between them. His silver trail jerked sharply to the right as he snagged the splat ball in midair, turning the woman’s five-million-dollar smile of satisfaction to one of shock.

  Twisting, Trent landed wrong, his ankle giving way with a ping of pain as he fell on his side, his gut clenched so he wouldn’t knock the air out of himself.

  “Damn bug!” the woman hissed in anger, and Trent scrambled to his knees, lunging for her ankle, foot, anything to yank her off balance as she swatted at Jenks, merrily bating her at the ceiling.

  “He is not a bug!” Trent said between clenched teeth, gaining a handhold on a shapely, long-muscled leg and giving a yank.

  The woman made a muffled yelp, and fell backward, her arms flailing and gun going off again to make a wet splat on the ceiling. Jenks darted under her falling form and away, the unbroken splat ball rolling slowly from where he’d left it.

  “Son of a bitch!” Megan said as she hit the floor and brought her hands together, aiming her gun at Trent.

  Heart pounding, Trent knelt where he was, his hands in the air, then jumped when Jenks landed on his shoulder, smelling of wind and sunshine. “Wait for it . . .” the pixy said, clearly in a good mood as he pointed at Megan with his bared sword.

  “If you made me wake up that baby . . .” she snarled, and then her face lost all expression and her arms fell, spell pistol hitting the tile with a knuckle-bruising thunk. With a sigh, the woman went unconscious, the splat ball she had fallen upon finally breaking and the potion touching her skin.

  Jenks’s laughter sounded like chimes as he darted off Trent’s shoulder to make a victory dance on the woman’s nose. Trent slowly got up and dusted off his biking tights. Slowly he put his weight on his ankle, wincing. He could walk on it, but running full out might be a problem.

  “That was so sweet!” Jenks said as he stood on her nose and did the happy-pixy dance. “We downed her with her own splat ball. Zip bang! She’s out. Rachel would laugh her ass off.” He stopped moving, his expression going more serious as he saw Trent mincing over to pry the gun out of her fingers. “Thanks for drawing her fire.”

  Drawing her fire? Sure, that’s what I’d been doing. “No problem.” Trent opened the hopper. He didn’t know how many splat balls were in there. Enough, maybe. Aiming down, he shot her twice more in the gut. Then he turned to the downed guard and did the same again. Earth magic wouldn’t last long in the salty air, but three charms each ought to give him at least five minutes.

  Jenks had risen back up into the air at the first puff from the gun, and he hovered beside Trent as they both looked down at the sleeping people. “So get your kid and let’s get out of here,” the pixy said, and Trent’s breath caught.

  His head turned to the dark archway, and his knees became rubber.

  “Well, go look!” Jenks prompted. “I’ve got the cameras all on loops, and I’ll keep watch out here. I can tell when the sleeping beauties here are going to wake up, and by their auras, they’re down for at least two minutes.”

  Two minutes, Trent thought, eager to see his daughter, but then the handle of the door turned
. Every last iota of his cool vanished as if it never existed. Panicking, he lunged to the door, scooping up his ribbon and cap before putting his back to the wall. Jenks darted to the ceiling. The bodies of Megan and Bob lay askew on the floor. There was no help for it. His heart pounded, and he raised Megan’s gun. There had to be a Goddess—only the divine would get entertainment from this, making him think he had a chance, then piling even more impossible odds before him.

  The gun felt warm in his hands, and remembering the six guards outside, he held his breath as Mrs. Withon entered.

  The woman stopped short at the bodies on the floor, and Trent grimaced, knowing it was over. Jenks chirped his wings softly, and her eyes went up, a mix of delighted recognition followed quickly by fear crossing her face as she saw and recognized the pixy—then Trent.

  “Please come in and close the door,” Trent whispered, cocking the gun. “Call them if you have to, but I want to talk to you alone first.”

  The woman stiffened, but she kicked the door shut with her foot, only turning to Trent when it latched shut. For a moment she was silent, and Trent’s resolve stiffened as the older woman looked him up and down, unknown emotions flitting across her face. “Are they dead?” she asked, her voice tight and her eyes never shifting from his to the gun.

  “No. There is a third in the pantry. I’m sorry about the man in the field. I was careless.”

  Ellie took a slow breath, her narrow shoulders easing slightly. Her back to the door, she could have them all in here in a second if she wanted to. Trent doubted she would, though. Most of the magic texts in his library originally came from here, and slowly he dropped the gun’s aim. He would have to win this by guile, the one elven art he had practiced all his life.

  The refined woman looked nothing like Ellasbeth, standing almost eight inches shorter, dressed in cool shades of gray and silver that matched her fair hair, wispy and thin, exactly like Trent’s, exactly like his mother’s. “Have you seen her?” she asked, afraid and proud.