Into the Woods

by Kim Harrison

  “No beggars,” he whispered.

  “Well, a few,” I said, abruptly seeing the street in an entirely different way. “But they’re probably at the square, partying.”

  Pierce pulled our joined fingers up, mine almost blue from the cold. “I can’t keep communing with—ah, pulling a line through you,” he said softly. “I’m not one born in the woods to be afraid of an owl, yet to save that child with only my fists I expect is a fool’s errand. Do you know . . .” He hesitated, attention flicking from a truck slushing past and back to me. “Do you know a witchy woman or man I might procure ley line charms from?”

  “Oh!” I said brightly, determined to keep up with him though my chest was starting to hurt. Of course he’d need something, seeing as he couldn’t tap a line himself. “The university’s bookstore has an entire floor of ley line stuff. I’m sure they’ll have something.”

  “Magic studies? In the university?” he asked, and I nodded, my free arm swinging. But a frown creased his brow, and leaning to me, he whispered, “I would prefer a smaller shop if you know of it. I don’t have even a stick to barter with or a . . . card of credit,” he added hesitantly, as if knowing he hadn’t gotten the words in the right order.

  My eyes widened. “I don’t have much money either. Cab fare, is all.”

  Pierce took a deep breath and exhaled. “No matter. I will suitably impress upon the proprietor my desperate need.” His chin rose and a defiant gleam entered his eyes as we continued forward. “I will beg. If they are honorable, they will help.”

  Beg, eh? I thought, fully believing he would get down on his knees before the night manager at the university bookstore, who would promptly throw him out, not pleased to be working on the solstice. “I’ve a better idea,” I said, praying my mom would go for it. My dad’s stuff was in the attic. I knew my mom wouldn’t be happy, but the worst thing she could do was say no. Edging us to the curb, I searched for a cab. “I’ll take you home,” I said, leaning into the street in the universal language of cabbies. “You can look over my dad’s old ley line stuff. He worked for the I.S. He probably has something.”

  Pierce drew me back from the curb, and I blinked at him, surprised. His expression was pinched as he stood in the puddle of streetlight and falling snow, elegant in his long coat and shiny new boots. “Miss Rachel, no. I’m not of a mind to endanger you anymore. I’ll escort you home, then go alone to the university. If there are learned men there, they will assist me.”

  I winced, imagining all Pierce would find right now would be half-drunk students and solstice parties. “Good God, Pierce,” I said, when a passing cab saw us standing there and did a U-bangy. “I’m the one that got you involved. Lighten up.”

  “But—” he said, and I twined my fingers more surely into his as the cab pulled up.

  “I’m involved. You’re not getting rid of me, so get used to it.”

  Pierce’s grip tightened on mine, and then he relaxed. “Thank you,” he said, and in those two words, I saw how lost he was. He had until sunrise to save both the girl and his soul, and I was the only one who could get him through this nightmare that I lived in.

  SIX

  The cabbie drove away from my house slowly, the sound of his car muffled from the piled snow. In the Hollows there would be bonfire parties and neighborhood howls, but here, on my street, it was quiet. Pierce’s steps were almost silent next to mine as we left prints on the walk to the porch. It had stopped snowing, and I looked up at the red-bottomed clouds through the cold, black branches of the maple tree I had planted for my dad upon his death. My throat closed and I touched the tree in passing. I was glad he was at rest, but it would have been nice to have had him back again as solid as Pierce was—even if just for the night.

  Pierce hung back as I went up the three cement steps and twisted the knob to no avail. “My mom must be out,” I said, swinging my bag around to look for my keys. The porch light was on, and her prints showed where she had gone to the garage and not come back. Maybe some last-minute shopping? Maybe down to the I.S. tower to pick up Robbie? I had a bad feeling it was the latter.

  “This is a very beautiful house,” Pierce said, facing the neighborhood and the bright lights and snowmen keeping guard.

  “Thanks,” I said as I dug in my jeans pocket for my house key. “Most witches live in the Hollows across the river in Kentucky, but my mom wanted to live here.” Finding my keys, I looked up to see a faint bewilderment in his gaze. “Both she and my dad were in high school during the Turn, and I think she likes passively making trouble when she can get away with it—like living in a predominantly human neighborhood.”

  “As is the mother, so the daughter?” he said dryly.

  My key was warm, and I slipped it into the lock. “If you like.”

  Only now did Pierce come up the steps, giving the street a last look before he did.

  “Mom?” I called when I opened the door, but I knew from the dull glow of light in the hall coming from the kitchen that the house was empty. Glancing at Pierce on the threshold, I smiled. “Come on in.”

  Pierce looked at the gray slush on his boots. “I’m not of a mind to soil your rugs.”

  “So stomp your feet,” I said, taking his arm and pulling him in. “Shut the door before you let all the heat out.”

  The shadow of the closing door prompted me to flick on the hallway light, and Pierce squinted at it. I hated the green color my mom had painted the hallway and living room. Pictures covered the passage to the kitchen: pictures of me and Robbie, slices of our lives.

  I glanced back at Pierce, who was still staring at the light but clearly making an effort to not say anything. I hid a smile and wondered how much longer his efforts to not look impressed would win out over his curiosity.

  “You have so many rugs,” he finally said, following suit as I stomped my feet.

  “Thanks,” I said, and I shuffled out of my coat.

  His eyes finally hit the walls, and he reached out. “And photographs. In color.”

  “You’ve seen pictures?” I asked, surprised, and he nodded.

  “I’ve had my picture taken,” he said proudly, then reached out. “This is you? It’s beautiful,” he said in awe. “The expression the artist captured is breathtaking. None of God’s landscapes has ever looked so beautiful.”

  I gazed at the picture he was touching in reverence and then away with mixed feelings. It was a close-up of my face among the fall leaves, my eyes as green and vivid as all creation, my hair bringing out all the shades of autumn clustered about. I had just come back from a stint at the hospital and you could see that I was ill by my pale complexion and thin face. But my smile made it truly beautiful, my smile I had given to my dad as the shutter snapped, thanking him for the joy we had found in the simple pleasure of the day.

  “My dad took it,” I said, looking away. “Come in the kitchen,” I said, wiping my eye when I noticed it was damp. I was supposed to die before him, not the other way around.

  “I don’t know how long my mom will be out,” I said loudly, hearing his steps behind mine. “But if we can get what we need and leave, it will be all the better. Forgiveness being easier to get than permission . . .”

  Pierce entered slowly, hesitating by the laminated table and taking in the ticking clock, the cold stove, and the double-pan sink as I dropped my coat and bag onto my chair. “You and your mother are alone?” he asked.

  Surprised at the amount of wonder in his voice, I hesitated. “Yes. Robbie is visiting from the West Coast, but he goes back next week.”

  His deep blue eyes came back from the ceiling. “California?”

  “Oregon.”

  Pierce looked again at the cold stove, undoubtedly guessing its use from the pot of solstice cranberry tea on it, now scrummed over and cold. “Your mother should be commended for raising you alone.”

  If he only knew how often it was the other way around. “She should, shouldn’t she,” I said, going to the coffeemaker and peeking into the f
ilter to find unused grounds. “You want some coffee?”

  Taking off his coat, Pierce draped it carefully over a chair. He checked his nonexistent tie, then moved his arms experimentally as if taking in how warm it was. “I’m of a mind, yes, but does our limited time allow for it?”

  I flipped a switch and the coffeemaker started. I kind of liked his extra words. It made him sound classy. “Yup. You want to help me with the attic?”

  Without waiting for an answer, I went down the other hallway to the rest of the house, Pierce right behind me. “That’s the bathroom there,” I said as we passed it. “My room is at the end of the hallway, and my mom’s is across from it. Robbie has the front room, though it’s more of a storage room, now.”

  “And the servants are in the attic?” he asked as I halted under the pull-down stairs.

  “Servants?” I asked, gaping at him. “We don’t have any servants.”

  Pierce looked as surprised as I felt. “But the rugs, the photos, the warmth of your home and its furnishings . . .”

  His words trailed off as his hands spread wide in question, and I flushed when I got it. “Pierce,” I said, embarrassed. “I’m totally middle class. The closest I’ve ever come to having a servant is winning a bet and having Robbie clean my room for a month.”

  The man’s jaw dropped. “This is middle class?”

  I nodded, stretching up for the pull cord and putting my weight on it. “Most of the city is.” The trapdoor barely moved, and my arms gave out. It snapped shut with a bang, and I dropped back down on my heels, disgusted.

  Pierce smoothly took the cord and stepped under the door. He wasn’t much taller, but he had more muscle. “I can do it,” I said, but my arms were trembling, and I backed up while he swung the ladder down like it was nothing. But then again, it was.

  Pierce looked up into the inky blackness spilling cool air down onto us, jumping when I flicked on the light.

  “Sorry,” I said, taking advantage of his surprise by pushing past him and up onto the ladder. “I’ll be right back,” I said, enjoying the cooler air up here smelling of wood and dusty boxes. The shush of a passing car from outside sounded odd and close. Arms wrapped around me, I looked over the past boxed up and piled haphazardly about, like memories in a person’s brain. It was only a matter of knowing where a thought was and dusting it off.

  My eyes lit upon the stack of carefully labeled tomato boxes that had my stuffed animals. A faint smile came over my face, and I stepped over the Halloween decorations to touch a dusty lid. I must have had about two hundred of them, all collected during my stints in and out of the hospital. I had counted them my friends, many taking on the names and personalities of my real friends who never made it out of the hospital that one last time. I knew my mom wanted them gone, but I couldn’t throw them away, and as soon as I got my own place, I’d take them with me.

  I lifted the first one and set it aside to find the box hiding under them. It was my dad’s, tucked away lest my mom throw it out in a fit of melancholy. Some of his best stuff. I dug my fingernails into the little flaps to get a grip, grunting when it proved heavier than I thought. God, what had I put in here, anyway?

  “Allow me,” came Pierce’s voice from my elbow, and I spun.

  “Holy crap!” I exclaimed, then covered my mouth, feeling myself go red. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were up here.”

  Pierce’s shock at my language melted into almost laughter. “My apologies,” he said, and I shifted to let him to lift the box with enviable ease. “I like attics. They’re as peaceful as God’s church. Alone and apart, but a body can hear everything. The past stacked up like forgotten memories, but with a small effort, brought down and enjoyed again.”

  I listened to the cold night and smiled. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Watching my footing, I followed him to the stairway. He took the box from me and gestured that I should go before him, and, flattered at the chivalry, I did. My shoulders eased as the warmth of the house slipped over me, and I stood aside when Pierce lightly descended. He handed me the box to fold the ladder back up, but he hesitated at the bare bulb, still glowing in the attic. Without glancing at me for permission, he carefully pushed the light switch down.

  Of course the light went out. A delighted smile came over him, and much to his credit, he didn’t play with the switch but shoved the collapsible ladder closed and back into the ceiling. I watched his eyes travel over the lines of it as he did, as if memorizing how it worked.

  “Thank you,” I said as I went before him, back into the kitchen with the box.

  The coffeemaker was gurgling its last, and Pierce looked at it, undoubtedly figuring out what it was from the rich scent that had filled the kitchen. “If that doesn’t cap the climax,” he said, almost missing the table as he took the box from me and set it down. “It made itself.”

  “I’ll get you some,” I said as I hustled to the cupboard. It smelled great as I poured out two cups and I handed him one, our fingers touching. He smiled, and something tightened in my chest. God, I am not falling for him. He’s dead. But he did have a nice, mischievous smile.

  “I hope I’m not making a mistake drinking this,” he said. “How real am I?”

  I shrugged, and he took a sip, eyeing me over the rim to make my breath catch. God, he had beautiful eyes.

  His eyebrows shot up, and jerking, he started to violently cough.

  “Oh, golly,” I said, remembering not to swear as I took the cup from him before it could spill. “I’m sorry. You can’t drink, huh?”

  “Strong,” he gasped, his blue eyes vivid as they watered. “Really strong.”

  I set his cup down and took a sip of mine. My mouth tried to pucker up, and I forced myself to swallow. Crap, my mom had filled the filter, and the coffee was strong enough to kill a cat. “Don’t drink that,” I said, taking his cup and mine to the sink. “It’s terrible.”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  I froze as he caught my hand. I turned, feeling his light but certain grip. A slow quiver rose through me, and I stifled it before it could show as a tremor. I was suddenly very aware that we were here alone. Anything could happen—and as the moment hung, his silence and almost-words ready to be whispered that he was having thoughts, too—I nearly wished it would. He was different. Strong but unsure. Capable but lost. He knew I had been ill, and he didn’t baby me. I liked him. A lot, maybe. And he needed my help. No one had ever needed my help before. No one. Especially someone as capable and strong as him.

  “It’s undrinkable,” I said when I found my voice, and he took his cup from me.

  “If you made it, it’s divine,” he said, smiling like the devil himself, and I felt my heart thump even as I knew he was bullshitting me.

  His fingers left mine, and my presence of mind returned. I wasn’t a fainting debutante to fall for a line like that, but still, to have a man drink nasty coffee to impress me was way flattering. My eyebrows rose, and I wondered how far he would go. I had half a thought to let him drink the nasty stuff.

  “Why thank you, Pierce,” I said, smiling. “You are a true gentleman.”

  I turned to open the box, looking over my shoulder in time to see him staring into his mug with a melancholy sigh. Ten to one he was going to spill it, but there was an entire pot to refill his cup with.

  The dust made my nose tickle as I unfolded the flaps. A slow smile spread over me as I looked at the stash and saw my dad everywhere. He’d made many of his own ley line charms for work, and being home sick most of the time, some of my earliest memories were of him and me at the table while the sun set and he prepped for a night on the street apprehending bad guys. I had my crayons, he had his chalk, and while I colored pixies and fairies, he’d sketch pentagrams, spill wax in ley line figures, and burn all sorts of concoctions to make Mom wave her hands and complain about the smell, secretly proud of him.

  Smiling distantly, I ran a hand over my hair, remembering how it would snarl up from the forces that
leaked from his magic as he explained a bit of lore while he worked, his eyes bright and eager for me to understand.

  The soft scrape of Pierce setting his cup down by the box jerked me from my memories, and my focus sharpened. “Is there anything here you can use?” I asked, pushing it closer to him as we stood over it. “I’m more of an earth witch. Or I will be, when I get my license.”

  “Miss Rachel,” he said lightly, his attention on the box’s contents as his calloused fingers poked around, “only a witch of some repute can summon those at unrest, and only those of unsurpassed skill I expect can furnish them a body.” A faint smile crossed his eyes. “Even one as transient as this one.”

  Embarrassed, I shrugged one shoulder. “It wasn’t all me. Most of the energy came from the collective emotions of everyone at the square.”

  “And whose idea was it to work the charm at the square?” he said, taking out a handful of metallic disks and pins and discarding them into an untidy pile.

  I thought back. It had been mine to go to the concert and use the emotion to help strengthen the curse, but Robbie’s to use the square’s instead. “Robbie’s, I guess.”

  Pierce held a charm up to the light. “Ah,” he said in satisfaction. “This I can use.”

  I looked at the thick silver washer with its pin running through it. Apart from a few ley line inscriptions lightly etched on it, the charm looked like the ones he’d set aside. “What is it?”

  The man’s smile grew positively devilish. “This likely bit of magic is a noisy lock picker,” he said, then set it beside his cup of coffee.

  “Noisy?”

  Pierce was again rummaging. “It makes an almighty force to jolt the door from its hinges,” he said lightly.

  “Oh.” I peered into the box with more interest and held the flaps out of his way. It was like looking into a box of chocolates, not knowing which ones were good until you took a bite.

  A pleased sound escaped Pierce, and he held up another charm, his fingertip running over the symbols etched into it. “This one senses powerful magic. Perhaps it’s still working?”