by Kim Harrison
“Crap on toast,” he muttered, then blinked, wondering when—on the coast-to-coast excursion he’d been on with Rachel—that he’d picked that up.
“Let’s go, cookie maker,” Jenks shrilled, but leaning against the counter, Trent pulled his melted shoes off and tossed them back into the fire. “Come on!” the pixy shouted, and Trent ran a hand over his ash prints on the hearth, then wildly looked for something to hide behind. There was nothing, and plucking a pan that had to weigh at least fifteen pounds from a rack, he made a dash for the only door to the place, his sock feet slipping on the smooth slate.
“No, here!” Jenks exclaimed as he hovered before an industrial-looking freezer door.
Trent skidded to a stop. “You’re kidding.”
“It’s a pantry!” Jenks said, hovering as he made a “get-in” gesture. “A root cellar. Come on! I wouldn’t make you hide in a Tink’s frozen titties freezer.”
He ran, bringing the pan with him. Heart pounding, he yanked the locking pin out and slipped inside, not looking in the tiny, thick window first. Breathless, he eased the door shut as the voices became loud. Jenks hummed in satisfaction as Trent leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, relishing the cool damp of the clearly temperature controlled room. Damn, that had been close.
“Sorry, I should have told you about the pantry earlier,” Jenks said, hovering so that just his head was showing through the window, in effect, an invisible watcher.
“You think?” Trent said sarcastically. How Rachel did this for a living was beyond him. To be honest, though, she didn’t break into millionaires’ estates very often—unless you counted the times she’d broken into his.
The smell of mushrooms pulled his eyes open, and as the woman’s muffled voice complained of the elaborate precautions this last week, he looked over the racks of roots and tubers, baskets of apples, and bottles of wine—and row upon row of jars of organic baby food.
Trent looked at his watch, panicking. He’d planned to get her at her late-morning feeding, and now he was standing in the very place that they were going to be coming into!
“She’s not old enough for creamed peas yet,” Jenks said dryly, not turning from his spying at the window. “Chillax, dude. I wouldn’t point you to a bad hiding spot.”
Chillax? Trent thought as his emotion soured into disgust, not liking that the pixy could read him so well. Had he told him to chillax?
“We got three people in the kitchen,” he said, then waved Trent off with a rude clattering noise when he leaned to the window to see. “You can hear the woman. She’s about Rachel’s age, I think. You all look alike to me unless you have wrinkles. Man, that girl doesn’t stop complaining. She looks athletic, though. Definitely not your average nanny. She’ll take you out if the other two don’t. Guns, uniforms, attitudes.” Jenks looked at him, grinning. “Should be fun.”
The knot in his gut eased, then tightened right back up. It had been a miracle to have gotten here in time. It would take another to find Lucy and escape. Twenty minutes, he thought, glancing at his watch. It would be over in twenty minutes. Give me the strength to succeed, and I will die trying to be the man my father wasn’t. It was frightening because he believed it. He had to.
“Okay, we’re down to one guard,” Jenks said, still hovering at the window, gazing out as if it was TV. “The big guy went back into the hall. I think the woman told him to leave. Dude, that is one bitchy nanny.”
Trent fingered his doppelgänger charm, tucking it into the sleeve of his biking suit for quick retrieval. He had to have more control, less anger. More control led to less damage, less need to kill anyone. The pantry had a lock. Once he knocked the guard out, he could shove him in here and be done with it. The woman would go down under the sleep charms. He only needed ten minutes to finish this, a lifetime in the art of child abduction.
Taking a breath, Trent reached for the handle.
“What do you need for your glamour?” Jenks said as he turned, still hovering before the window. “Hair? Rachel always needs hair.”
Lips parting, Trent hesitated. “Ah, yes,” he stammered, then glanced through the window to see the woman with her back to him, warming up a bottle on the stove. “I was going to get it when I down the man.”
Jenks’s dust turned gold, and the pixy raised one eyebrow, his head cocked and his hands on his hips. “And then what? Convince the woman you knocking him out was a bad dream? Wait here. I can get you a hair.”
Trent carefully opened the door a crack, and Jenks slipped out, immediately darting up to the tall ceiling.
“—driving me batty,” the woman was saying, the pitch of her voice making her in her late twenties and having a brain in her head. She was indeed athletic looking as she stood before the industrial stove with her hands on her hips and watched the thermometer, appearing as if she would know as many ways as Quen to take out someone. “Dust the lightbulbs, Megan,” she said in a nasally falsetto. “I can smell the dust burning. Adjust the temperature of the room, will you, Megan? The baby feels warm. Megan, fetch my laptop. I need to check my portfolio and see if I have enough to buy that island I’ve been wanting.” The woman snorted, cranking the gas higher until it nearly ran up the sides of the warming pot. “I am not her personal slave. I am a nanny, and she needs to leave me the fuck alone!”
Trent bit his lip, trying not to laugh as the man with her was. He had overheard similar complaints from his staff until Ellasbeth had had enough and left—taking his unborn child with him.
His smile faded, and he turned his attention to the guard as Jenks dropped straight down and plucked a hair from his shoulder, continuing to fall to the floor where he skimmed above the slate and under the open, stainless steel counters on wheels. The man never even heard him.
Trent’s heart beat twice, and Jenks slid into the pantry before a silver-lined streak of dust.
“You’d better hurry,” the pixy said, his eyes bright and eager as he dropped the hair into Trent’s waiting grasp. “That milk is almost at the right temp.”
Trent flicked the tiny vial of prepared charm open with his thumb, the soft pop of the plastic making him jump. Carefully he angled the short black hair into it, resealed the vial, and shook it.
“You’re not going to drink that, are you?” Jenks said as he landed on a jar of mashed sweet potato, his wings stilling as he gave Trent a dubious look.
“No, thank God.” Touching his hat for reassurance, Trent closed his eyes to mumble the traditional ancient elf plea, then hesitated. Exhaling, he dropped his head, feeling unsure. He had called upon the gods they no longer believed in hundreds of times, but now . . . to do so casually felt . . . risky. I am here, he thought simply. Judge my actions sound.
Teeth clenched against the expected pain, he tapped the line, wincing. His eyes were still shut, and he heard Jenks take wing. Panting, he finished the incantation that actually made the spell work, the vial tight in his grip. He opened his eyes, finding Jenks watching.
“You don’t look different,” the pixy said, and Trent nodded, moving creakily as he popped the top of the vial again. He was still connected to the line, and moving hurt.
“It’s invoked,” he breathed. “Just not implemented.” As Jenks checked the window, Trent dabbed some of the potion on his hat, then moistened the entirety of the ribbon before replacing it around his neck.
I do this for my child. I do this for me, he thought, and the tingle of the line seemed to settle through his aura. Faint in the back of his mind, he thought he heard a satisfied chuckle. It was done. Finished, he dropped the line, sagging in relief as his headache vanished.
“Hey, she’s pouring it into a bottle,” Jenks said from the window, then he whistled, catching sight of him. “Holy toad pee in a bucket!” he exclaimed, darting up and down as he took in the changes. “You even look like you’re wearing his clothes! That’s slicker than—”
“Snot on a frog, yes,” Trent interrupted him, grinning at his apparent success. He didn’t l
ook any different to himself, but clearly it had worked. He was going to pay for this later with a string of bad luck. He knew it, even with his promise to suffer and dance for the amusement of the ancient elf gods. The last time he’d used wild magic this heavily, he’d ended up freeing an insane demon. Too bad he was going to have to do it again tomorrow.
Jenks met him, grin for grin. “Okay, I’m impressed. It’s a good thing that there’re no pixies on the premises. You might look like Harold, but your aura is off.” And without another word, he put both feet against a baby food jar and shoved it off the counter.
Horrified, Trent jumped, adrenaline pounding through him as he stared aghast at the laughing pixy. “What the hell are you doing!” he said with a hiss, glancing at the window. The door only muffled sound; it did not cut it off.
Wings a blur, Jenks gazed out the tiny window. “I’m helping! The guy is coming. Hit him, and walk out. It doesn’t get any easier than that, cookie maker.”
Realizing he was right, Trent flung himself to stand beside the door, snatching up the pan he had brought in with him. My God, he was down to beaning people with kitchen pans, but it probably wouldn’t kill him. Containment. Minimalization of effect. Palms sweaty, he adjusted his grip on the heavy pan. He might not need the charms for the woman at all. Jenks was thinking better than he was.
“It’s probably a rat,” the woman was saying as the door cracked open and Trent tensed. Maybe he should have used the sleep potion instead. This was going to make some noise.
“Hi there!” Jenks said cheerfully, and the man peering in through the door looked up, his eyes widening. His mouth opened, and Trent reached to yank the man inside.
Feet stumbling, the man spun, but Trent was already swinging, and the pan met his forehead with a clang. His eyes rolled, but he wasn’t out, and Trent struggled to hit him again as the man blocked it, falling to the floor stunned but fighting.
“Harold?” the woman called, and Trent got a grip on him, clamping his arm around his neck in a sleeper hold.
“Tell her it’s a rat and to stay out,” he whispered, and the man grunted.
“Tell her, or I’m going to stab your eyes out,” Jenks added, hovering before the suddenly frightened man.
“Ah, it’s a rat!” the man warbled, his terrified eyes fixed to Jenks’s bared sword. “D-Don’t come in! I’ve got it cornered. I’ll be out in a sec.”
“Don’t count on it,” Jenks whispered, grinning evilly.
“No kidding?” the woman said, and Trent tightened his grip. The man choked, his fingers digging into Trent’s arm as he fought for air, crashing into the shelves and sending jars of baby food that would never get eaten shattering against the floor. Jenks darted to the ceiling, and Trent hung on, feeling as if he was breaking an unruly horse as the man flung them into the walls, produce, everything . . . until he slowly lost consciousness and stopped moving.
At the window, Jenks motioned for him to hurry up. Trent let go, shoved the man off him, and stood. Shaking, he brushed at the baby food and potato dust. “Got it,” he said, trying to match the man’s voice, then snatched the guard’s hat off the floor. Jenks tucked in under it as he put it on his head, sliding in between Trent’s own cap and the bigger hat from Harold. Trying to catch his breath, Trent looked down at the slumped man. A flash of memory of the forest intruded: sunshine, birdsong, blood upon the fern. His fingers twitched, reaching for the knife.
Please don’t lead me astray, he thought, agonizing over his decision. It would be easy. It would be sure. To leave him as he was might lead to his own death. To trust an ancient elf goddess was inane! She wasn’t real! The only real thing here was if he was caught, he would die and his species would fight another thousand-year-war only to die with him.
But then his hand closed into a fist. He needed to hope that miracles could happen; otherwise he would lose all chance that he could find a way to be who he wanted, who his daughter needed.
“Did you get it?” the woman called, and Trent reached for the pan on the floor, ignoring Jenks’s questioning hum.
As Jenks hovered uncertainly, Trent hit the guard once more for good measure, the reverberation echoing all the way up his arm to his spine. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled. Tossing the pan to the floor, he staggered out.
Time to get his daughter and get out of here.
FOUR
The young woman stood with her back to the counter, a warmed bottle in her hand and her arms crossed over her chest. “Well,” she said sourly. “Did you get it?”
Heart pounding, he smiled his best sheepish expression and nodded. His voice wasn’t disguised. He’d heard Harold speak; he knew he couldn’t match it.
“That’s what I thought,” she said, pushing herself up with a slow wariness. “I’m not cleaning that up. Let’s go. Ms. Tight-ass is probably itching to leave. That woman is driving me crazy.” She was headed for the door, and Trent adjusted his hat to cover his ears, wincing when Jenks swore at him. “You don’t wake up a baby to eat,” the woman complained, arms swinging casually. “And then Tight-ass wonders why she won’t go to sleep. You can’t set a baby’s schedule; you work around hers!”
His knees were quivering as he got to the heavy doors, opening one for her. He wanted to blame it on the exertion of thirty miles on a bike, half a mile in the cliff tunnel . . . and all of it when he should be sleeping, but he knew it was excitement and fear. His daughter.
“Thank you, Harold,” the woman said, hesitating briefly before she went out into the hall.
“Mmmm,” he muttered, dropping his head as her eyes ran from the top of his borrowed cap to his bare feet, hopefully covered by his glamour. A spike of tension snaked through him when, for an instant, he thought she could see beyond it, but then she turned away, hips swaying as she went into the hall.
He exhaled heavily as he followed her, hearing it mirrored by Jenks sandwiched between his cap and the guard’s borrowed hat. A soft clearing of his throat pulled his gaze up to the four guards waiting for them, pistols on one hip, ley line charms on another. “Assume the position, Megan,” the shortest man said, a hand on the butt of his pistol, a half smile on his face.
“Shove it. You know it’s me,” the woman, Megan apparently, said, her smart-ass attitude doing more than anything else to ease Trent’s pounding heart. “If you try to frisk me one more time, I’m going to pull your balls off and make Princess-Cries-A-Lot a rattle.”
Megan turned on a heel, shocking Trent as she looped her arm in his. “Besides, they caught the guy, right?” she said, jauntily walking them down the tiled, whitewashed hall.
The men jumped to follow, two hustling to get in front of them, two behind. The ceilings were low and made of darkly varnished timbers. Painted stone walls threw back the echo of the men’s boots and the soft scuffing of Megan’s shoes. There were no windows, but wall sconces illuminated everything in a soft, comfortable glow between the closed doors made of thick wood, varnished as dark as the ceiling.
“I’ll be glad after tomorrow,” Megan chatted as they walked, and Trent wondered if Harold and Megan had a little thing going as she squeezed his arm and smiled up at him. “This is insane. Guards in the hallways and escorts everywhere . . . I really appreciate you being my assigned guard. I hate picking work buddies.”
Trent shrugged, trying to hide that he was feeling the first hints of a cold sweat breaking out. He’d never seen so many elves together before, even at his own botched wedding. His jaw was clenched, and he forced himself to relax as Megan gave him a sidelong glance at his continued silence. They were all West Coast elves with their straw-yellow hair smelling faintly of salt. His father had always taken time to remove that particular human tag when tweaking damaged genomes, wanting to preserve what he could of their true beginnings. There were lots of special camps scattered around the United States tending to the elves’ stagnant population, and though the mechanisms and techniques to repair the demon-wrought damage came from his father, the artistry varied, e
specially west of the Mississippi.
Megan kept up a running commentary as the hallways widened, branched, and began to take on the feel of home and comfort, the occasional chair and table set at the increasingly numerous windows that opened up to ocean views. The walls were three feet thick, with wide billowing drapes moving in the free-flowing wind coming in through spell-protected windows. He could hear Jenks muttering, memorizing the layout as he peered through the grommet holes in Harold’s hat. Trent was starting to think that they might actually be able to do this without killing anyone else when they made a sharp series of turns and found the nursery door. At least, Trent assumed it was the nursery. What other room would have six men guarding it?
All six men came to a threatening attention as his group approached, and Megan’s chatter cut off. “Hired help,” Jenks whispered. “Mercenaries. This is your dragon, elf man.”
Worry pinched his brow as he estimated the damage he was going to have to do to get past them with a baby in arms if there wasn’t a window in the nursery. Smoothing it away, Trent cleared his throat, pulling his arm from Megan as they came to an uneasy halt. He tried not to look at the featureless door. His child was beyond it. He would find a way.
“Identification?” the one closest to the door barked, and Trent’s back stiffened. Blast it all to hell . . .
Megan sighed, her lips tight as she pulled a card from around her neck and offered it to the man, her motions slowly belligerent, an ugly squint to her eye. Saying nothing, the man ran a scanner over it, handing it back when it beeped.
Trent’s pulse quickened. His badge was still in the kitchen around Harold’s neck, presumably. There were ten men and one woman within earshot, probably more within thirty seconds from this spot. He had only his questionable sleep potions, and who knew who was behind that door with his child. He was not going to start his parenthood by killing his daughter’s mother if Ellasbeth was there. The Goddess, if there was one, was laughing at him.