Into the Woods (47 page)

He took several more steps, the chill deepening about him. The walls had been chiseled to a bumpy smoothness, and the floor even more so. The way sloped upward as expected, going only a few feet until it turned and his light struck on bare rock. The dampness from the nearby waterfall made him wrinkle his nose. That there was no guard struck him as suspicious, and he breathed deeper for the scent of elves, finding nothing but that thick, cloying scent of crickets.

“Crap on toast, where’s the guards?” Jenks said as he hummed in, his silver dust a temporary sunbeam pooling on the floor. “I don’t smell any sign of anyone being here. Ever.”

Trent took another step forward, his thoughts on their timetable. Finding the sharp turn, Trent played the light over the ceiling and floor, nose wrinkling. It smelled worse.

Jenks darted ahead past Trent’s penlight. Suddenly he pulled up short and drew his sword, sputtering as he waved it about. “Spiderwebs,” he said in disgust, and Trent stiffened.

Spiderwebs?
“Jenks. Get back here!”

A good fifteen feet down the passage, Jenks hovered in the middle of the tunnel, a bewildered expression on his face. “It’s a web,” he said. “A real one, at that. Not sticky silk.”

Beady eyes stared at him from beyond Jenks, never blinking. Trent fumbled for the radio he’d taken from the man in the bathroom.

“Hey!” Jenks shouted, darting up as Trent threw it past him. As the radio hit the wall and fell, a palm-sized spider, furry and arms wiggling, fell with it. “Holy shit!” the pixy exclaimed, darting back to him as three more spiders scuttled out from the shadows, descending upon their injured companion to rip him into unequal pieces. “What the Tink-blasted hell are those?”

Stifling a shudder, Trent panned his light over the ceiling. “Poisonous. Hold on a sec.” Tucking the penlight under an arm, he unzipped another pocket in his belt pack. He tore open the small package, and steam began to rise as chemicals in the outer package mixed and generated heat. The scent of beef stew mixed with the smell of dead crickets to make his stomach turn, and he tossed the bag to slop against the floor.

It’s probably the motion they respond to, rather than the smell of the food
, he thought as a dozen spiders of all sizes converged, fighting as they each claimed a portion and retreated to the shadows.

“That is uglier than a shit sandwich,” Jenks said, not having moved from his shoulder.

“We haven’t seen the matriarch,” Trent cautioned, not moving as a spider the size of a salad plate crept out of the darkness, moving slowly as it came to sit on the largest hunk of meat. Shaking his head in disgust, Trent started to edge around them, Jenks pressed close to his neck. He’d never thought he’d ever see them, especially not an entire self-sustaining colony.

“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, and 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?”