Into the Woods: Tales from the Hollows and Beyond(101)
Author: Kim Harrison

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 f**k 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 look 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.