Into the Woods: Tales from the Hollows and Beyond(106)
Author: Kim Harrison

"Go look," she said, her eyes flicking to the doorway, and Trent’s unease increased. He glanced at Jenks, and the pixy shrugged.

"You first," he said, and the woman huffed, tugging her silken shawl over her narrow shoulders and stalking into the nursery, her back straight and proud.

Jenks dropped down as Trent looked at his hat and ribbon, then shoved them in the belt pack. "She’s planning something," Jenks warned, and he nodded, looking into the room as it brightened.

"I can’t shoot her," he said to Jenks. "The woman grew up with my mother! They loved each other like sisters. It’s bad enough I’m stealing her grandchild."

The pixy rose up, his eyes on the door to the hall. "I’ll keep watch out here. We’re going to have one hell of a run if we can’t use either of them as a hostage."

"I just need a west-facing window," Trent said, patting his belt pack. Time, time, he was running out of it.

From the nursery came Mrs. Withon’s somewhat irate, "Do you want to see her or not?"

Jenks grinned, wings clattering a silver dust. "I always liked Mrs. Withon," he said, darting off to sit upon the doorknob.

"Me too," Trent whispered, his smile nervously fading as he turned to the nursery. He hesitated at the archway, looking in at the smaller room with soft lights, hidden speakers, and smooth walls-probably wallboard over the natural stone. A desk sat to one side, the cooling bottle sitting on an open journal of dates and amounts. A baby scale was next to a changing station, and it smelled faintly of lavender. It was stuffy and warm, and there was nothing to look at on the walls, everything painted a sterile white-a prison until her third month ended completely and his narrow window of opportunity to steal her was gone.

Mrs. Withon stood beside a white crib, Lucy hidden behind bumper pads with a print of horses on them. Ellie looked up, her expression a mix of fear and determination. She was up to something.

Feeling as if it was a trap, Trent edged in. He leaned over the crib, his lips parting as his eyes warmed and he smiled.

His daughter lay sleeping fitfully, her tiny fists shoving her blanket off her as her face screwed up in what looked like petulant anger. Wispy blond hair framed her angular face, her eyes tightly shut as she fussed in her sleep, making tiny noises of frustration.

"Don’t touch her," Ellie whispered, her hands clamped possessively on the railing.

Trent’s lips parted, and he remembered to breathe. "You didn’t dock her ears," he said softly. He wanted to reach in, let her searching hand find his finger.

"It’s tradition to wait until everyone who needs proof has the chance to see that she is an elf and not a changeling," the woman said distantly. "Her ears will be docked now."

Trent looked up, hearing a hint of bitterness. She didn’t want Lucy’s ears docked. Ellie wanted them to come out of the closet, but the birth of Lucy had taken Ellie’s graceful political voice and granted it to her daughter because Ellasbeth could bear children and she could not. It was an old tradition created by a society obsessed with increasing their numbers, and it was no longer needed. He vowed to change it-if he had the chance.

He couldn’t leave Lucy here, and with a new determination, he reached to pick her up.

"No!" Ellie pulled his hand away, and Jenks darted in, hovering in the doorway.

Angry, Trent grabbed the woman’s hand, jerking her away from the crib. "That is my child," he said, holding both her wrists with one of his hands as the woman twisted within his grip, a faint warning of line energy rising between them as she glared fiercely. "I can take her now and what you want will be damned, but I want you to give her to me. I want you to give her to me, Ellie. That your voice be silenced simply because you can’t bear children anymore is inane and no longer needed when our numbers are balanced to grow. I want you . . . to give her to me."

Eyes wide, the woman hesitated, tense and thinking, worrying Trent more than if she had begun screaming for help or throwing curses. "She is my child, too," she said breathlessly. "What gives you any claim to her?"

Trent frowned, and anger filled him as he fought with his urge to look back in the crib, but he was afraid to glance away from Ellie. "Your daughter is a spoiled, belligerent brat who thinks of no one besides herself," he said bitterly. "I have sacrificed and risked my life to see that our species has a chance to survive, and I will again. Who do you want to raise this child? A self-centered woman who walks away from an agreement that will further our survival because it’s disagreeable? A woman who will teach her that the self is more important than the whole? Ellasbeth walked away. She left me and the way to bring our people back. This child and everything we were to accomplish in our lifetimes is mine by right. I don’t care what tradition says. Ellasbeth’s word is dross. I want you to give her to me."

"But she’s my granddaughter!" Ellie begged, tears swimming in her eyes.

His jaw tight, Trent shifted his grip on her wrists, the expression on her face prompting him to use both hands. "Ellasbeth can make more of her," he said bitterly. "Lucy is mine!" He hesitated, seeing that the older woman was nearly crying, even if she was angry. "We are still on the brink, Ellie. You know it. Lucy is worth dying for, but Ellasbeth doesn’t understand that. I do. Give her to me. I will see her safely out of here. She is a child, not a bargaining chip that can be sacrificed for someone’s pride!"

Ellie’s tormented gaze went from Trent to the open door to Jenks, his head cocked as he hovered over the crib and looked down.

"If not for me, then for my mother," Trent said, his hands easing from around the older woman’s wrists. "You know she hated hiding who she was as much as you do."

Ellie’s eyes came back to his as he let go. "You fight dirty."

Trent couldn’t help his nervous smile, but it faded fast. "And you could put me down with one spell-but you haven’t. Why?"

The woman stood before him, smelling of wind and surf, of cinnamon and wine, her shoulders slumping in defeat enough to make Trent’s breath catch in hope. "She has never smiled," she whispered, looking at the crib. "Her sleep is always restless," she added, her sorrowful eyes coming back to Trent’s. "Wake her," she commanded, and that same uneasy feeling slid through him. She was up to something. "Go on, wake her!" she said loudly, and Trent winced, even as he moved to the crib. "I want to see what happens."

See what happens? he thought. Was he to win an empire by a child’s laugh?

"Watch my back, okay?" he murmured to Jenks, and the pixy hummed an agreement. Trent gave one last look at the older woman standing against the wall, pensive and with her arms crossed before her, her jaw clenched and her eyes flashing in anger. But all his worry and fear slid from him as he looked into the crib, his own eyes warming as he smiled down at his daughter sleeping restlessly. He couldn’t help it. Her skin looked so smooth, her sleep so distracted. His shoulders eased, and he found he couldn’t bring himself to shake her awake.