"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, especially 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.

"Harold?"

He felt Jenks shift under his cap; clearing his throat in a negative sound, Trent shuffled forward, feeling his pants as if looking for it.

"Oh God," Megan moaned, standing with her hip cocked. "Please don't tell me you dropped your pass? I bet you lost it in the kitchen killing that rat."

"Rat?" The man with the portable scanner met Megan's eyes, then Trent's. Eyebrows high, he reached for the two-way on his belt.

It was getting out of control, and Trent tensed. "Ah-a-a-a," he muttered, talking more to Jenks than the man with the scanner. He couldn't take this many people down, even with Jenks's help. He might be able to escape, but he wasn't leaving without his daughter. He could go back and get the pass. Maybe duck out of sight and send Jenks. He was faster.

He met the man's eyes, trying to look sheepish. Putting a hand in the air as if asking for him to wait, he started to back up. The man with the scanner frowned, his eyes flicking behind Trent as if telling the guards to stop him. Trent's fingertips began to tingle even as he forced his shoulders to slump, trying to look harmless. The man before him was the biggest threat. He would go down first. If he could get his pistol, he might be able to take three more down before the rest reacted. Perhaps not. They seemed immune to violence, even Megan.

The click of the door opening shocked through him, and his attention jerked to the nursery along with everyone else's. Around him, the guards pulled themselves together as if for a superior they had no respect for-reluctantly and with sour glances. A sliver of stone floor and white walls showed beyond the door, and then it was eclipsed as Ellasbeth strode through, looking more frazzled and tired than he'd ever seen her.

Trent shifted to a halt, his bare feet silent on the cold floors. His expression carefully blank, he studied her, this woman who had promised they would bring the elves back to greatness together, then stole both the technology and his child that would bring it about. His hands were clenched, and he opened them. Megan was watching him.

Ellasbeth's yellow hair was pulled back into a ponytail, something he'd never seen before. It made her look younger, more vulnerable, and with her height and natural athleticism, he was reminded of the professional women's volleyball team he'd once met. She had a degree in nuclear transplantation, but she looked more like a student than the professor she was. No makeup marked her, and she looked better for it, even if her green eyes were tired and droopy. It was nearing noon, a time when elves would be napping if they had a choice, but he thought her tired look was due more to the stresses of having a new baby than lack of sleep.

She was wearing cream-colored pants and a matching suit coat as if it were a casual Friday-like she would ever unknot her emotions enough to partake in one. If her expression was even halfway pleasant, he might feel guilty for what he was about to do, but only anger filled him-anger at her lack of understanding, anger at her inability to see beyond her immediate self, anger she had embarrassed him in front of Cincinnati's elite by walking out on him at their wedding, giving him an ultimatum that he had no immediate control over, anger at himself that he was jealous she was doing what she wanted, not sacrificing all for the betterment of their species.

Trent fought to keep his anger out of his eyes as he dropped his gaze to her tiny feet, wrapped in an elaborate silk and bamboo fabric instead of shoes. It was all the rage, from what he understood, something to make the feet look even smaller, but he didn't understand the appeal. Swallow the anger, he thought. It won't help you now.

"Ixnay on the at-ray," Megan whispered from the side of her mouth as the tired woman beckoned the man with the scanner to her. "I've got a day off tomorrow, and I'm not spending it hunting for vermin!"

"Good, you're here," Ellasbeth said curtly, her narrow nose in the air as if she smelled something rank as she looked them all over. "I was hoping I'd find you lazing about in the hall. Megan, Lucy is asleep, but do wake her up to give her a bottle. I want her to go down this afternoon after her mental stimulation period, and she simply won't if you don't wake her up now."

Mental stimulation? Is that her word for playtime? Trent thought, edging toward Megan.

"Yes, ma'am," Megan said politely. "Is Mrs. Withon here yet?"

Ellasbeth looked down the breezy hall. "No, but I'm sure you can handle it until she arrives. I'm going to be busy the rest of the day with my guest."

That would be me, Trent thought, thinking his ploy with the radio was paying off handsomely. They were probably still looking for them, then.

"I'm sure I can," Megan said sourly, half under her breath, and Ellasbeth turned, her motion to leave halted with a severe abruptness.

"Excuse me?"

The men surrounding them stiffened, and Megan smiled politely. "Of course, ma'am."

Ellasbeth eyed her, clearly having heard the first comment. Trent looked past her and the still-open door into the softly lit room, his pulse quickening and his feet itching to move. He was going to see his daughter.

"Go on, get in there," Ellasbeth said as she gestured. "Both of you. I'll be happy when I can get rid of all of you tomorrow. None of you are worth the salt that runs in your veins."

"Ma'am . . ." the man with the scanner said, his eyes flicking to Trent's, and Ellasbeth glared at Megan and Trent, still standing next to her.

"What are you waiting for? God to say go?" Ellasbeth barked. "Get in there! She's alone!"

"Yes, ma'am," Megan said, looking neither left or right as she smartly walked past Ellasbeth. Trent, too, made for the door, giving the scanner man a shrug as he entered. It was obvious that he wasn't happy about not seeing that scrap of paper that was still around Harold's neck, but he clearly didn't have the authority to countermand Ellasbeth's petulant demands.

Or perhaps he didn't care, Trent thought as he turned in the doorway to give Ellasbeth one last look. The man with the scanner was wearing an ugly expression. Ellasbeth was already twenty feet down the hallway, her feet silent in her silken wrappings and her nose in the air. Her rapid but shuffling pace hesitated as if feeling his eyes on him, and Trent slipped inside and shut the door before she could turn.

The soft sounds of the distant ocean and the wind rushing through the monastery were cut off with a shocking suddenness, replaced by a warm, moist air carrying the strains of classical guitar. After the chill breezes in the hallway, it felt stuffy, and Trent scanned the twenty-by-twenty featureless room without looking as if he was. It was clearly an outer chamber of some sorts, the whitewashed walls empty and the floors bare. Megan showed her ID again to an older, somewhat overweight man sitting on a folding chair next to an open archway. Beyond it was a darkened room.

Trent's pulse hammered, and Jenks stomped on his head until Trent looked away from the open doorway, putting his hungry gaze on the floor as he tried to hide his growing excitement. He hadn't been expecting a nursery guard, and he wanted to save his questionable sleep charms for getting out of here. Trent grimaced, remembering his promise to not respond with a fatal force unless necessary. Why was it always necessary?

"Hi, Harold," the old man in the chair said, casually gesturing him forward. "It's stupid, but I need to see your ID." His eyes rolled, going to the camera in the corner as he sighed.

Trent's jaw clenched. Even better. Someone was watching. There was no lock on the door, and even if there was, there was no other way out of here. The room had no windows, and his explosive gum wouldn't work on three-foot-thick walls. Even if he put this man down, someone would be alerted and be in here in seconds.

"I got this," Jenks whispered, and Trent blinked, remembering Rachel telling him that Jenks was a camera expert.

It took all his boardroom polish to keep a casual smile as he approached the man in the chair, trying not to shiver as Jenks tugged at Harold's hat and slipped out at the nape of Trent's neck, tickling him. "Yeah, ah, here," Trent said softly, trying to cover the sound of Jenks's wings in the empty, echoing room. Fortunately Megan had gone into the nursery, and the lights were slowly brightening as she woke Lucy up as naturally and as slowly as possible.

He didn't want to meet his daughter screaming in fear at the sound of another man dying. Perhaps he should use one of the sleep potions. The man was old and deserved his respect.

Digging in his pocket for one as if it was his badge, Trent watched the man's eyes dart over his shoulder, widening as they went to the camera in the corner. His gaze came back to Trent, alarm in them as he reached for his pistol. He'd seen Jenks.

Damn.

"We're good!" Jenks said, his voice muffled, and Trent moved.

The older man was rising, his hand fumbling at his holster, and Trent sprang forward to meet him, flipping the top to the sleep potion vial as he went. It splashed across his startled expression, and then the man's eyes rolled back.

"I'm sorry, old man," Trent said, easing him to the floor, his jaw clenched. He had one charm left. One. And he wasn't sure how long the one he'd used would even last.

"We're on a loop," Jenks said as he zipped down from the corner, clearly cheerful in that he'd been needed. "I'll check out the nursery before you go in." Hovering over Trent's shoulder, he put his hands on his hips and looked down. "That was fast."

"You had better not have killed Bob," Megan said, and Jenks swore, darting up to the ceiling.

Trent rose as well, backing up with his hands raised as he eyed her smart-looking pistol. It could be one of those splat guns that Rachel was so fond of, but he doubted it. "He's not dead."

Megan's harsh expression eased, and she motioned for Trent to move away from the downed guard. "I thought you were Kalamack," she said, then flicked her weapon again. "You should have come last night. The night nurse isn't as good as me. Ribbon off. Hat too. And if I feel you tap a line, I'm going to plug you. Move!"

Motions slow, he pulled the ribbon from his neck, and Megan's eyes ran him up and down in appreciation as the charm went with it and he looked like himself again. Her grip on her weapon tightened, and she lifted her chin to point at the hat. Disgusted, he took that off too, letting both ribbon and hat drop to the floor. It was official. He was without magic, such as it had been. Trent made fists of his hands, frustrated. "What gave me away?" he asked, seeing Jenks slip into the nursery. Lack of magic or not, this wasn't over.

"You stink like fireplace and strained peas, and I could hear your bare feet on the tile even though it looked like you were wearing boots. You didn't take a pan in with you into the pantry, but I heard someone get hit with one. Harold thinks I'm a foulmouthed harlot, and you opened the door for me and let me hold your arm. Did you kill him?"

Shaking his head, Trent realized why the woman had made him walk with her. She was still going to go down, but now it would be harder. One potion left. The trick would be how to get it out of his belt pouch. He wasn't going to kill her. Trent's heart thudded.

"You got me," Trent said, ears straining for any sound from Jenks. "Why did you wait?"

Megan knelt beside the old man, never taking her eyes from him or her aim wavering. "There's a five-million-dollar reward for the person who catches you," she said, motioning him to move to the other end of the room before she felt for a pulse. "I don't like to share."

Trent thought of the ten men in the hallway, probably down to six again. In here, though, there was only two, and she clearly cared for the old man. "Ah, I normally abhor people trying to hire my help from under me," he said, pitching his voice low, "but would you consider putting that pistol down and coming to work for me for a ten-million bonus?"

The woman smiled, her weapon's aim never shifting. "Tempting, but I wouldn't survive to spend it. The hands-off agreement you and Ms. Tight-ass have extends to Lucy, not people who you steal with her. Over there where I can see you. By the wall."

"I understand." Tension pulled him tight, making his motion smooth as he moved to the far wall away from the nursery. "If we were talking about anyone other than the Withons, I'd tell you I could offer adequate protection, but you understand I can't." Jenks was looking at his daughter. It was enough to drive him insane.

Finally the woman glanced down, her fingers touching the guard's jugular for a pulse.

Trent lunged, his eyes widening as the gun she was pointing at him went off with a soft puff. Twisting wildly, he tried to evade the potion pellet headed right for him, but he was too close. He wasn't going to make it. Grimacing, he tapped a line and tried to set a circle, but his bruised neural net sent a pulse of agony through him, and it flickered and died before it formed.

"Got it!" Jenks shouted gleefully, a bright streak of silver darting between them. His silver trail jerked sharply to the right as he snagged the splat ball in midair, turning the woman's five-million-dollar smile of satisfaction to one of shock.

Twisting, Trent landed wrong, his ankle giving way with a ping of pain as he fell on his side, his gut clenched so he wouldn't knock the air out of himself.

"Damn bug!" the woman hissed in anger, and Trent scrambled to his knees, lunging for her ankle, foot, anything to yank her off balance as she swatted at Jenks, merrily bating her at the ceiling.

"He is not a bug!" Trent said between clenched teeth, gaining a handhold on a shapely, long-muscled leg and giving a yank.

The woman made a muffled yelp, and fell backward, her arms flailing and gun going off again to make a wet splat on the ceiling. Jenks darted under her falling form and away, the unbroken splat ball rolling slowly from where he'd left it.

"Son of a bitch!" Megan said as she hit the floor and brought her hands together, aiming her gun at Trent.

Heart pounding, Trent knelt where he was, his hands in the air, then jumped when Jenks landed on his shoulder, smelling of wind and sunshine. "Wait for it . . ." the pixy said, clearly in a good mood as he pointed at Megan with his bared sword.

"If you made me wake up that baby . . ." she snarled, and then her face lost all expression and her arms fell, spell pistol hitting the tile with a knuckle-bruising thunk. With a sigh, the woman went unconscious, the splat ball she had fallen upon finally breaking and the potion touching her skin.

Jenks's laughter sounded like chimes as he darted off Trent's shoulder to make a victory dance on the woman's nose. Trent slowly got up and dusted off his biking tights. Slowly he put his weight on his ankle, wincing. He could walk on it, but running full out might be a problem.

"That was so sweet!" Jenks said as he stood on her nose and did the happy-pixy dance. "We downed her with her own splat ball. Zip bang! She's out. Rachel would laugh her ass off." He stopped moving, his expression going more serious as he saw Trent mincing over to pry the gun out of her fingers. "Thanks for drawing her fire."

Drawing her fire? Sure, that's what I'd been doing. "No problem." Trent opened the hopper. He didn't know how many splat balls were in there. Enough, maybe. Aiming down, he shot her twice more in the gut. Then he turned to the downed guard and did the same again. Earth magic wouldn't last long in the salty air, but three charms each ought to give him at least five minutes.

Jenks had risen back up into the air at the first puff from the gun, and he hovered beside Trent as they both looked down at the sleeping people. "So get your kid and let's get out of here," the pixy said, and Trent's breath caught.

His head turned to the dark archway, and his knees became rubber.

"Well, go look!" Jenks prompted. "I've got the cameras all on loops, and I'll keep watch out here. I can tell when the sleeping beauties here are going to wake up, and by their auras, they're down for at least two minutes."

Two minutes, Trent thought, eager to see his daughter, but then the handle of the door turned. Every last iota of his cool vanished as if it never existed. Panicking, he lunged to the door, scooping up his ribbon and cap before putting his back to the wall. Jenks darted to the ceiling. The bodies of Megan and Bob lay askew on the floor. There was no help for it. His heart pounded, and he raised Megan's gun. There had to be a Goddess-only the divine would get entertainment from this, making him think he had a chance, then piling even more impossible odds before him.

The gun felt warm in his hands, and remembering the six guards outside, he held his breath as Mrs. Withon entered.

The woman stopped short at the bodies on the floor, and Trent grimaced, knowing it was over. Jenks chirped his wings softly, and her eyes went up, a mix of delighted recognition followed quickly by fear crossing her face as she saw and recognized the pixy-then Trent.