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.
"Please come in and close the door," Trent whispered, cocking the gun. "Call them if you have to, but I want to talk to you alone first."
The woman stiffened, but she kicked the door shut with her foot, only turning to Trent when it latched shut. For a moment she was silent, and Trent's resolve stiffened as the older woman looked him up and down, unknown emotions flitting across her face. "Are they dead?" she asked, her voice tight and her eyes never shifting from his to the gun.
"No. There is a third in the pantry. I'm sorry about the man in the field. I was careless."
Ellie took a slow breath, her narrow shoulders easing slightly. Her back to the door, she could have them all in here in a second if she wanted to. Trent doubted she would, though. Most of the magic texts in his library originally came from here, and slowly he dropped the gun's aim. He would have to win this by guile, the one elven art he had practiced all his life.
The refined woman looked nothing like Ellasbeth, standing almost eight inches shorter, dressed in cool shades of gray and silver that matched her fair hair, wispy and thin, exactly like Trent's, exactly like his mother's. "Have you seen her?" she asked, afraid and proud.
"No." Again her shoulders dropped, but still she didn't move. "Ellie, I'm sorry it has come to this," Trent said, relieved that he hadn't killed anyone inside Ellie's home. He'd always thought of gaining Ellie as a mother-in-law the best part of the arranged marriage. "Ellasbeth brought this on herself. Refused any other way. You know I tried."
"You can't escape these rooms," she said firmly, a hint of fear in her, and Jenks snickered from the ceiling. "Even if you take me or Lucy hostage. The guards have been instructed . . ."
"To what?" Trent said bitterly. "Kill your grandchild rather than allow me to escape with her?" Frustration filled him, and he saw it mirrored in Ellie's eyes. Horror ebbed into him as he realized the depth of Ellasbeth's hatred. He had been counting on Lucy granting him a measure of immunity, but if they were instructed to kill him without regard to Lucy's safety . . .
"My God, Ellie, call them if you have to!" he said loudly as he tucked the gun away. "Put me in chains and let Ellasbeth take her spoiled-child revenge out on me if you must, but let me see her first! You owe me that!"
"Keep your voice down. Don't wake her!" the older woman said, actually reaching out to grab his arm, and Trent hesitated. She was afraid. Why?
"Please, promise me you won't wake her, and . . . I'll let you see her," the woman said again, and Trent's eyes squinted. There was a thread of mischief in her, a streak of deviltry. The woman might be older than him and more frail, but she was of pure blood, purer than her daughter. If she let him see Lucy before calling the guards, there was a reason for it.