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?"
Annoyance flashed through Trent. Sensing it, Jenks slowed and his wing hum dropped in pitch. Trent stopped, wanting to explain but lacking the words. Jenks wasn't a babysitter, which was the feeling Trent always had gotten from Quen. He'd proven to be an admirable help, dependable, resourceful, and best of all, not trying to change his plan but work within it. He was stupendous at his job, and it was obvious why Rachel put her trust in the pixy before anyone else.
But trust came hard to him as well, and old guards fall slowly. Continuing to withhold information from Jenks in order to preserve a feeling of independence wasn't only useless, but made him look bad. Shoulders slumping, he dropped his head. Jenks was waiting for him when he looked up.
"You're right," he said, and Jenks's dust flashed. "Ley line magic is going to hurt, but I can invoke the doppelganger charm and possibly manage a burst of defensive magic in a pinch. Making a protective circle is out, seeing as my connection will be flimsy at best."
His dust sifting down brightening, Jenks nodded, his lack of a smart-ass comment clearly stating that he knew something had changed-and that he appreciated it. "Ten feet ahead is a wooden door with a narrow airhole to feed the fire with," Jenks said, his voice stronger somehow. "There's no lock. Once you're through, you've got a three-by-three shaft with a ladder older than my grandmum's underwear which leads to a tiny space behind the fireplace. You go through a slit, and you're in the fireplace. It's going, by the way. Big-ass fire made out of maple and oak. Are your tights fire retardant?"
Trent winced. "To a certain point," he said hesitantly, and Jenks smirked.
"I'll dust the fire down for you," he offered, and again Trent was ashamed at how he had been thinking of Jenks as a tool, not an equal member. "They probably think the fire is enough of a guard since the kitchen is empty. There's lots of people passing in the hall." He hesitated as Trent adjusted his cap. "We're still good to go, right?"
Adrenaline zinged through him, and he thought of his promise, vowing to see it through. Then he thought of his private jet waiting on the tarmac. He wanted this to be over and he and Lucy on it in the worst way. "Yes. Thank you for the layout. It's far better than what I had."
Jenks's wings hit a higher pitch, and he darted toward the door like a glowing hummingbird. Trent followed, waving his dust aside and taking care not to disturb the tiny chunks of plaster since they were deep within the fortress and who knew what the Withons had listening. The escape tunnel was extremely clever. If it needed to be used, it'd be an easy matter to slip past a banked fire, then build the fire high to disguise the opening. By the time the fire had died down and someone thought to even look for the escape tunnel, the fleeing monks would be miles away. That's not how they would be escaping, though.
The glow of Jenks's light dipped once and then held steady, and Trent winced as the tiny door materialized in his glow: three feet tall and two wide, with an elaborately carved latticework to allow for the passage of air. Jenks was sitting on the lintel and dangling his legs, his falling dust being pulled through the airholes. Crouching before it, Trent touched the wood to find it was warm. The fireplace was indeed in use.
"The latch is a lever on top of the frame," Jenks said, rising up to show him. "It's stuck, but you could probably get it."
Trent's fingers searched, and his eyes met Jenks's when he felt the smooth warmth of iron snuggled into the door frame. If you didn't know it was there, it would have been impossible to find. Together they smiled, and the adrenaline thumped through him in time with his heart. His thoughts darted back to his promise. Maybe he could do this without leaving death behind him. Maybe with a pixy's help he could do what needed to be done, and not kill anyone.
"Give me a sec to see if there's anyone in the kitchen," Jenks said as he took to the air. "The fire is going to flair when you open the door." It went dark as he darted through the latticework, and Trent nodded, even though the pixy was gone. Almost immediately he was back, giving him a glowing thumbs-up through the latticework.
Exhaling his tension, Trent worked the latch and slipped through. An unexpected billow of smoke eddied down the shaft, quickly dissipating as the natural flow of air was reestablished when he shut the door. Eyes smarting, he stood in the narrow shaft, looking up at the soft glow of firelight and the sound and smell of burning wood.