Where Demons Dare. Kim Harrison
her narrow chin raised defiantly. Though delicate and petite, her mind was resilient and strong, tempered by a thousand years of serving as a demon’s familiar. Elves didn’t live any longer than witches, but her life had paused the moment Al took her. My guess was she’d been in her midthirties. She was barefoot, as usual, and her purple dress had black and gold accents. They were the colors that Al made her wear, though admittedly, this wasn’t a ball gown.
“Come in,” she said softly, vanishing into the dark house.
I glanced at Keasley. He had a wary sharpness to him, having read my tension and the shame she was hiding under her defiance. Or maybe it was guilt.
“Go on,” he said, as if wanting us to get this over with so he’d know what was the matter.
Leaving him, I went up the stairs, my tension easing as the shelter of the house accepted me. I didn’t think she’d told him yet—which meant I’d been seeing guilt.
The screen door squeaked, and now, knowing Keasley’s past, I was sure the lack of oil was intentional. The scent of redwood struck me as I followed the sound of her fading steps down the low-ceilinged hall, past the front room, the kitchen, and all the way to the back of the house and the sunken living room, added on at some point.
The older house muffled outside sounds, and I stood in the middle of the back living room. I was sure this was where she had gone. My gaze traveled over the changes she’d made since moving in: asters arranged in Mason-jar vases, live plants bought off the sale rack and nurtured back to health clustered at the lace-curtained windows, bits of ribbon draped over mirrors to remind wandering spirits not to cross into them, yellowed doilies bought at yard sales decorating the padded arms of the couch, and faded pillows and swaths of fabric disguising the old furniture. The combined effect was clean, comfortable, and soothing.
“Ceri?” I finally called, not having the slightest idea where she was.
“Out here,” she said, her voice coming from beyond the door, which was propped open with a potted fig tree.
I winced. She wanted to talk in the garden—her stronghold. Great.
Gathering myself, I headed out to find her seated at a wicker table in the garden. Jih hadn’t been tending it very long, but between the enthusiastic pixy and Ceri, the tiny space had gone from a scuffed-up scrap of dirt to a bit of paradise in less than a year.
An old oak tree thicker than I could get my arms around dominated the backyard, multiple swaths of fabric draped over the lower branches to make a fluttering shelter of sorts. The ground under it was bare dirt, but it was as smooth and flat as linoleum. Vines grew above the fence to block the neighbors’ view, and the grass had been allowed to grow long past the shade of the tree. I could hear water somewhere and a wren singing as if it were spring, not fall. And crickets.
“This is nice,” I said in understatement as I joined her. There was a teapot and two tiny cups on the table, as if she had been expecting me. I would have said Trent had warned her, but Keasley didn’t have a phone.
“Thank you,” she said modestly. “Jih has taken a husband, and he works very hard to impress her.”
I brought my attention back from the garden to focus on Ceri and her anxiety. “Is that where Jenks is?” I asked, wanting to meet the newest member of the family myself.
A smile eased her tight features. “Yes. Can you hear them?”
I shook my head and settled myself in the bumpy wicker chair. Now, what would be a good segue? So, I hear Jih isn’t the only one who’s been knocked up. …
Ceri reached for the teapot, her motions wary. “I imagine this isn’t a social call, but would you like some tea?”
“No, thanks,” I said, then felt a tug on my awareness as Ceri murmured a word of Latin and the pot began to steam. The amber brew tinkled into her tiny cup, the click of the porcelain sounding loud among the crickets.
“Ceri,” I said softly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her vivid green eyes met mine. “I thought you’d be angry,” she said with desperate worry. “Rachel, it’s the only way I can get rid of it.”
My lips parted. “You don’t want it?”
Ceri’s expression blanked. She stared wonderingly at me for a moment. “What are we talking about?” she asked cautiously.
“Your baby!”
Her mouth dropped open and she flushed scarlet. “How did you find out …?”
My pulse had quickened, and I felt unreal. “I talked to Trent this afternoon,” I said, and when she just sat there, staring at me with her pale fingers encircling her teacup, I added, “Quen asked me to go into the ever-after for a sample of elven DNA that predates the curse, and I wanted to know what the rush was. He kind of blurted it out.”
Panic filled her, showing as her hand flashed to set her cup down and grip my wrist, shocking me. “No,” she exclaimed softly, eyes wide and breath fast. “Rachel, you can’t. You can’t go into the ever-after. Promise me right now that you won’t. Ever.”
Her fingers were hurting me, and I tried to pull away. “I’m not stupid, Ceri.”
“Promise me!” she said loudly. “Right now! You will not go into the ever-after. Not for me. Not for Trent. Not for my child. Never!”
I wrenched my wrist away from her, taken aback at her extreme reaction. I had been in the ever-after before, and I wasn’t about to go back. “I told him no. Ceri, I can’t. Someone is summoning Al out of confinement, and I can’t risk being off hallowed ground after sunset, much less go to the ever-after.”
The pale woman caught her emotions, clearly embarrassed. Her eyes flicked to my reddened wrist, and I hid it under the table. I felt guilty about the stand I was taking to stay out of the ever-after, even if it was a smart decision. I wanted to help Ceri, and I felt like a coward. “I’m sorry,” I said, then reached for the teapot, wanting a cup of something to hide behind. “I feel like a pile of chicken crap.”
“Don’t,” Ceri said shortly, and my eyes met hers. “This isn’t your war.”
“It used to be,” I said, my thoughts going to the widely accepted theory that the witches had abandoned the ever-after to the demons three thousand years before the elves gave up. Before that, there was no witch history except what the elves remembered for us, and very little elf history either.
Ceri intercepted my reach for the teapot, pouring it out for me and carefully handing me the cup and saucer with the grace of a millennium of practice. I accepted it and took a sip. It wasn’t coffee, but I could still feel the caffeine rush, and I eased into the wicker and crossed my legs. I had time, and Ceri, nervous and flustered, clearly was in no state for me to leave yet.
“Ceri,” I said, putting a tone of pride in my voice. “You’re something else. If I found out that I was pregnant unexpectedly, I’d be falling apart. I can’t believe Trent did this to you.”
Ceri hesitated over her cup, then took a delicate sip. “He didn’t.”
I shook my head. “You can’t take the blame for this. I know you’re a grown woman and you make your own decisions, but Trent is devious and manipulative. He could charm a troll out of her bridge if he tried.”
A faint rose color tinged her cheeks. “I mean, it’s not Trenton’s child.”
I stared at her. If it isn’t Trent’s …
“It’s Quen’s,” she said, her eyes on the swaths of fabric fluttering overhead.
“B-But …” I stammered. Oh, my God. Quen? Suddenly his awkward silences and stiff looks meant something completely different. “Trent never said anything! Neither did Quen. They just stood there and let me believe—”
“It’s not their place to say anything,”