The Undead Pool (8 page)

The guy behind the counter glanced at me, then Trent as if he was dense. “I can see that,” he said. “Let me sanitize your shoes.”

Setting both pairs on a scratched pentagram behind the counter, he muttered a phrase of Latin. My internal energy flow jumped as a flash of light enveloped the shoes. I knew the light was just for show, but it was reassuring, and I took my shoes as the man dropped them before us. The leather was still warm, stiff from having been spelled so often.

“Enjoy your game,” he said as he handed us a scorecard and a tiny pencil. “All food stays at the bar.” Slumping, he fumbled in a plastic bin. “Here's your food and beer coupons.”

Trent was smiling, looking totally out of place despite his jeans and casual shirt as he took his shoes. “Thank you. Lane three?”

Nodding, the man hit a button on a panel, and it lit up, the pinsetter running a cycle to clear itself.

“This is so weird,” I said as I fell into place behind Trent.

“Why?” He looked over his shoulder at me. “I do normal things.”

Pulling my gaze from him, I scanned the ball racks for a likely candidate. “Have you ever been here? Doing normal things?”

Trent stepped down from the flat carpet to the tiled floor and our lane. “Honestly? No. Jenks suggested this place when I asked him. But the burgers smell great.”

Jenks, eh?
Thinking I was going to have a chat with the pixy when I got home, I dropped my shoes on one of the chairs and went to pick out a ball. Trent was tying his shoes when I came back with a green twelve-pounder with Tinker Bell on it. Clearly it had been someone's personal ball at some point, and therefore might have some residual spells built in, charms I could tap into if I guessed the right phrase. Trent eyed it in disbelief when I dropped it on the hopper, but the first feelings of competition stirred in me, and I looked down the long lane and the waiting pins in anticipation. This might be okay. I'd had platonic dates before.

“You're kidding,” he said as I sat down and slipped my shoes off to tuck them under the cheap plastic seats.

“They say you can tell a lot about a man by the ball he uses.”

His eyes met mine, and feeling spiked through me.
Okay, it didn't have to be completely platonic. Not if we both knew it was the only date we'd ever have.

“Is that what they say?” he asked, head tilted to eye me from under his bangs, and I nodded, wondering why I'd said that. The shoes were still warm, and I felt breathless as I leaned to put them on. Trent slowly rose, his motions out of sync with the sappy love song, but oh so nice to watch. I fumbled my laces and had to start over when he stopped at a rack and lifted a plain black ball with an off-brand logo. “This one looks good.”

Good. Yeah.
What
I
liked was the way his butt looked, clenched as he held the extra weight of the ball. Slowly I shook my head, and he replaced it.

“Better?” he asked, hefting a bright blue one, and I shook my head again, pointing at one way down on the bottom of the rack. Trent's expression went irate. “It's pink,” he said flatly.

I beamed, tickled. “It's your choice. But it's got a charm or two in it, I bet.”

Looking annoyed, he hefted the pink monstrosity, his expression changing as he probably tapped a line and felt the energy circulating through it. Saying nothing, he came back to our lane and set it beside mine. “I am so going to regret this, aren't I?”

I leaned forward, heart pounding. “If you're lucky. You first.” Feeling sassy, I stood, almost touching his knees as I edged into the scoring chair. The masculine scent of him hit me, mixing with the smell of bar food and the sound of happy people. My heart pounded, and I focused on the scorecard, carefully writing Bonnie and Clyde in the name box in case anyone was watching the overhead screen.

What am I doing?
I asked myself, but Trent had already picked up his pink bowling ball, giving me a sideways smirk before he settled himself before the line, and made a small side step, probably to compensate for a slight curve.

I exhaled as I watched him study the lane, collecting himself. And then he moved in a motion of grace, the ball making hardly a sound as it touched the varnished boards. Trent walked backward as the ball edged closer to the gutter, then arced back, both of us tilting our heads as it raced to the pins to hit the sweet spot perfectly.

“Boohaa!” I cried out, since that's what you are supposed to do when someone pulls a gutter ball back from the edge, and Trent smiled. My heart flip-flopped, and I looked away, scratching a nine in the first box. “Ah, nice one,” I said as he waited for his ball to return.

“Thanks.” His fingers dangled over the dryer. “But I swear, if you tweak this ball like you do my golf balls, I'll put fries in your beer.”

My head snapped up, and his smile widened until he laughed at me. “Leave my game alone,” he said, the rims of his ears going red.

“You're going to regret that statement. I promise you that,” I said, and he smirked as he took his gaudy pink ball and set himself up to pick up the spare. Damn it, this was so not smart, but I couldn't help but watch him. My fingers were trembling as I wrote down his score and stood for my first roll. I enjoyed flirting, and to be honest, it was almost a relief after biting back so many almost-said comments the last month.

And after all, it was only one date. One night of freedom so we both had something to compare the last three months with and know that they were not dates.

Just one night. I could do one night.

Five

H
e eats his fries with mustard?
I thought, watching Trent put the yellow squeeze bottle down and pull his basket closer as we sat at the bar and finished our dinner. The burgers had been heavenly and the conversation enlightening, even as it had been about nothing in particular.

Happy, I made a final notation on the scorecard and let the tiny pencil roll away. “Okay, okay, I'll give you that last one, but only because I'm nice.”

“Nice, smice.” Trent dipped a fry and pointed it at me. “I took that pin fair and square. I can do magic while bowling.” He ate his fry and lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “You not knowing the charm doesn't make it illegal.”

“Well, no, but it was kind of cheesy.”

“Cheesy?” He chuckled, looking nothing like himself but having everything I liked about him. I'd had a great time, and I'd been watching the clock with the first hints of regret. It had been unexpected, that feeling of forgetfulness, free for a time of who I was, and who he was, and what was expected of us. I didn't want it to end. “Where did you learn to bowl?”

Trent watched his fingers, carefully picking out his next fry. “University. But you can't use magic at the West Coast lanes. It's not illegal, but it's too unpredictable. How about you?”

I chuckled, glad when the music turned off. We were closing them down, and it felt good. “My brother belonged to a young bowlers' league. When my mom worked weekends, he had to watch me. If I promised to leave him and his friends alone, he'd buy me a lane at the outskirts where I could mess around.”

Trent's gaze went behind me to the last of the bowlers finishing their games. The cleaning staff was making inroads, but they wouldn't shut the door for almost an hour. “Sounds lonely,” he said, dipping a fry.

“Not really.” But it had been. He was looking at my mouth again, and I wondered if he wanted to kiss me.

I dropped my head, and he shifted on the bar stool, the motion holding frustration.

“That was the best burger I've ever had to pay for,” he said to fill the silence. “I'm going to have to stop in the next time I'm in the area.”

“When do you ever get out here?” I could look at him now that he wasn't looking at me.

“Never,” he admitted, his attention falling from the TV. “But I'd drive for this. Mmmm. The fries are good, too.”

“You should try them with ketchup,” I said, and then not knowing why, I pushed my basket toward him. There were a few fries in it, but it was the puddle of ketchup I was offering.

“I have,” he blurted, eyes wide to look charming. “I mean, I do, but not in public.”

I looked at his pointy ears, and he actually blushed.

“Right,” he said, then dragged his fry through my ketchup, not meeting my gaze as he chewed.

He used my ketchup,
I thought, and something in me seemed to catch. “The good with the bad, yes?” I said, and when I lifted my pop, we clinked bottles. “Hey, I'm sorry about losing it today at the golf course. I should have handled that better. Bullies get the best of me.”

Absorbed with his fries, he shook his head. “Don't worry about it. It surprised me when he brought up my background. I'll do better next time. I've got a response now and everything.”

I took a swig of my drink and set it down. “Good luck remembering it. I always forget.” I wasn't hungry, but I liked the idea of sharing a puddle of ketchup with him, and I ate one last fry. “It's worth it, though, don't you think? Not hiding?”

“God yes. I've not had to make any ugly decisions since Lucy came home.”

His voice had softened, and it was easy to see the love for his child. I knew he loved Ray just as much even though she didn't have a drop of his blood. Ray was Quen and Ceri's child. Trent had only repaired her damaged DNA, but the girls were being raised as sisters, especially now that Ceri was gone.

“So they come back tomorrow,” I prompted, wanting to see more of that soft look.

Trent nodded, the beer he'd nursed the last hour hanging between two fingers an inch above the bar. There was only one couple left at the lanes, the cook scraping the grill, and the guy at the shoe counter cleaning each pair before calling it a night. I liked Trent like this, relaxed and thinking of his kids, and I quashed a fleeting daydream. I couldn't picture him in my church, living with the pixies, waking up in my bed.
Stop it, Rachel.

A siren wailed in the distance. It felt like a warning, one I needed to heed. I wasn't attracted to Trent because Al told me to leave him alone. I liked Trent because he understood who I was and would still sit at a bar with me and eat french fries.
And it ends tomorrow.

“I'll be glad when Quen gets back,” I said, eyes down.

“Oh? Has watching my back been that onerous?”

“No. It's just that you take up a lot of my time.”
And after tonight, I'm not going to have a damn thing to do.

Trent set my basket atop his and pushed them both to the side, making no move to leave. “You definitely have a different style than Quen. But you did a wonderful job of it. Thank you.”

Almost depressed, I watched the cook through the long thin pass-through. “Thank you,” I said, meaning it. Again we clinked bottles, and we both took a swallow. I was going to miss it. Miss everything. But the girls would be going back to Ellasbeth in three months. I could wait.

And then what, Rachel?

“I had a good time tonight,” he said as if reading my mind. “If things were different—”

“But they aren't,” I interrupted. “Besides, you don't pass my underwear test.” I needed to leave before I started to cry or break things. This really sucked.

“Your what?” Trent said, his eyes wide.

I couldn't help the mental picture of him in tighty whities, then boxers, wondering which way he went. “My underwear test,” I said again, then added, “I can't imagine folding your underwear week after week. That's it.”

Seeming annoyed, Trent turned away. “I have people who do that for me.”

“That's just it,” I said, fiddling with my pop bottle.
This isn't how I wanted to end this evening.
“Even if you didn't have this big thing you're going to do with Ellasbeth, I can't see you living in my church, or anywhere other than your estate, really, doing normal stuff like laundry, or dishes, or washing the car.” I thought of his living room, messy with preschool toys. I hadn't ever imagined that, either. “Or trying to find the remote,” I said slowly.

“I know how to do all those things,” he said, his tone challenging, and I met his eyes.

“I'm not saying you don't. I'm just saying I can't imagine you doing those things unless you wanted to, and why would you?”

He was silent. In the kitchen, the cook began putting the food back into the big walk-in fridge. Trent's jaw was tight, and I wished I'd never brought it up.

“Forget I said anything,” I said, touching his knee and pulling my hand back when his eyes darted down. “Laundry is overrated. I really enjoyed tonight. It was nice having a real date.”

Trent's annoyance, startled away from that touch on his knee, evolved into a sloppy chagrin. Nodding, he spun his bar stool to take my hands and turn me to face him. It was ending. I could feel it. It was as if our entire three months together had been building to this one date. And now it was over.

“It was, wasn't it?” Trent's grip on my hands pulled me closer. My heart pounded. I knew what he wanted. There wasn't a hint of energy trying to balance between us, but the tips of my hair were floating, and a sparkling energy seemed to jump between us. Trent's eyes were fixed on mine, and I swallowed. He was feeling it too, a slight pressure on his aura, as if passing through a ley line.

Passing through a ley line?

“Do you feel that?” I said, remembering the same sensation on the bridge this afternoon.

“Mmmm,” he said, oblivious to my sudden disconcertment as he pulled me closer.

Oh God, he's going to kiss me,
I thought, then jumped at the bang at the shoe counter.

Trent jerked, a flash of energy balancing between us as he reached for a line.

My eyes darted to the shoe counter. A dusky haze hung over it. Under the smoke was a hole blown clear through the counter, the plastic melted, and above, an ugly stain on the ceiling. “What the fuck!” came from behind the remains of it, and the two people still on the lanes turned as the counter guy rose up, his beard singed and his eyes wide as he saw what was left of his desk. “Where the fuck are my shoes? Shit, my beard!”

It was smoldering, and he patted the fire out as a big man with suspenders came from a back room, a napkin in one hand. “What happened?” he said, then stopped short, staring at the counter. “What did you do?”

“The fucking shoe charm blew up!” the man said indignantly. “It just blew up!”

My heart pounded. Sparkly feeling, charm reacting with uncontrolled strength: it was starting to add up, and I looked at the couple returning to their game. Not every ball was charmed, but most were.
Shit.
“Stop!” I yelled as I slid from the stool, but it was too late, and the woman had released the ball. I watched it head for the gutter, then make a sharp right angle as if jerked by a string, bouncing over six lanes to bury itself in the wall with a bone-shattering thud.

It was happening again, and the woman turned to her boyfriend, white-faced. “Charles?” she warbled.

“No one do any magic!” I said, voice stark as it rang out. “You in the kitchen! Nothing!”

Everyone stared at me, Trent included, and my pulse rushed in my ears. Silence pooled up, and from outside we could hear pops and bangs followed by screams. The sirens we'd heard earlier took on a different meaning. A cold feeling slithered from the dark spaces between the realities, winding about my heart and squeezing. It was happening again, and it was worse.

“All right then,” the manager said, his expression determined as he crossed the bar. Reaching behind the demolished shoe counter, he grabbed a rifle, checking to see if it was loaded before striding to the door. The shoe guy followed, still patting at his beard. The couple from the lanes broke the rules and walked on the carpet with their borrowed shoes, and the cook came out from the back, hands working his stained apron to clean them as he walked.

Trent slid from his stool, but when I didn't move, neither did he. It was happening again. Why? Was it me? Trent took my hand. Our eyes met. He looked worried.

Gun ready, the manager pushed open the door, everyone clustered behind him. Behind him, the sky was a ruddy red. “Good God Almighty,” he said, and I realized it was fire reflecting on the low clouds. “Greg, call 911. The Laundromat is on fire!”

People pushed outside around him, and Trent reached across me to take my shoulder bag. “Maybe we should leave,” he said, and I numbly nodded as he handed it to me.

Trent left a healthy tip on the table, and we headed for the door. The feeling of security, of a place set aside, was gone, and I tensed at his hand on the small of my back. We had to go sideways between the people to get out, and the smells hit me as I got too close: aftershave, perfume, grease, adrenaline.

My gaze went up as we got free of them, and my pace faltered. One street over, a three-story building was on fire, gouts of flame and black smoke rising through the empty shell, windows showing as bright squares and stark black lines. It reminded me of the ever-after, and I stared, listening to sirens and people shouting. Less than a block away, a car was on fire. The nearby apartment building reflected the light as a dozen people tried to put it out with a garden hose. People were coming from everywhere to help, even the sports bar half a block down.

Across the river, huge swaths of Cincinnati were dark from a power outage, and the gray buildings glowed with the reflected red light against the ruddy night sky. More sirens sounded faintly over the river, and I cringed at the imagined chaos. If it was bad here, it would be worse there.

Cars were starting up, the frightened jerky motions of the people showing their fear. “It's not me,” I protested as Trent got me moving. “Trent, Al says my line is fine. It's not me!”

“I believe you.”

His voice was grim, and I waited by his car as he pointed his fob and reached for my door. The car fire seemed under control, and Quen wouldn't thank me for hanging around.

“Trent—” I started, gasping when the flaming car exploded. I dropped, pulling Trent down with me. I watched, mouth hanging open as chunks of burning car hit the ground to flicker and go out. A man's high-pitched scream went to the pit of my being, terrifying as he fell to the ground, but the hose was already on him and the flames were out.

More people poured into the streets, the high flames and screams bringing the last of the diehards out of the bar to gawk and shout helpful advice. The man's screaming had shifted to a gasping, pained cry, and the discarded hose spilled forgotten into the gutter. That this was happening all over the city was horrifying. Cincy couldn't handle this. No city could.

“Do you think we can help?” I said, and Trent pulled his phone out.

“I have no signal,” he said, dismayed, and then we both turned to the dark street behind us at a terrified scream. It had come from the sports bar, and Trent's grip on me tightened at the masculine shout following it, telling her to shut up and that she'd enjoy it.

My blood ran cold as a woman pleaded that she didn't want to be a vampire.

Shit.
My mind went to Ivy's map. Were the misfires and violent crimes connected, or were the vampires simply responding to the overlying chaos? And where in hell were the masters?

“Let me go!” a woman screamed, her frantic cries muting at the slamming of the door. Behind me, people tried to keep the burned man alive. I was starting to get ticked. Living vampires didn't just go bad, but there was a lot of fear in the air. Maybe it was too much for the masters to redirect. Pushing past Trent, I started across the street, swinging my bag around and digging through it. I couldn't do anything to help the burned man, but by God I wasn't going to walk away and leave that woman.