The Undead Pool

Stop it, Rachel. “Um, she’s fine,” I said, not wanting to say no and have him guess that I had set her off, not him. “You don’t mind driving, do you? My car is in impound.” His eyes went wide in question, and I added, “Long story. Not my fault. I’ll tell you in the car.” He almost laughed, and I could have smacked him. “So where are we going, anyway?”

“I told you. Bowling.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me.” He was still smiling and I lagged behind as we passed through the sanctuary, the light from the TV a dim glow as Jenks’s youngest watched a wildlife documentary. Bowling. Was he serious? What kind of contacts could he make bowling?

Trent’s pace was graceful and smooth, his fingers trailing along the smooth finish of the pool table. It was all I had left to remind me of Kisten, and I watched Trent’s fingers until they slipped off the end. “So what did Al say?” he asked.

To leave you alone, I thought, and seeing my frown, Trent added, “It was tampered with, wasn’t it?”

“Oh!” I forced a smile. “No,” I said as we entered the unlit foyer, pulse quickening when the scent of wine and cinnamon seemed to grow stronger in the dark. “It was fine,” I murmured. “Al says the charm was overstimulated, not misfired. I’m guessing it is the same thing that caused the rest of the misfires today. How’s your employee?”

“He’ll be okay with minimal hospitalization. The safety measures in place saved his sight, but if it had happened anywhere else it might have . . . taken out a room.” His words trailed off in thought as he reached before me to open the door. “Overstimulated? That makes more sense than misfires. I had a couple more incidents come in this afternoon. Little things, but I sent Quen all the data I could find. He says the misfires are localized into a narrow band that seems to be stemming from, ah . . . Loveland?”

His voice was hesitant, expression doubly so in the faint light from the sign over the door, and I nodded, glad he’d figured it out and I wouldn’t have to bring it up. Not many people knew that the ley line just outside the old castle was less than a year old and made by me—by accident. “I asked Al while I was there. We went out to look, and there’s nothing wrong with my line.”

“Oh!” His smile was oddly relieved as he pointed his fob at the car at the curb, and it started up. It was one of his sportier two-doors, and he liked his gadgets almost as much as he liked driving fast. “You’re already ahead of me on this. Good. That frees up our conversation tonight. I’d like to wedge something to eat into the schedule too.” He hesitated, one step down. “That is, if you don’t have other plans.”

I eyed him, not sure why the hint of pleasure in his voice. “I could eat, sure.” He still hadn’t told me where we were really going, and I closed the door behind me. We could lock it only from the inside, but who would steal from a Tamwood vampire and Cincinnati’s only day-walking demon? Scuffing down the shallow steps, I headed for Trent’s car, only to jerk to a halt when he unexpectedly reached before me to open the door with a grand flourish.

We’re going bowling, I thought sarcastically as I got in. Right. Trent shut the door, and the solid thump of German engineering echoed down our quiet street. I watched Trent through the side mirror as he came around the back of the car, his pace fast and eager. I fidgeted as he got in, the small car putting us closer than usual. I leaned to put my bag in the tiny space behind the seat, and Trent was holding himself with a closed stiffness when I leaned back. He liked his space, and I’d probably gotten too close.

My damp hair was filling the car with the scent of my shampoo, and I cracked the window. “Seriously, where are we going?” I asked, but his smile faltered when my phone rang from my shoulder bag. “You mind?” I asked as I leaned to get it, and his foot slipped off the clutch. The car jerked, and I scrambled not to drop the phone. His ears were red when I looked up, and I couldn’t help but smile as I found my phone. “It’s Edden,” I said as I looked at the screen. “He might have something about my car.”

Gesturing for me to go ahead, I flipped the phone open.

“Edden!” I said cheerfully. “What’s the good news about my car?”

“Still working on it,” he said, then at my peeved silence, added, “Can you come out tomorrow, say at ten?”

“What about my car?” I said flatly, and he chuckled.

“I’m working on it. I’d like you to talk to our shift change meeting. Tell everyone what happened at the bridge and give us your Inderland opinion.”

Oh. That was different. “That’s ten P.M., right?” I asked, fiddling with the vents as Trent drove us down the service roads paralleling the interstate. His usual fast and furious driving had slowed, and I wondered if he was trying to listen in.

“Ah, A.M.”

“In the morning?” I exclaimed, and Trent stifled a chortle. Yep, he was listening. “Edden, I’ve barely got my eyes unglued at ten. I’d have to get up by nine to make it.”