Kim Harrison - The Undead Pool

“I suppose.” Heart pounding, I leaned back against the car, arms wrapped around my middle. I couldn’t tell Jenks I had been spooked by a vampire, not under the noon sun, and not by a living one. He’d laugh his ass off.

But as we waited for Ivy to return with good news about my car, I shivered in the heat, unable to look away from the crowd and a possible glimpse of that figure in black.

He’d looked like Kisten.

I t wasn’t Kisten, I thought again for the umpteenth time as I shook two tiny pellets of fish food into my hand, wiggling a finger at Mr. Fish in his bowl on the mantel. But it had looked too much like him for my comfort, from his lanky, sexy build to his funky sophistication and even his thick mass of blond hair. I’d been so embarrassed I hadn’t even told Ivy. I knew she’d loved him too—loved him long before I’d met him, loved him, and watched him die twice defending me. But those feelings belonged to someone else, and I now knew what vampires were born knowing: those who could live forever truly held no future.

The heat from Al’s smaller hearth fire was warm on my shins, and I soaked it in, worried about the beta resting on the bottom of the oversized brandy snifter, gills sedately moving. The wood fire crackled, and I breathed the fragrant smoke, much better than the peat moss fire that stank of burnt amber that he’d had last time.

I dropped the fish food into the bowl and turned, glad to see other hints that Al was pulling himself, and therefore me, out of ever-after poverty. I’d seen other demons’ spelling rooms over the last year or so, and they varied greatly as to the theme. Newt’s looked like my kitchen, which made me all warm and cozy. But Al was a traditionalist, and it showed in the stone floors, glass-fronted ceiling-tall cabinets holding ley line paraphernalia and books, and the smoky rafters coming to a point over the central, seldom-lit raised hearth fire in the middle of the circular room. We didn’t need the big fire for the spell we were working, and Al sat on the uncomfortable stool at his slate-topped table five feet from the smaller hearth. He liked the heat as much as I did.

The shelves were again full, and the ugly tapestry I’d once heard scream in pain was back on the wall. The hole that he’d hammered between my room and the spelling kitchen had been tidied, and the new solid stone door between the two met with an almost seamless invisibility.

“Mr. Fish is acting funny,” I said as I watched the fish ignore the pellets.

Al glanced from the book he was holding at arm’s length. “Nothing is wrong with your fish,” the demon said, squinting at the print as if he needed the blue-tinted, round glasses. “You’re going to kill him if you give him too much food.”

But he wasn’t eating, simply sitting on the bottom and moving his gills. His color looked okay, but his eyes were kind of buggy. Distrusting this, I slowly turned to Al.

Feeling my attention on him, he frowned as he ran an ungloved finger under the print to make it glow. His usual crushed green velvet coat lay carefully draped over the bench surrounding the central hearth, and his lace shirt was undone an unusual button to allow for the warmth of the place. His trousers were tucked into his boots, and to be honest, he looked a little steampunky. Feeling my attention on him, he grimaced. It was one of his tells, and my eyes narrowed. Either it was the fish or the charm I wanted to know how to do.

“He’s just sitting on the bottom,” I said, digging for the source of his mood. “Maybe I should take him home. I think it’s wearing on him.”

Al peered sourly over his book at me. “He’s a fish. What would wear upon a fish?”

“No sun.”

“I know the feeling,” he murmured, apparently not caring as he went back to the book.

“His mouth is funny,” I prompted. “And his gimpy fin is the wrong color.”

Al’s breath came out in a growl. “There’s nothing wrong with that fish. Teaching you how to identify the maker of a spell by his or her aura is a bloody hell waste of time. As you have an interest, I will indulge you, but I’m not going to do it myself. If you’re done playing zookeeper, we can begin.” He looked pointedly at me. “Are you done, Rachel?”

Silent, I took the mangled ball out of the brown lunch bag I’d brought it in and nervously set it on the table beside the magnetic chalk, a vial of yellow oil, and a copper crucible.

Al’s eyebrows rose. “Since when do you golf?”

I knew Al didn’t like Trent. I knew that the source of his hatred was over five thousand years old and hadn’t lessened in all that time. “I was on a job,” I said. “It exploded under a deflection charm. I think it might have triggered an assassination spell.”

Shoulders stiff, his eyes narrowed. “You were Kalamack’s caddie?”

“I’m his security,” I said, voice rising. “It’s a paying job.”

Standing, Al’s lips curled in disgust. “I said avoid him, and you take a subservient role?” My breath to protest huffed out when he slammed the book in his hand onto the table. “There’s only one possible relationship, that of a slave and master, and you are failing!”

“God, Al! It was five thousand years ago!” I exclaimed, startled.

“It was yesterday,” he said, hand shaking as it pinned the book to the table. “Do you think the fact that there can be no viable children between elf and demon is an accident? It’s a reminder, Rachel. Lose him, or abuse him. There is no middle ground.”

“Yeah?” I exclaimed. “You’re the one who offered him a circumcision curse. I thought you two were BFFs.”

Brow furrowed, Al came around the table, and I forced myself to not move. “You’re making a mistake. There’re already concerns that we moved too fast in killing Ku’Sox.”

I drew back. “Excuse me!”

“That we were taken in by elven trickery and lured into killing one of our own.”

“That is so full of bull!” I could not believe this. “Ku’Sox was trying to kill all of you and destroy the ever-after!”

“Even so,” he said as he put a threatening arm over my shoulder. “It would be better if you simply . . .” His words drifted off into nothing, his fingers rubbing together to open as if freeing something.

“You spent a thousand years with Ceri. What’s the difference?”

His arm fell away, and I felt cold. “Ceri was my slave. You’re treating Trent as an equal.”

“He is an equal.”

Motions brusque, Al reached for his book. “No, he isn’t,” he growled.

“Yeah? Well, you loved Ceri,” I accused. “You loved her for a thousand years.”

“I. Did. Not!” he thundered, and I cringed when dust sifted from the rafters.

“Fine,” I muttered. “You didn’t.” This had been a bad idea, and I grabbed my golf ball to go home. He was my easy ticket out of here, though, until the sun set and Bis woke up.

Seeing me standing there, chin high and pissed, clearly wanting to leave, Al relented, stiffly pointing for me to take his chair. Relieved and uncomfortable, I did, setting the golf ball back down with undue force before I sat on the hard stool. The spell book was splayed out in his thick, ruddy hand as he came to stand behind me, and I could smell the centuries of ever-after on him, soaked in until it couldn’t be washed off. He’d teach me this, but I was sure our conversation was far from over.