Kim Harrison - The Undead Pool

“Jenks, I’m not in love,” I replied grumpily, ignoring the odd tingle rising through me as Trent crouched to line up his putt. Cincinnati’s ley lines were faint but discernible, the upwellings of power usable even at this distance if not for the course’s ward of no-magic, in place to prevent tampering with the game. I’d found a way around it weeks ago. But it almost felt as if there was a line the next hole over, and I looked back the way we’d come.

That big man in the lime-green pants was standing between the markers with his club. We were too close for them to be teeing off, but even the practice swings were making me nervous. It was only a par three—as in “on the green in one drive.”

“Ah, Rache?” Jenks rose up, hovering by my ear as Mr. Lime-Green Pants swung. There was the crack of a ball, and my heart jumped. “Oh no he didn’t!” Jenks said, and I stiffened, tracking the ball’s path.

“What do you think?” I whispered, skin tingling as if I’d tapped a line already.

“I think it’s going to be a problem.”

“Fore!” I shouted, lurching out into the sun. Heads turned and Trent remained crouched where he was. Instinctively I sent out a ribbon of awareness, easily bypassing the no-magic ward and tapping the nearest ley line. Energy flowed in with an unusual sharpness, burning the inside of my nose as it seemed to come from everywhere, not just the line as I filled my chi and forced the energy back out through the pathway of nerves and synapses to my hands.

My eyes widened as I tracked the ball’s path, energy burning as it flowed in smaller and smaller channels until it reached my fingertips. Shit, it was headed right for him.

“Derivare!” I shouted, hand moving in the simple gesture that harnessed the ley line charm and gave it direction. It was a small spell, one I’d been using for weeks to tweak Trent’s ball to make him slice as I practiced getting around the course’s no-magic ward. It wasn’t much, but it would divert the ball’s path from the green. I didn’t even need a focusing object anymore.

My intent sped from me with the surety of an electron spinning. I watched, breath held as it headed for the ball arching down. Men were scattering, but Trent stood firm, confident that I had this.

And then the charm hit the ball, pain flaring simultaneously from my gesture hand.

I yelped, clutching my wrist as a thunderous boom shook the air, flinging me back to land on my butt. Shocked, I stared as chunks of sod and dirt rained down. Men were shouting, and Jenks was swearing, tangled up in my hair. My lips parted, and I blinked at the car-size crater ten feet off the green and in the fairway. “That wasn’t there before, was it?” I said, dazed.

“No fairy farting way!” Jenks said, my tangled red curls pulling as he worked his way out. “Did you have to explode it? My God, woman!”

My hand burned, and I didn’t dare rub at the stinging red flesh. Dirt and grass was still raining down, and people were running in from all points. From the nearby clubhouse came an irritating hooting. “I think I broke the course’s ward,” I said, awkward as I got up and brushed myself off with my good hand.

“You think?” Jenks sifted a glittering silver dust as he darted in excitement. “A little protective, are we?”

Peeved, I frowned. My control was better than this, much better. I shouldn’t have tweaked the no-magic ward, much less exploded the ball, even if I had shouted the word of invocation. The men in their pastels and plaids were clustered together talking loudly. The other caddies were in their own group, staring at me. Arms swinging aggressively, Mr. Lime-Green Pants strode forward, distant but closing the gap. The rest of his team stayed on the tee.

Calm and relaxed as always, Trent meandered over, squinting at me from under his cap. “Are you okay?”

Embarrassed, I brushed a chunk of dirt off him. “Yeah,” I said, hand hurting. “I mean, yes. Does my aura look funny to you?”

“No.” My head jerked up as he took my hand, turning it over to look at my red fingertips. “You’re burned!” he said softly, shocked, and I pulled away.

“I am so sorry,” I said, hiding it behind my back, but I could feel Jenks sifting dust down on it with the sensation of pinpricks as he checked it out himself. “I only tapped it. It shouldn’t have exploded. I didn’t use any more line strength than any other time.”

Jenks snickered and I froze, mortified as I watched understanding cross Trent’s face.

“You . . .” he started, and I flushed. “All last month?”

“Now it’s out, Rache,” Jenks said, then darted away to check out the crater.

Wincing, I nodded, but Trent’s expression was one of amusement, almost laughing as he touched my arm to tell me he thought me messing with his game was funny. That is, until his gaze went past my shoulder to the man in the lime-green pants stomping down the fairway. Trent’s hand fell from me with a reluctant slowness, and his attention shifted to his team, waiting to find out what had happened. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”

The guilt swam up anew. “I’m really sorry. It shouldn’t have happened. Trent, you know I’m better than this!” I said. But it was hard to argue with a ten-foot hole in the ground.

Jenks hummed close to drop the twisted mass of rubber and plastic into Trent’s hand. “Dude, it looks like a giant spider scrotum. Damn, Rache! What did you do to it?”

Trent held the thing with two fingers. “I’ll take care of it,” he said to make me feel small. “Don’t worry about it. No one got hurt. They can use a sand trap on this hole anyway.”

“Yeah.” Jenks landed on Trent’s shoulder to look right there somehow. “It could have been an assassination attempt, and your charm prematurely triggered it.”

I jerked upright, embarrassment gone. “Excuse me,” I said as I snatched the ball away, wanting to do some postinvocation tests on it later. Eyes narrowed, I turned to Mr. Lime-Green Pants, his pace slowing as he huffed red-faced up the slight rise.

“Rachel . . .” Trent said in warning, and I got in front of him, the ley line humming through me, prickly through the course’s no-magic ward. The alarm had stopped, and the ward was back in place. Not that it mattered.

“He doesn’t look like an assassin,” Jenks said.

“And I don’t look like a demon,” I said, pulse fast. “Do another sweep, will you?”

“You got it.”

“Rachel, it was an accident,” Trent said as Jenks darted away, but there was a new slant to his eyes that hadn’t been there a second ago.

“It blew up,” I said tightly. “Don’t let him touch you.”

Worry crossed his face, satisfying me that he was taking it seriously, and together we turned to the man, puffing and sweating as he stormed closer. “Where the hell is my ball?” the big man shouted, clearly enjoying that everyone was watching him.

Calm as ever, Trent smiled soothingly. “I am sorry, Mr. . . .”

“Limbcus,” the man in the green pants said, and I pulled Trent back a step.

“We had an accident,” Trent said, and one of the caddies laughed nervously. “Please accept my apologies, and perhaps a bottle of wine at the club’s restaurant this afternoon.”

“Bribe? You’re bribing me?” Limbcus shouted, and the first hints of red shaded Trent’s cheeks. “You used magic during tournament play. You interfered with the lay of my ball!”