The Undead Pool
Page 32

“It’s a pretty big line,” I said, trying to ignore the sensations that were plinking through me as I sat before Trent. “I’m going to walk the length with Tulpa. I’ve never shifted three auras before. This is going to be tricky without Bis.”
Tricky, but not impossible, I thought as I closed my eyes and brought my second sight up. A sigh of relief went through me as I saw the line. But the grass was moving contrary to the wind. Tulpa noticed too, and the horse snorted, his feet lifting a little higher. If we could just get across, the church was only a few blocks away.
“Ah, Trent?” I said.
“I see it . . .” he said tersely. “You sure you can’t do this at a run?”
“No?” I squeaked out, heart pounding as the line took us. The surface demons hooted, and I closed my eyes, desperately shifting all three of our auras to the resonance of the line. Tulpa nickered, and a shudder passed through me. The awful wind died, and I took a breath, my eyelids cracking open when Tulpa stopped. The howling of the surface demons muted, dulled, and then renewed into the more mundane alarm of a cop car. We were home.
“Thank you,” Trent breathed, and the tack jingled as the horse dropped his head, nosing the mown grass as if wanting to roll in it. We’d made it back, but we’d lost Red.
We were in someone’s backyard, fenced on two sides, with low shrubs separating it from the yard over. There was an inground pool, the soft lights making reflective patterns on the undersides of the trees. It belonged to a witch, I was guessing, by the flowers arranged in an antihex circle by the back door.
“Good boy,” Trent said as Tulpa clip-clopped over the decking to get a drink. “Lots of treats for you tonight.”
Feeling icky, I looked up at the sky. It was just as red as the ever-after, the low clouds hiding the moon and reflecting the emergency lights and fires in the Hollows. The scent of burning furniture had replaced the acidic bite of burnt amber. It was quiet here, but a street over I could hear someone on a bullhorn shouting half-heard demands and the dull thumps of a drum. All hell was breaking loose. Inderlanders didn’t take well to being cordoned off.
“Let’s get to the church,” I said, reluctant to dismount, and from inside the house, a light flicked on. Tulpa lifted his head, prickly lips dripping. A door slammed open, and a dark silhouette showed, a wand at the ready. An outside light blossomed, and I squinted at the bright white light, my night vision completely ruined.
“What the hell are y’all doing in my yard?” a man asked, his anger dulled by the incongruity of a horse, no doubt.
“Leaving . . .” I prompted.
“Thanks for the water,” Trent called. “Sorry about the bushes.”
“My bushes?” the man asked, but Trent had reached around me to take the reins and wiggle his heels into Tulpa. My eyes widened as he sent the horse at a dead run toward them. They were only three feet high, an easy jump, but Tulpa was carrying two and was exhausted.
“Ohhhh noo!” I called out, a thrill running through me as Tulpa crashed through them.
Head up, Tulpa pranced into the street—his hooves tatting out a merry beat as the man shouted at us. I didn’t understand Trent’s mood. He’d just lost the end point of ten years of careful breeding—the foundation for the next generation—and he was laughing as a spotlight from a cop car turned to find us.
“You!” a magically enhanced voice boomed out, and the world was suddenly cast in a white-light relief. “Yes, you on the horse,” the cop shouted when Trent pointed at us. “You’re breaking curfew. Put your hands up. Both of you!”
“Ah, if I let go of the reins, the horse is going to run away!” Trent said from behind me, and then softer, to me, “I don’t particularly want to spend the night explaining things, do you?”
“No. Church is that way.” I pointed with my chin, and when the cop demanded that we dismount, Trent gave Tulpa his head and shouted something elven.
Tulpa sprang into motion. I gasped and thumped back into Trent. His arm went around me, and grinning, I inched myself forward again.
“Ah, shit! They’re running. Hey! Come back here!” the cop shouted, and Trent urged Tulpa into a faster pace, shifting him up onto the lawns to dodge kiddie pools and bikes as we trotted through the Hollows, the cop car following with his siren blaring.
“Ms. Rachel!” came an urgent call from overhead, and Tulpa’s ears flicked when Bis darted through the trees. “I saw what happened,” he said, his skin a dark black as he flew alongside. “Thank the scrolls that you made it to the line.”
“Stop! Or I’ll shoot!” the cop shouted, and outrage shocked through me when a pop cracked through the air. They’re shooting at us? Are you kidding me?
“Damn,” Trent said, sending Tulpa pacing through a side yard to cut to the next street over. “It’s not any safer over here.”
But he was wearing that weird smile I couldn’t figure out when I leaned to look. “That way!” I said, and Tulpa shifted on a dime. “Go!” I shouted when the cop car skidded around the corner, going full tilt the wrong way down a one-way.
We were only two blocks from the church, and Tulpa took a low fence as we crossed another row of houses. From the street we’d just left, the cop revved his engine and backed up, sirens wailing.
“We aren’t getting over the fence at the church,” Trent said, his words a tingling sensation on my cheek. “I’ll slide down to open it. Just get him through.”
“You’re the better rider. I’ll get it!” I said, and then we both ducked when Bis buzzed us.
“I’ll get the gate,” he said, then darted away.
Tulpa’s feet skidded on the hard pavement as we found the next street, and I breathed in the scent of wine as we trotted for a block—until that cop showed up again, spotlight searching. “Hurry!” I shouted. I could see the church steeple. We were almost home.
“What the Tink blasted hell are you doing?” Jenks shrilled, dusting when that cop car whooped his siren, spotlight searching. “You’re on a horse? Seriously?”
“Jenks, help Bis with the gate, will you?” I said, laughing as Trent pushed Tulpa into a soft canter, staying on the sidewalk to hide the prints. Bis had the gate open, and Tulpa snorted at the sudden flash of pixy dust as Jenks’s kids found us. I waved them off, telling them to dampen their dust as Tulpa walked into the garden, head up and his nostrils flaring. We were home.
“You guys stink,” Jenks said as I slid off Tulpa, right after Trent. Knees aching, I hobbled to the gate, closing it and standing on tiptoe to watch the cop car drive past. The cop’s radio was turned up loud, and I ducked down as the searchlight played over the carport, then the church. A slice of it made it through the fence, and my whisper to stay quiet was never spoken as I saw Trent.
He was standing beside Tulpa, holding the big animal’s head in his arms to keep him quiet, lovingly rubbing his fuzzy ears. His clothes were covered in ever-after dust, rumpled and dirty. He looked nothing like himself, and seeing me looking at him, he pulled the black cap off, leaving his hair in complete disarray. His eyes smoldered with the memory of our race. I took a breath to say something, finding no words.
And then the spotlight moved and he was a shadow.
“Nice. Really nice,” Jenks said as Bis sat on the fence, clearly worried as his feet put new dents in it. “I’ve got a horse in my yard. Ivy is going to freak out.”
“Ah, Bancroft and Landon are in custody,” Bis said, his eyes squinched apologetically. “That’s what kept me. I’ll tell them you’re okay.”
“Bis, wait,” I said, but he had already launched himself. Jenks scowled as he hovered before a captivated Tulpa, but he was probably more angry that I’d been in trouble than upset about a horse in his backyard.
“Maybe you should stay the night,” I said to Trent. “If they put Bancroft in custody, they’ll probably lock you up just for fun.”
“I agree.” His voice was soft, and his eyes were on the sky. “Ah, I’m sure the couch will be more than adequate.”
My bed is softer, I thought, then pushed down the thought.
Jenks looked between me and Trent, his dust shifting to an odd silver pink. “We can do better than that. Wayde’s cot is still up in the belfry.”
“Belfry?” Trent loosened the cinch and pulled the saddle from Tulpa, pad and all.
“It’s surprisingly nice up there,” I said. “He fixed it up. Real windows . . . lock on the door.” Lock on the door? Had I really said lock on the door?
Trent turned with the saddle. “Capital. Thank you, Jenks. Can I use your phone? I should tell Quen where I am, and the towers are down.”
Again? Frustrated, I reached for Tulpa’s reins. “I’ll cool him off,” I offered, not wanting to go inside yet. My thoughts were churning. I had no right to be looking at Trent like that. None.
“You sure?” Trent asked, and I started back to the graveyard, horse in tow. The pixy kids were playing with Tulpa’s mane, and the patient horse was taking it well, making me wonder if Trent had a few pixies he didn’t know about in his stables.
“You’d better call Quen,” I said, almost walking into Ivy’s grill. “He and Ellasbeth are going to be worried sick.” A sudden thought stopped me, and I reached into a pocket. “Ah, here are the readings. They’ll probably want them, too.”
“Thank you.” Trent didn’t move as I extended the paper and he took it. He wanted to talk to me. I couldn’t do this, and I turned, pace fast as I led Tulpa deeper into the graveyard.
“My God, you stink,” Jenks said to Trent, his voice becoming faint. “I’ve got some clothes from when I was your size, but you’re going to have to shower before you put them on. I don’t want them ruined. You really smell.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”
Jaw clenched, I stopped in the darkest, most secluded spot in the graveyard. The daydream of Trent in my shower rose back up, and I quashed it. Pulling my borrowed jacket off, I began to wipe the sweat from Tulpa with it. Was it cowardice if there was no way?
My mind said no, but my heart said yes.
Fifteen
The sheets were light atop me, and I languorously stretched a foot down, jerking when it slipped out of its warm spot and into the cold. Feeling fuzzy headed, I looked at the sunlight on my ceiling. It was morning, or early afternoon, maybe. I could hear pixies past my stained-glass window propped open with a pencil. Rolling over, I looked at my clock. The radio was on in the kitchen. It was turned to the news. That was weird. Ivy never listened to the news in the morning.
Trent.
Heart thudding, I sat up. He was still here. Had to be. He wouldn’t just leave, would he?
I lurched out of bed. My blue robe wasn’t going to happen, and as the muted sounds of the announcer droned, I did the hop-scuff into a clean pair of jeans and slipped into a fresh camisole. My hair was a mess. There was no way I was going to go into the kitchen without a stop in the bathroom first; perfume didn’t cover morning breath. It was almost eleven. Trent had been up for hours.
Breath held, I cracked open the door. The smell of coffee dove deep into me, alluring.
“It’s God’s retaliation against the wicked,” a masculine voice said, his vehemence dulled by the radio speaker. “Cincinnati is being visited by God himself in the guise of a blood-borne virus. It will sweep away the undead and leave the clean!”
“That’s dumber than tits on a man,” Jenks said, and when Trent chuckled, I ran to the bathroom for the detangler. My bare feet were silent on the cold oak, and I winced when the door squeaked.
The radio dulled to nothing, and I stood just inside the bathroom, breathing in Trent’s wine and woods scent. There was a water glass on the sink, and one of the toothbrushes Ivy and I had bought for Jenks when he was human-size. The wrapper was in the trash can, and a set of towels, clearly used but folded up, were on top of the dryer.
Trying to be quiet, I got ready for the day. I’d seen Trent’s bathroom. It was bigger than my kitchen and had a closet of equal size attached. I was just finishing my teeth when Jenks slid in under the door, his dust a cheerful silver. “ ’Bout time you got up,” he said, hands in his pockets instead of on his hips as he hovered such that his reflection was easier to see than him.
“You mind?” I said, spitting in the sink. Trent’s glass was sitting there, and after hesitating, I used my hands to get some water as I always did. Yep. No social grace at all.
“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your hair like that before. You going retro eighties?”
Dismayed, I looked at the snarled, frizzy mess. “It’s called going to bed with your hair wet,” I said as I sprayed detangler and tried to comb it. I had a charm in the kitchen . . . but it was in the kitchen. Frustrated, I finally put it in a scrunchie and called it good. The man had seen me in sweats and in a hospital bed. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care.
“You should have Trent over more often,” Jenks said, his wings transparent with motion. “It’s nice talking with someone without having to wade through all that estrogen.”
“I’ll get you a puppy.” Trying for a cool attitude, I gave myself a last look, adjusted my camisole, and headed out. Jenks darted before me, his dust trailing behind like vanishing crumbs in the forest. Trent had his head in the fridge when I came in, and my heart gave a thump. My eyes went to the windowsill and his ring, still under the water glass with Al’s chrysalis. Crap, he probably already saw it. He’s going to know it’s important to me.