The Undead Pool (The Hollows #12)
Page 40“Yes, of course!” a blonde with a hundred-dollar hairstyle said, beaming as she shoved her cameraman out the door ahead of us. “Well, make room!” I heard her tell him as we followed. “Get a cab! Mr. Kalamack wants to see the inside of my van!”
Jenks landed on my shoulder to tend his torn wing, and Trent’s fingers at the small of my back almost lifted. “Are you okay?” he asked softly. “What happened? Was it the Free Vampires? Did they have the mystics?”
“Yes to all, and I’m okay,” I said, and his shoulders relaxed. “If you hadn’t shown up, it would have gotten ugly. Thanks.”
“It was the least I could do,” he said, words holding a tinge of frustration, but it wasn’t aimed at me. Thankfully he beat my reach for the door, and I kept my mouth shut as he guided me out of it. It was like a party behind us as everyone enjoyed the lingering pheromones, and I squinted as we came out of the noise and into the sun. Shelly was at the van, yelling at her camera guy to make room for us.
“What did you find out?” he asked, and I met his eyes, letting him see my worry.
Besides them wanting to force me to talk to their Goddess splinter? “They’re using the mystics to intentionally kill the masters. Maybe they think the living will toe the line once they realize there won’t be a second life waiting for them.”
“Mmmm.” Focus distant, Trent helped me to the van. “That’s what I was afraid of. It still feels odd to me that vampires are doing this, but even so it’s unacceptable and will be curtailed.”
Curtailed? I’d prefer crushed into a paste, myself. But I couldn’t help but wonder. Would he have cared six months ago? Or simply adjusted his long-term goals accordingly. “This guy, Ayer, is nuts. He thinks that because I can’t control her that elven magic is stronger than demon.”
Trent said nothing, and I looked up, another layer of worry coating me. “It is?” I prompted, and he grimaced, his grip on my elbow tightening as he helped me into the van.
“Mmmm,” Trent whispered again, his breath tickling my ear. “Why do you think the demons tried to exterminate us?”
Swell. Just swell. No wonder Al didn’t like him.
Eighteen
A depressingly few spots of light glowed in the graveyard, flitting about at the edges and looking like lost souls. Jenks’s kids were down to a bare handful. I honestly didn’t know how he managed to maintain his hold on so big a space, unless it was because Jumoke and Belle both were ruthlessly savage with intruders. That, and Jenks was arguably the oldest pixy on the continent and perhaps his reputation was keeping both the pixies and fairies at bay.
The soft snuffing of Trent’s horse was soothing, rubbing out tension caused from the occasional siren and the ominous red glow on the bottom of the clouds over Cincinnati. Curfew was in effect, so of course everyone not human was outside dodging cops. It wasn’t as if the I.S. or FIB could stop them. Tomorrow’s Fourth of July fireworks had been canceled, but the occasional rocket went up in a show of defiance in bright sparkles and noise. Sleep was impossible, and I was in the garden with Bis brushing out Tulpa.
The rhythmic motions and the sound of the bristles on the stallion’s coat were soothing, and I’d continued long after what little dirt I’d found had been brushed away. The horse seemed to enjoy the attention, not minding Bis on his back making braids in his mane. The gargoyle’s wings were out for balance, clawed feet spread wide. His long, dexterous gray fingers were almost the same color as the horse’s mane. I’d caught him once at Ivy’s computer, and the kid could type as fast as a career secretary.
As if understanding, Tulpa nosed the bowl I’d brought the brush and hoof pick out in, both purchased at a local farm and feed store along with an ungodly expensive bale of sweet-smelling hay. It was a small spot of calm after a morning of chaos and fear, and I was reluctant to leave it.
“I don’t think he approves,” I said as Bis finished his braids.
“He likes it,” Bis said, his low voice both gravelly and high. “He told me.”
“Told you, eh?” I kidded him, and Bis flushed a dark black to blend in with the night. The grass was tickling my ankles, and I ran a hand down a leg, giving Tulpa a shove to shift his weight so I could lift it. The hoof was fine, and I set it down with a pat, running my fingers up his leg along the contour of the muscles. My thoughts wound back to seeing Trent pull his shirt off as he stood at the back of Ivy’s mom’s car. I slumped, imagining what it would be like to run my fingers over the lines in his back, feel the tension under them relax at my touch. Stop it, Rachel.
Lunch at Carew Tower had been both a pleasure and a trial—pleasure because not only had I gotten to eat a specially prepared meal, but I’d also embarrassed Trent with impunity, regaling Ms. Shelly with the humorous stories I’d collected over the last three months, and a trial because Trent was his expected Teflon self for the reporter, polite and proper even as his occasional embarrassed smile pegged my meter. That Cincy was falling apart under us didn’t help, slowly turning as we ate until we saw every smoldering fire, every closed bridge, every torn-up park and blocked roadway the Free Vampires were serving up in their effort to make the world a better place.
Sighing, I dropped the hoof pick into the bowl and gave Tulpa a push to head out to the graveyard. He had a few days’ feed there, and now I wouldn’t have to mow it. Jumoke already had plans for the piles he was leaving behind.
Bis moved to a nearby tombstone, and we watched Tulpa flick his ears and huff at the pixies arrowing to him. I hadn’t liked Trent’s noncommittal answer when I’d pressed him again about elven magic being stronger than demon. Sure, humans had been summoning and containing demons for centuries, but containment was not control. Those slave rings, though . . . They had been the ugliest things I’d ever touched.
A dim spot of gold edged in blue circled Tulpa, driving the rest away so the horse could stand and watch the fire-glow from Cincinnati in peace. It evolved into Jenks as the pixy darted to us, circling once before landing on a tall Queen Anne’s lace. “You look better,” I said as the plant swung and bobbed and slowly settled, and Jenks shrugged.
“I taped my wing but it still itches like hell,” he said sourly.
Bis rustled his wings, his red eyes blinking eerily in the dark. “Well, tell her,” he prompted, making me wonder what was up.
Jenks pulled his gaze from his kids tormenting Tulpa. “Bis,” he complained, unusually whiny. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” the cat-size gargoyle prompted.
“But it’s not her who I need to apologize to,” he said, and my thoughts darted to Jenks caught in Ayer’s lantern.
“Bis, we all get tagged sometimes,” I said, as uncomfortable as Jenks. “It happens. We work around it. No big deal.”
“That’s not what he needs to apologize for.” Bis shot Jenks another dark look. “It’s a big deal, and you need to say the words. To her. Now.”
“Ah . . .” Jenks hesitated as he landed on a shoulder, and I started when Bis landed on my other one and bopped Jenks with the tip of his lionlike tail. “Okay! Okay!” Jenks protested, a thin slip of silver dust falling down my front. “I’m sorry for the way that I’ve been treating Trent,” he said, almost belligerent.
Trent? Confused, I looked at Bis, his ugly, pushed-in face inches from mine. He was leaning forward to see around me, his grimace clearly saying he was waiting for Jenks to say more. “Why are you apologizing to me?” I said, thinking that Jenks and Trent had a great relationship, then thinking I never thought I’d ever think that—not in a million years.
Bis cleared his throat, and Jenks’s wings tickled my neck. “Because it involves you,” the pixy said. “I misjudged him. I thought he was all talk, no action. Just a, ah, piece of pretty elf ass. And he is! But . . .”
I stepped over the low stone wall separating the graveyard from the backyard, being careful not to dislodge either of them. Piece of pretty elf ass? “But what?”
Jenks took to the air, hands on his hips as he glared at Bis. “Why don’t you go away?”
“Soon as you say it,” he shot back, his tail wrapping across my back and under my arm.
I stopped where I was, not wanting to go into the church and involve Ivy. Jenks fidgeted in midair, a dull spot of gold in the night. “Don’t say anything until I’m done, okay? Just hear me out.” I nodded, and he added, “Ah, he’s an okay backup.”
Ah-h-h-h . . . Finally it began to make sense. Trent had said he had my back, and Jenks told him it wasn’t his job. I took a breath to protest, holding it when Bis pinched my shoulder.
Jenks’s dust grayed. “He has some inabilities that might get you killed, sure,” he said, and Bis cleared his throat in warning, “but he’s doing okay.”
“Inabilities,” I prompted, glancing at the shadows moving in the kitchen. Ivy, probably, seeing as Nina was zonked out on Brimstone to keep Felix from taking her over.
“You know.” Jenks fidgeted. “Jumping to the wrong conclusion, overreacting. Kind of like you used to be.” He looked up, flashing me a sick-looking smile. “I’m sorry for doubting your ability to pick a good . . . uh, work partner on your own. Okay?” He made an ugly face at Bis, flipping him off as he flew backward.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I said, hand waving in protest. “I can pick a good work partner? Jenks, you’re my backup, not Trent. That’s not changing.”
Jenks’s nasty expression softened, becoming both full of pride and sorrow. I’d seen him look at his daughters like that, and something in me hurt. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Good luck with that. Can I go now, you stinky piece of bat flesh?”
That last had been directed at Bis, and looking as satisfied as Buddha, he nodded. Immediately Jenks darted off. Tulpa was snapping at his kids, ears pinned and tail swishing.
“Jenks?” I called, faltering when Ivy came to the back door. “We’re going to talk about this later,” I muttered at Bis, and the first hints of unease stole over his softly pebbled features.
I slowly climbed the stairs, the weight of three sleepless nights heavy on me. “I don’t know. How’s Nina?”
The screen door squeaked, and Ivy held it for me. “Zonked out and afraid of the dark,” she said, and I thought it one of the most wrong things I’d heard all week—and it had been a week full of wrong. “Landon’s here. He wants to talk to you.
“Landon?” I jerked to a halt just inside the church. “I thought he was in the hospital.”
Ivy nodded, a dark look in her eye. I’d told her what had happened at Trent’s stables and the top of the FIB tower, and seeing as I’d taken care of it in a suitably positive fashion, she was content to let me handle it. But now he was here in my church and I wasn’t sure how I felt.
“What does he want,” I muttered, and Bis hopped to the back of a chair when I leaned to brush the horse dirt off me.
“You want me to get rid of him?” Ivy asked.
Shaking my head, I went to the kitchen for a drink. The lights were high in the sanctuary, and I could hear a pixy buck talking to Landon. The elf wasn’t talking back. “No,” I said as I took a couple of sodas from the fridge. Hesitating, I held one up to Bis, and when he nodded, I grabbed a third. Soda. Landon had watched his boss commit magical suicide and I was going to offer him a pop?
“Want to listen in?” I asked Bis, handing him the three bottles one by one to open for me with one of his long claws.
“Yeah,” he said as he gave me back the first two and kept the last. “I don’t like him.”
“There’s something about him I don’t like, either,” Ivy muttered, her long hair swaying as she leaned to look down the hall.
“That makes three of us,” I said, then wedged off my shoes. Ivy had been looking at them and I didn’t want to track the graveyard through the house.
Ivy made a low noise of discontent as I passed her, and knowing she’d stay out of sight but not out of earshot, I ambled down the dark hall to the bright sanctuary, bottles clinking. Landon was sitting on the couch as I’d seen countless clients, depressed, afraid, perched on the edge of the cushions with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. His expression when he looked up at Bis gliding in behind me was about the same, too, sort of a desperate, you’re-my-last-hope kind of a thing, and I shoved my rescue impulse down deep.
Though scrubbed clean from the hospital, he looked out of sorts in a slightly too-large pair of overalls and boots too big for him. His hair was flat, and his eyes red rimmed. A paper grocery bag with EAT RIGHT FOOD emblazoned on it sat beside him, the top rolled down to a ridiculous shortness.
“Hi,” I said as I sat in the chair across from him. Bis had perched himself on the back of his overstuffed chair, the one he’d found at the curb this spring. Magazines were piled on it since the cushion was blown out, but Bis had a tendency to ruin furniture and it didn’t matter.