The Undead Pool

I looked at Ivy’s empty corner, relishing the new quiet of my kitchen. “No, but I think you, me, Bis, and Ivy working together can,” I said softly, and the dust spilling down my front turned an alarmed red. “I just hope they find either Landon or Ayer before sunset. Al is going to be pissed, but he won’t turn me in. He’d be broke.”

Jenks’s dust turned a dismal brown, and I exhaled. “Maybe Al can get them out of me,” I said as I turned to the fridge. I was starved, and the last thing I wanted to do was fight demons on an empty stomach.

But as Jenks and I discussed the leftovers in the fridge and the likelihood of food poisoning, I wasn’t sure I wanted Al to get them out. I was starting to become used to them . . . and the tingle of wild magic they brought to me.

Twenty-Two

Chocolate-chip-scented air rolled out, shifting my hair as I opened the oven door. They’d been frozen dough fifteen minutes ago, thawed by a charm Ceri had taught me and baked as a quick bribe to distract Al while I explained why he should think about his bank account before his pride.

This is so dumb, I thought as I set the pan on the counter and rummaged in the drawer for the spatula. I was going to end up in an ever-after jail cell for uncommon stupidity. If Al didn’t go for it, I’d be spending the next precious twenty-four hours trying to explain to a bunch of demons why I was hosting bits and pieces of the goddess of the species who had enslaved them, warred upon them, imprisoned them in an alternate reality, and then cursed them so their children would be stunted shadows of themselves.

Maybe they had a point, I mused as I looked up, forcing a smile as Jenks darted in, a horsehair in one hand, his crying daughter in the other.

“Rache, tell her that horse is going to eat her,” he said, frustrated sparkles sifting from him when he let go of her and darted into the utensil rack where he kept the wing tape. “I swear, I should just let the stupid animal snap your wing clear off.”

“Tulpa did that?” I said, and he pulled the girl down to stand on the counter where his dust pooled with hers in a beautiful kaleidoscope of silver, gold, and green.

“No, she snagged it when she darted away from him. Hold still. Hold still!” he exclaimed as his daughter awkwardly looked behind herself and held her wing so her dad could fix it. A tiny cut leaked silver dust, mirroring the twin tracks of tears spilling down her face. “Tink’s little pink rosebuds,” he grumbled as he finished and rubbed the sticky stuff from his hands. “Was it worth it?”

Beaming through the tears, she nodded, taking to the air and snitching the horsehair from the counter in passing. In half a second, even the sound of her wings was gone.

“Darn kids grew up so fast,” he whispered, and I felt a flash of guilt for including him in my madness.

“Ah, Bis and Ivy will probably be enough help tonight,” I said, and he spun.

“Bull,” he said, taking a crumb from the counter. “Al doesn’t scare me.”

“He scares me,” I admitted, and Jenks nodded, silent as he nibbled the pixy-size cookie crumb. “I mean it,” I said, pushing a warm cookie off the spatula. “You and Ivy both. This might be too much for Al to stomach.”

“All the more reason to come,” he said, looking toward the street and rising up at the revving of a distant engine and a tinny horn. “Face it, Rachel. You’re stuck with us.” A second horn joined it, and then more engine, closer this time.

“Kids,” I said, hoping that was all it was. “Isn’t there enough going on without getting into an accident?”

“Ah, that’s Trent’s car,” Jenks said, and I jerked upright, the cookie I’d just taken a bite from forgotten. “I mean, that’s his horn.”

“Trent?” A sliver of adrenaline sparked through me, pricking the interest of the nearest mystics, their attention diverting from the minute pigment shades in the paint to my rising flush. “How did he get into the Hollows? We’re under lockdown.”

A car door slammed, and Jenks rose higher. “You got me. That’s him, though.”

“Rachel? Rachel!” came echoing from the street. “I have to talk to you!”

Oh. My. God. He came to stop me, I thought, and the mystics hummed at my alarm, confused that it was not based on possible injury, but . . . embarrassment? Trent knew this was a bad idea. Hell, I knew it was a bad idea. But if he tried to stop me, I’d have to admit it, and then I’d have to do it anyway because, as he implied, there really wasn’t another option.

“Crap on toast,” Jenks said as a thunderous booming echoed in the sanctuary as Trent hammered on the door, and I winced. “I’ll let him in before the neighbors call the cops. Not that they’d come,” he finished as he flew off, his dust a bright sparkle.

Trent is here, I thought, my grip on the spatula almost white knuckled. This was my life, my decision. What he wanted didn’t matter. That fact was very clear. Full of a misplaced anger, I dropped the spatula and snatched up the hot pad.