The Undead Pool

I pulled myself awake, smiling at Quen as I sat up. He had two plates of food, and I thought it funny that they were paper. It was almost as odd as seeing him in casual jeans and a polo shirt. “I’m not asleep. I was listening to everything.”

Knowing it for the lie it was, Quen handed me a plate. I took it, needing to sit up even more. I couldn’t help but wonder if Ellasbeth had been being nice or if she simply hadn’t wanted me taking part in dinner. Ribs, hot dogs, macaroni salad, baked beans, and chips. Who knew? Maybe they were practicing for the Fourth.

“Lucy,” I said, seeing her sitting on Trent’s lap as he continued to discuss some small point of religious belief with Bancroft under the canopied table. “Did you know that you can hear everything better when your eyes are closed?”

Ellasbeth eyed me from the inflatable pool set beside the fenced-off pool. She looked fittingly perfect in her swimsuit and light pullover with her feet in the water, Ray between them as the little girl watched the water run off her hands as she lifted them, then reached for more.

Lucy, though, settled onto Trent’s lap with a little bounce. Sitting with a new stiffness, she closed her eyes, the picture of stillness for all of three seconds before opening her eyes and sliding down her father’s legs. Wearing a wicked grin, she jumped into the pool. Water hit Ray, and the little girl started crying as Lucy splashed harder. Wailing, Ray clutched at Ellasbeth, and the woman lifted her up, admonishing Lucy to settle down as the dark-haired little girl pouted and glared, clutching Ellasbeth for security. I ate a chip, thinking Lucy had better stop tormenting her sister or she was going to find worms in her hair before her second birthday.

Then I looked up, surprised to see Quen still standing over me. “Can I get you anything else?” he asked, and I glanced at my plate. I wasn’t used to being waited on, and not by someone who could flatten me with magic or martial arts.

“No thanks. I’ve got my iced tea.”

“Mind if I sit down?” he added, his attention on the chair beside my lounger, and I put my feet on the patio and sat all the way up.

“Sure. Go ahead.” I eyed my dog with all the trimmings, then Jonathan. Maybe I’d just stick with the salad.

Quen gracefully sat, the love in his eyes for Ray obvious as he watched Ellasbeth dry her off and help her into a robe. Lucy had taken over the pool, and Ray made her determined way to Trent with a rubber duck in her grip. It was an odd sort of family but it was a family, and I was grudgingly impressed with how Ellasbeth had endeared the girls to her. I hated to admit it, but she seemed to know what she was doing.

Landon came out with two more bottles of wine. Our eyes met, and I looked away, uneasy. Bancroft’s assistant seemed to focus on the very things Bancroft didn’t like about me, making me nervous in his analyzing. Landon was blond, as most elves were. His ears were docked, but he had an earring, giving him a decidedly devilish mien. Dressed like Bancroft, he had the added distinction of a multicolored sash. Jeans and tennis shoes showed under his hem. He was younger, too, his face clean-shaven where Bancroft had a tidy beard and wrinkles. Landon’s accent was midwestern newscaster, every word pronounced with a perfect blandness.

Noting my mistrustful scrutiny, Quen forked a bite of meat off his ribs, his eyes never leaving mine.

“So the goats don’t have to die to be considered sacrificed?” Trent asked as he pulled Ray up onto his lap and the toddler helped herself to his macaroni salad, eating it one shell at a time.

“No.” Bancroft reached for one of the wine bottles Landon had brought out. “It’s permissible to give them to the dewar. The intent of a sacrifice is to deny yourself a wealth or courtesy, and giving it to the church will accomplish that end.”

And put a little jingle in the coffers, I thought sourly.

Shunning the hot dog on the principle that Jonathan had made it, I focused on the chips. Church, temple, holy place. Leave it to the elves to name their church after a flask used to store precious gases. Bunch of hot air.

The snick of a knife leaving a sheath brought my head up, but it was only Bancroft, and I watched him use a ceremonial foot-long frog sticker to open the bottle of wine by running it down the bottle’s length and snapping off the top. Show-off.

“Thank God,” Ellasbeth said, busy toweling Lucy’s hair, the little girl staring at Trent’s salad. “I couldn’t stomach the idea of Trent slitting some poor goat’s throat.”