The Undead Pool. Kim Harrison

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СКАЧАТЬ it?” Trent’s grip on my hands pulled me closer. My heart pounded. I knew what he wanted. There wasn’t a hint of energy trying to balance between us, but the tips of my hair were floating, and a sparkling energy seemed to jump between us. Trent’s eyes were fixed on mine, and I swallowed. He was feeling it too, a slight pressure on his aura, as if passing through a ley line.

      Passing through a ley line?

      “Do you feel that?” I said, remembering the same sensation on the bridge this afternoon.

      “Mmmm,” he said, oblivious to my sudden disconcertment as he pulled me closer.

      Oh God, he’s going to kiss me, I thought, then jumped at the bang at the shoe counter.

      Trent jerked, a flash of energy balancing between us as he reached for a line.

      My eyes darted to the shoe counter. A dusky haze hung over it. Under the smoke was a hole blown clear through the counter, the plastic melted, and above, an ugly stain on the ceiling. “What the fuck!” came from behind the remains of it, and the two people still on the lanes turned as the counter guy rose up, his beard singed and his eyes wide as he saw what was left of his desk. “Where the fuck are my shoes? Shit, my beard!”

      It was smoldering, and he patted the fire out as a big man with suspenders came from a back room, a napkin in one hand. “What happened?” he said, then stopped short, staring at the counter. “What did you do?”

      “The fucking shoe charm blew up!” the man said indignantly. “It just blew up!”

      My heart pounded. Sparkly feeling, charm reacting with uncontrolled strength: it was starting to add up, and I looked at the couple returning to their game. Not every ball was charmed, but most were. Shit. “Stop!” I yelled as I slid from the stool, but it was too late, and the woman had released the ball. I watched it head for the gutter, then make a sharp right angle as if jerked by a string, bouncing over six lanes to bury itself in the wall with a bone-shattering thud.

      It was happening again, and the woman turned to her boyfriend, white-faced. “Charles?” she warbled.

      “No one do any magic!” I said, voice stark as it rang out. “You in the kitchen! Nothing!”

      Everyone stared at me, Trent included, and my pulse rushed in my ears. Silence pooled up, and from outside we could hear pops and bangs followed by screams. The sirens we’d heard earlier took on a different meaning. A cold feeling slithered from the dark spaces between the realities, winding about my heart and squeezing. It was happening again, and it was worse.

      “All right then,” the manager said, his expression determined as he crossed the bar. Reaching behind the demolished shoe counter, he grabbed a rifle, checking to see if it was loaded before striding to the door. The shoe guy followed, still patting at his beard. The couple from the lanes broke the rules and walked on the carpet with their borrowed shoes, and the cook came out from the back, hands working his stained apron to clean them as he walked.

      Trent slid from his stool, but when I didn’t move, neither did he. It was happening again. Why? Was it me? Trent took my hand. Our eyes met. He looked worried.

      Gun ready, the manager pushed open the door, everyone clustered behind him. Behind him, the sky was a ruddy red. “Good God Almighty,” he said, and I realized it was fire reflecting on the low clouds. “Greg, call 911. The Laundromat is on fire!”

      People pushed outside around him, and Trent reached across me to take my shoulder bag. “Maybe we should leave,” he said, and I numbly nodded as he handed it to me.

      Trent left a healthy tip on the table, and we headed for the door. The feeling of security, of a place set aside, was gone, and I tensed at his hand on the small of my back. We had to go sideways between the people to get out, and the smells hit me as I got too close: aftershave, perfume, grease, adrenaline.

      My gaze went up as we got free of them, and my pace faltered. One street over, a three-story building was on fire, gouts of flame and black smoke rising through the empty shell, windows showing as bright squares and stark black lines. It reminded me of the ever-after, and I stared, listening to sirens and people shouting. Less than a block away, a car was on fire. The nearby apartment building reflected the light as a dozen people tried to put it out with a garden hose. People were coming from everywhere to help, even the sports bar half a block down.

      Across the river, huge swaths of Cincinnati were dark from a power outage, and the gray buildings glowed with the reflected red light against the ruddy night sky. More sirens sounded faintly over the river, and I cringed at the imagined chaos. If it was bad here, it would be worse there.

      Cars were starting up, the frightened jerky motions of the people showing their fear. “It’s not me,” I protested as Trent got me moving. “Trent, Al says my line is fine. It’s not me!”

      “I believe you.”

      His voice was grim, and I waited by his car as he pointed his fob and reached for my door. The car fire seemed under control, and Quen wouldn’t thank me for hanging around.

      “Trent—” I started, gasping when the flaming car exploded. I dropped, pulling Trent down with me. I watched, mouth hanging open as chunks of burning car hit the ground to flicker and go out. A man’s high-pitched scream went to the pit of my being, terrifying as he fell to the ground, but the hose was already on him and the flames were out.

      More people poured into the streets, the high flames and screams bringing the last of the diehards out of the bar to gawk and shout helpful advice. The man’s screaming had shifted to a gasping, pained cry, and the discarded hose spilled forgotten into the gutter. That this was happening all over the city was horrifying. Cincy couldn’t handle this. No city could.

      “Do you think we can help?” I said, and Trent pulled his phone out.

      “I have no signal,” he said, dismayed, and then we both turned to the dark street behind us at a terrified scream. It had come from the sports bar, and Trent’s grip on me tightened at the masculine shout following it, telling her to shut up and that she’d enjoy it.

      My blood ran cold as a woman pleaded that she didn’t want to be a vampire.

      Shit. My mind went to Ivy’s map. Were the misfires and violent crimes connected, or were the vampires simply responding to the overlying chaos? And where in hell were the masters?

      “Let me go!” a woman screamed, her frantic cries muting at the slamming of the door. Behind me, people tried to keep the burned man alive. I was starting to get ticked. Living vampires didn’t just go bad, but there was a lot of fear in the air. Maybe it was too much for the masters to redirect. Pushing past Trent, I started across the street, swinging my bag around and digging through it. I couldn’t do anything to help the burned man, but by God I wasn’t going to walk away and leave that woman.

      “Rachel, wait.”

      If the woman was still screaming, we had a little time. Even so, I didn’t slow down. She’d said vampire, and they usually played with their food. “I’m not walking away,” I said as he fell into step beside me. “We both know what will happen if I do.”

      “No,” he insisted. “Can I borrow your splat gun?”

      I jerked to a stop, the woman’s frightened pleading a horrific backdrop. Shocked, I looked at Trent, my pulse pounding. He wanted to help? “Didn’t you bring anything?”

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