The Undead Pool (The Hollows #12)(19)
Author: Kim Harrison

We stopped at a light, and I glanced at Trent. His brow was creased, and I frowned. “What happened at the Cincy lockup?”

Edden’s sigh was loud enough to hear. “Apparently the high-security wing was in the path of whatever that was, and it unlocked. Most of the inmates are either dead or gone—”

“They killed them?” I said, aghast.

“No. Anyone using magic to escape died, probably from a misfire. They got it locked down, but I hate to think what would have happened if the sun hadn’t been up. At least the undead stayed put.” The background noise became suddenly louder as Trent turned us down a quiet street.

“The I.S. isn’t handling anything right now,” Edden said, and a ribbon of worry tightened about me. “Rachel, I don’t know the first thing about why a spell shop would explode or what would make a witch’s apartment fill with poisonous gas and snuff the entire building. I’ve got a sorting charm at the post office that took out the back wall of the Highland Hill branch and killed three people. Two construction workers in intensive care from an unexpected glue discharge, and a van of kids treated and released for something involving cotton candy and a hay baler. Even if nothing more goes wrong, I’m swamped. Is there an Inderlander holiday I don’t know about?”

“No.” My thoughts went to Newt’s space and time calibration curse. She didn’t think it was over. “Okay, I’ll be there, but I want coffee.”

His sigh of relief was obvious. “Thanks, Rachel. I really appreciate it.”

“And my car!” I added, but he’d already hung up. I closed the phone and looked at it sitting innocently in my hands. “Thanks,” I said as I glanced at Trent, the streetlights flashing on him mesmerizingly. “You heard all that, right?”

He nodded. “Most of it. It’s a mess.”

“I’ll say. I doubt I’ll come away with anything we don’t already know, but I’ll let you know if I do.”

Again he smiled, a faint worry line showing on his forehead. “I’d appreciate that. We’re here.”

I looked up from putting my phone away. Surprised, I blinked. It was a bowling alley, the neon pins and balls on the sign flickering on and off. Lips parted, I said nothing as Trent pulled his shining car into one of the parking spots beside a dented Toyota. Jenks staying home resounded in me, and the tension from Edden’s call vanished as Trent turned the car off.

“Trent, is this a date?”

He didn’t reach for the key still in the ignition. “You never told me how your car got impounded.”

“Is this a date?” I asked again, more stridently.

Silent, he sat there, his hands on the wheel as he stared at the front door and the flashing neon bowling pins. “I want it to be.”

My face felt warm. A couple was getting out of a truck a few spots down, and they held hands as they went in. A date? I couldn’t imagine holding Trent’s hand in public. Kisten’s, yes. Marshal’s, yes. Not Trent’s. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“Normally I’d agree with you, but I’ve got a valid reason.”

Valid reason. His voice had been calm, but my skin was tingling, and I fidgeted with my shoulder bag until I realized what I was doing and stopped. “Nothing has changed in the last three months.”

“No. It hasn’t.”

I took a breath, then thought about that. He’d kissed me three months ago, and I’d kissed him back. Nothing has changed.

I heard the soft sound of sliding cotton as he turned, and I felt his attention land on me. Looking up, I read in his eyes the question. “Nothing?” I said, my hands knotting in my lap. Things felt different to me. We’d been all over Cincinnati together the last three months, me doing everything from getting him coffee at the conservatory’s open house to discouraging three aggressive businessmen who wouldn’t take no for an answer. We’d developed an unwritten language, and he’d gained the knack of reading my moods as easily as I knew what he was thinking. I’d seen him laugh in unguarded moments, and I’d learned to be gracious when he paid my way into events that I’d never be able to afford. I’d been ready to defend him to the pain of unconsciousness, and I wasn’t sure anymore if it was a job or something I’d do anyway.

But he had another life, one coming in tomorrow on a 747 that didn’t include me.

“I can’t be like Ceri, showing the world one face and my heart something else,” I said, gut clenching.

“I’m not asking you to.”

I looked up from my hands, my breath catching at his earnest expression. “Then what are you asking?”

His lips twisted, and he turned away. “I don’t know. But Ellasbeth is coming back with the girls tomorrow—”

I pounced on that. “Yes, Ellasbeth.” He winced. A second couple was going in, and I looked at the glowing sign. Couples night. Swell. “Trent, I will not be a mistress.”

“I know.” His voice was becoming softer, more frustrated.

“Yes, but we’re still sitting here,” I said, my anger building. “Why are we here if we both know it’s not going to work?”

“I want to take you bowling,” he said as if that was all there was to it, and I flung my head back, staring at the roof of the car.

“Rachel,” he said tightly, and I brought my head down. “Tonight is my last night before the girls come home and my world shifts back to them. I’ve never had time for myself like this. Ever. Quen will be there evaluating me though I know he doesn’t mean to, and until she leaves, Ellasbeth will be doing the same. The girls will be front and center as they’re supposed to be, and that’s okay. But I’ve spent the last three months with you and this incredible freedom that I’ve never had before, and I need to know if . . .”

His words trailed off, and my heart hammered at his expression, both pained and wistful.

“I need to know,” he said softly. “I want to know what a date with you is like so I can look at it and say that was a date. This was business. One date. One real date, with a good-night kiss and everything. One date so I can honestly say to myself that the others were not . . . dates.”

I couldn’t seem to catch my breath, and I looked back down at my hands, all twisted up again. Slowly, deliberately, I opened my fingers and splayed them out on my knees. I knew what he was talking about, and it might not be a bad idea—having a reference and all. But it sounded dangerous. “Bowling?” I questioned, and the worry wrinkle in his brow eased.