The Undead Pool by Kim Harrison Page A

peered at the book over his glasses. “Step one,” he said loudly. “Sketching the pentagram. You can do that, yes?”
    I blew across the table and picked up the magnetic chalk. “You need a book for this?”
    â€œNo.” He pointedly dropped a colorful square of silk, and I wiped the slate free of stray ions. “I’ve not done it the long way for ages. Any more questions? Then a standard pentagram of comfortable size. The point goes up if the ley lines are flowing into your reality, but down if they are flowing out.” He hesitated, then said sarcastically, “Which way are they flowing, Rachel?”
    Hesitating, I tried to guess. We were about four stories deep. “Has the sun set yet?”
    He cleared his throat in disapproval, and when I turned, he said, “No.”
    â€œThen it’s point up,” I said, mostly to myself as I began to sketch. I’d only recently found out that the ley lines, the source for most if not all magic, flowed like tides between reality and the ever-after. Energy streamed into reality at night, and flowed out when the sun was up, but since there were lines scattered over the entire globe, it evened out unless a line was unbalanced. And if it was, it wreaked havoc.
    I don’t know which is worse, I thought, the soft sounds of the sliding chalk mixing with the snapping fire making a singularly comforting sound. An attack on Trent, or that my line might be wonky. The misfires were coming from Loveland. Damn it, it was my line. I knew it.
    â€œBetter” was Al’s grudging opinion as I finished, but I could tell he was pleased. I’d been practicing. “Crucible in the center, ball in the crucible. As you say, simple stuff.” The snap of the book make me jump, and he added, “Step two. Burn the object to ash. Use a spell to avoid contamination.”
    The crucible was cold against my fingers as I placed it in the cave of the pentagram, and I tried to fold the ball so it would all fit in the copper bowl. We needed the ash, apparently. “Do I need a protection circle?” I asked, and then remembering having burned my fingers this morning, I wedged a tiny portion of the ball off to use as a connecting bridge.
    Al leaned over my shoulder, his lips so close to my ear that I could feel their warmth. “Do you make a pentagram for any other reason?”
    I turned to face him, not backing down. “I do, yes.” Maybe bringing Ceri up had been a bad idea, and I looked across the table to the cushy chair that had been hers, still there although the woman was not.
    Grumbling, he waved his hand in acquiescence, and using the outer circle linking the points of the pentagram as the circle base, I touched the nearest ley line and set a protection circle. Energy seeped in, connecting me to all things, and I let it flow unimpeded as a reflection of my aura stained the usual red smear of ever-after now making a sphere half on top, half underneath the table. I scooted the stool back a smidge so my knees wouldn’t hit it under the table and accidentally break the spell. As I watched my thin layer of smut skate and shiver over the skin of the molecule-thin barrier, I tasted the energy for any sign of bitterness or harsh discord. It was fine. The lines were fine.
    But the fear of being trapped in that inertia dampening charm gave me pause. My nudge to Limbcus’s golf ball had blown it up, and I was gun-shy.
    â€œWe’re waiting . . .” Al drawled.
    Well, it was in a protection circle, I thought, and maintaining my grip on the line, I held the small bit of the ball I’d peeled off in my hand as I carefully enounced, “ Celero inanio. ”
    A puff of black smoke enveloped the ball, and for a moment, the reek of burning rubber outdid the stink of burnt amber. The heavy smoke rolled upward, curling back as it hit the inside of my small circle until it finally cleared.
    In the center of the