The Undead Pool by Kim Harrison Read Free Book Online Page B

He’d laugh his ass off.
    But as we waited for Ivy to return with good news about my car, I shivered in the heat, unable to look away from the crowd and a possible glimpse of that figure in black.
    He’d looked like Kisten.

Three
    I t wasn’t Kisten, I thought again for the umpteenth time as I shook two tiny pellets of fish food into my hand, wiggling a finger at Mr. Fish in his bowl on the mantel. But it had looked too much like him for my comfort, from his lanky, sexy build to his funky sophistication and even his thick mass of blond hair. I’d been so embarrassed I hadn’t even told Ivy. I knew she’d loved him too—loved him long before I’d met him, loved him, and watched him die twice defending me. But those feelings belonged to someone else, and I now knew what vampires were born knowing: those who tried to live forever truly held no future.
    The heat from Al’s smaller hearth fire was warm on my shins, and I soaked it in, worried about the beta resting on the bottom of the oversize brandy snifter, gills sedately moving. The wood fire crackled, and I breathed the fragrant smoke, much better than the peat moss fire that stank of burnt amber that he’d had last time.
    I dropped the fish food into the bowl and turned, glad to see other hints that Al was pulling himself, and therefore me, out of ever-after poverty. I’d seen other demons’ spelling rooms over the last year or so, and they varied greatly as to the theme. Newt’s looked like my kitchen, which made me all warm and cozy. But Al was a traditionalist, and it showed in the stone floors, the glass-fronted ceiling-tall cabinets holding ley line paraphernalia and books, and the smoky rafters coming to a point over the central, seldom-lit raised hearth fire in the middle of the circular room. We didn’t need the big fire for the spell we were working, and Al sat on the uncomfortable stool at his slate-topped table five feet from the smaller hearth. He liked the heat as much as I did.
    The shelves were again full, and the ugly tapestry I’d once heard scream in pain was back on the wall. The hole that he’d hammered between my room and the spelling kitchen had been tidied, and the new solid stone door between the two met with an almost seamless invisibility.
    â€œMr. Fish is acting funny,” I said as I watched the fish ignore the pellets.
    Al glanced from the book he was holding at arm’s length. “Nothing is wrong with your fish,” the demon said, squinting at the print as if he needed the blue-tinted round glasses. “You’re going to kill him if you give him too much food.”
    But he wasn’t eating, simply sitting on the bottom and moving his gills. His color looked okay, but his eyes were kind of buggy. Distrusting this, I slowly turned to Al.
    Feeling my attention on him, he frowned as he ran an ungloved finger under the print to make it glow. His usual crushed green velvet coat lay carefully draped over the bench surrounding the central hearth, and his lace shirt was undone an unusual button to allow for the warmth of the place. His trousers were tucked into his boots, and to be honest, he looked a little steampunky. Feeling my attention on him, he grimaced. It was one of his tells, and my eyes narrowed. Either it was the fish or the charm I wanted to know how to do.
    â€œHe’s just sitting on the bottom,” I said, digging for the source of his mood. “Maybe I should take him home. I think it’s wearing on him.”
    Al peered sourly over his book at me. “He’s a fish. What would wear upon a fish?”
    â€œNo sun.”
    â€œI know the feeling,” he murmured, apparently not caring as he went back to the book.
    â€œHis mouth is funny,” I prompted. “And his gimpy fin is the wrong color.”
    Al’s breath came out in a growl. “There’s nothing wrong with that fish . Teaching you how to identify the maker of