The Undead Pool by Kim Harrison

complimentary beers each.”
    It was couples night after all, and Trent turned to me. “Okay with you?”
    â€œSure.” Oh God, what was I doing? This felt more risky than anything I’d ever done with Trent before, including the time we’d stolen elf DNA from the demons. Nervous, I turned to the bar again. The TV was spouting today’s recycled bad news to counteract the love songs, but the love songs were winning.
    â€œI got this,” Trent said as I made a motion to get my wallet from my shoulder bag. He was grinning as he counted out the cash. “We’re on a date,” he told the man proudly as he handed the bills over, and I flushed.
    The guy behind the counter glanced at me, then Trent as if he was dense. “I can see that,” he said. “Let me sanitize your shoes.”
    Setting both pairs on a scratched pentagram behind the counter, he muttered a phrase of Latin. My internal energy flow jumped as a flash of light enveloped the shoes. I knew the light was just for show, but it was reassuring, and I took my shoes as the man dropped them before us. The leather was still warm, stiff from having been spelled so often.
    â€œEnjoy your game,” he said as he handed us a scorecard and a tiny pencil. “All food stays at the bar.” Slumping, he fumbled in a plastic bin. “Here’s your food and beer coupons.”
    Trent was smiling, looking totally out of place despite his jeans and casual shirt as he took his shoes. “Thank you. Lane three?”
    Nodding, the man hit a button on a panel, and it lit up, the pinsetter running a cycle to clear itself.
    â€œThis is so weird,” I said as I fell into place behind Trent.
    â€œWhy?” He looked over his shoulder at me. “I do normal things.”
    Pulling my gaze from him, I scanned the ball racks for a likely candidate. “Have you ever been here? Doing normal things?”
    Trent stepped down from the flat carpet to the tiled floor and our lane. “Honestly? No. Jenks suggested this place when I asked him. But the burgers smell great.”
    Jenks, eh? Thinking I was going to have a chat with the pixy when I got home, I dropped my shoes on one of the chairs and went to pick out a ball. Trent was tying his shoes when I came back with a green twelve-pounder with Tinker Bell on it. Clearly it had been someone’s personal ball at some point, and therefore might have some residual spells built in, charms I could tap into if I guessed the right phrase. Trent eyed it in disbelief when I dropped it on the hopper, but the first feelings of competition stirred in me, and I looked down the long lane and the waiting pins in anticipation. This might be okay. I’d had platonic dates before.
    â€œYou’re kidding,” he said as I sat down and slipped my shoes off to tuck them under the cheap plastic seats.
    â€œThey say you can tell a lot about a man by the ball he uses.”
    His eyes met mine, and feeling spiked through me. Okay, it didn’t have to be completely platonic. Not if we both knew it was the only date we’d ever have.
    â€œIs that what they say?” he asked, head tilted to eye me from under his bangs, and I nodded, wondering why I’d said that. The shoes were still warm, and I felt breathless as I leaned to put them on. Trent slowly rose, his motions out of sync with the sappy love song, but oh so nice to watch. I fumbled my laces and had to start over when he stopped at a rack and lifted a plain black ball with an off-brand logo. “This one looks good.”
    Good. Yeah. What I liked was the way his butt looked, clenched as he held the extra weight of the ball. Slowly I shook my head, and he replaced it.
    â€œBetter?” he asked, hefting a bright blue one, and I shook my head again, pointing at one way down on the bottom of the rack. Trent’s expression went irate. “It’s pink,” he said flatly.
    I beamed, tickled. “It’s