Tainted Blood: A Generation V Novel (4 page)

“You can come closer,” I called softly. “I’m Chivalry Scott’s brother, Fortitude, and I came to talk with you. I’ve brought my friend Suzume, a kitsune, so she can keep anyone from noticing you.”

I glanced quickly at Suze, who gave a small shrug. “Shouldn’t be hard,” she muttered. “It’s not like anyone would be expecting to see her.” All of the kitsune have a kind of magic that they refer to as fox tricks—they can hide things that are happening, or make people see only what they would expect to see, rather than what is actually there. I’d seen Suzume once hide a corpse in a way that would fool policemen, cameras, and even morticians—but that had been very difficult. She always told me that working within people’s expectations was the easiest to do.

The eye disappeared beneath the water with barely a ripple, but then a breath later, the rusalka fully surfaced right beside the dock, and it was all I could do to avoid a full jump-reaction. The file that Loren Noka had
prepared for me had included a few drawings, but that was a very different thing from seeing the rusalka in all her glory.

From her waist upward, the rusalka looked superficially like a woman. Her skin was that chameleon-like gray and blue all over, but from a distance it did look like human flesh—though now that she was closer, I could see a slight overlapping pattern to it, like the hide on a shark. What at first looked like a long, coiling head of hair that stretched below her waist and was a mix of black, gray, and blue was actually something thicker, and it moved against the wind, constantly coiling and relaxing, like the strands on a sea anemone. Her eyes were that brilliant aquamarine blue, but set on the sides of her face like a fish’s. She had no nose, and her long mouth opened and shut as she seemed to adjust to the air. The rusalka was no mammal, so her torso was flat, with no unnecessary breast tissue, even in imitation. And down at the waist was what made my throat suddenly go dry. The lake surface began to slowly churn as the rusalka propelled herself higher out of the water, revealing the tangle of dozens of long, powerful tentacles that made up her lower body. She pushed upward until she could rest her arms on the edge of the dock, an oddly relaxed-looking pose that allowed her to fix one of those eyes on each of us.

There was also, it must be said, a distinctly fishy odor emanating from her.

She was a stunning example of the weird directions that nature and evolution can take. Farther off in the lake, two men in kayaks paddled leisurely into view, apparently confident enough in their craft that they didn’t expect to overturn into the icy waters. Suze’s fox trick did its work, though, and one gave us a small wave of recognition, not even registering the sight of an honest-to-god sea monster resting against the dock.

Very typically, Suze recovered first from the reveal,
and, for all the world like a good hostess at a boring cocktail party, extended the deli container forward, with a drawled, “Canapé?”

The rusalka took a deep breath, drawing in the odor of the remaining duck gizzards. Then her mouth fell open into a wide semblance of a smile that revealed a set of teeth that reminded me of a porpoise’s, and with a brisk and oddly throaty, “Don’t mind if I do,” she accepted the container in one webbed hand and tipped the whole thing back like an oyster shooter. I somehow restrained a shudder—the smell of those duck gizzards, even on a cool November afternoon, had not been improved by a lack of refrigeration.

Looking about as pleased as possible with her noseless face and fish eyes (she bore, I couldn’t help but notice, a small but distinct resemblance to the film version of Lord Voldemort), she made a smacking sound with her mouth that I assumed was some kind of compliment to the cook, and set the now-empty container back on the dock.

“So,” I said, drawing on every iota of experience I’d gained during my time in the service industry to just roll with this and preferably get out as soon as possible. “What seems to be on your mind?” From the notes in the file, the rusalka wasn’t much into small talk, and honestly, what kind of social pleasantries were there with a sea monster? Ask how the algae level had been this summer?

“Jet Skiers,” she said, practically hissing the word, and the water became more agitated as her tentacles thrashed in temper.

“Um, I’m sorry?” Whatever issues I’d considered as being the cause of my visit today, that had definitely not been on the list.

But the rusalka was clearly eager to elaborate. “Those awful Jet Skiers. From the moment the lake unfreezes in the spring, through the entire summer, and practically right into winter, not a day goes by that I don’t have to
hear them buzzing those horrid machines up and down the lake. This summer was the worst—it was constant. They drip gasoline, they swamp the canoeists so that I’ve nearly had people dumped right on top of me, and the blades on them are horrendous. Just look at that!” One long tentacle lifted out of the water for our perusal. I noticed that it was the same color as her skin on the top side, but on the bottom, suction-cuppy side, it was a bright, almost electric blue. It also had two long, barely healed slices in it.

Apparently it wasn’t just manatees that were in danger from Jet Skis. “That does seem problematic,” I said, feeling sympathetic. “And you would like my mother to . . . ?”

The rusalka dropped that hazy white lid down over her eyes in a way that in the female of a lot of other species I would’ve called coy. “Well, I can’t kill any of them without your mother’s permission,” she said slowly. “But perhaps if just a few unfortunate accidents started occurring . . . ? I’m sure it wouldn’t take too long before the town authorities stepped in to regulate things.”

Sympathy over injured tentacles only went so far. “We aren’t going to green-light the slaughter of Jet Skiers,” I told her flatly.

Suzume piped up, that familiar foxy glint in her eyes. “I don’t know, Fort,” she said, mock-thoughtfully. “They can be awfully assholish. And if she agrees to take out only the problematic ones—”

The look I gave her told her how very, very unamused I was.

“What?” Suze responded, the hurt tone of her voice completely at odds with the grin that she was fighting to suppress. “I’m sure it would make life a lot more pleasant.”

As if on cue, the loud buzzing of a Jet Ski filled the air, and from the north end of the lake a particularly douchey specimen roared into view, cutting across the path of the
kayakers so that the wake of his machine nearly swamped them. He then turned and went skyrocketing back in the direction he’d come from, leaving the two men frantically trying to right their kayaks and ride out the rest of the waves. The darker-haired of the two, stabilizing himself faster, expressed his outrage in gestures more usually seen on the I-93 interchange into Boston than in the beauty of nature.

I could sort of see what Suzume meant, and it was always difficult to argue against the killing of humans when the ones in question insisted on acting like complete dicks, but still . . . “I’m sorry,” I said, making sure that my tone was firm, “but you are
not
going to be allowed to kill the Jet Skiers. No matter how much they might have it coming.”

There was no doubt about this one—the rusalka was pouting. “I was worried you’d say that.” She sighed heavily, and her tentacles slapped the surface of the water in a desultory fashion that I supposed was meant to convey disappointment. “Things are changing so much. I remember a time when Chivalry didn’t mind if I took a few bites out of drowning victims, as long as I hadn’t been the cause of it. Now I have to stay away from the bodies, even when they’re stuck somewhere for days and I don’t see how anyone would notice one little nibble gone.”

The nostalgia of the predatory species in the territory was always a little creepy to listen to. “I
am
sorry,” I repeated, “but you have to stick to the fish. Birds if you can take them at night when no one will see you hunt. We just can’t risk anyone figuring out that there’s a large predator in the lake, much less that it’s you.”

“It’s terribly crowded now, though. There used to be quiet areas of the lake, even in the summer.” The rusalka’s lower lip gave a small tremble, and she fixed that incredible eye on me again. “Are you very sure that you won’t let me kill just a few of the Jet Skiers?”

Clearly this had been on her mind for a while. If I
hadn’t checked all of the clippings and printouts that Loren Noka had provided in the file and known for a fact that there hadn’t been any unexplained deaths or suspicious drownings in this lake for the last three years, I would’ve been getting worried. “Very sure.”

The rusalka’s tentacles slapped the water a few more times; then she sighed. “Then I think I’d like to ask your family to find me a new lake. Somewhere very quiet, with healthy fish. Maybe in the migratory path of some ducks.”

Despite my instinctual sympathy for any duck populations she found herself around, this was a plan that I could get on board with. Apart from the undeniably problematic Jet Skiers, it looked like the population density of this area was on the rise, which was not a good match with the rusalka. I wasn’t very worried about her ability to keep herself hidden—the background in the file I’d read made it clear that she spent most of her time in deep water, and since there hadn’t been any local rumors about a lake monster, she wasn’t a concern in that area. But there did tend to be higher suicide rates around the lakes where rusalka lived—whether it was a chemical or pheromone they dispersed naturally into the water or something else, it was a fact of their presence. Depression rates would be higher around a rusalka, and suicide clusters common. It made sense, really. The rusalka was native to Russia.

“That seems like a reasonable request,” I said. “Do you have any preferred destination?”

“North.” That eerie hair of hers curled tightly, wrapping around her head and shoulders. “The water temperature is getting just a bit too high in the summer. I noticed it the last few years.”

Somewhere, I thought, some Republican senator had sensed a disturbance in the Force and screamed out that global warming was a myth. “I’ll bring it up with my family and see what we can work out,” I assured her. North
certainly wouldn’t be a problem—if we were looking for a relatively remote lake, we needed to get her farther away from the cities anyway.

She dipped lower into the water, her tentacles now completely hidden. “But no Jet Skiers,” the rusalka said darkly.

“You might have to compromise a little, but I promise that I’ll see what lakes have restrictions.” There had to be some privately owned lakes or lakes in protected areas where the authorities shared the rusalka’s distaste. “Is that sufficient?” I asked as she slid down even farther, until only her shoulders and head were visible. The rusalki were solitary creatures, not known for being great socializers, and I had a feeling that with our business concluded, she was ready to be on her way.

“Yes. My thanks,” she said. There was a sudden flurry in the water, a swatting of tentacles, and a moment later two fat sunfish were flopping on the argyle blanket between me and Suze, and the rusalka was gone.

We both stared at the flopping, gasping fish for a second. “Maybe that’s her version of a fruit basket?” I ventured.

“So tossing them back in is out of the question,” Suze agreed, and made a face. “Your Fiesta doesn’t smell good at the best of times, but this might be a tipping point.”

Almost three hours of sitting on a windy dock had left me with a desire to get somewhere with heating that was stronger than my inclination to defend the honor of my car, so we stuffed the fish into the deli container and headed back to the Fiesta. We dumped the now very dead fish four streets away, where we hoped they would make some stray cat extremely happy. By mutual decision, we then broke out the smartphones and made a beeline for the nearest pizza place. While the duck gizzards and the rusalka had not been very pleasant, we’d missed lunch and it was now almost four o’clock.

I couldn’t vouch for Suzume, but I hit up the Purell dispenser in the bathroom with more than usual vigor.

Once I’d decontaminated myself as much as possible, I settled back into the booth where Suze was already flipping through the menu. She’d taken off her parka for the first time that day and now looked much happier.

“If we ever have to do that again, I’m doing it on four paws. My winter coat is all grown in now, and I would’ve been much more comfortable.”

“Plus you could’ve eaten those fish she tossed us,” I noted. “Would’ve saved you the cost of dinner.”

She looked up from the menu, clearly affronted. “What, I sit on a dock all day with you to visit something that is probably going to give me tentacle-hentai nightmares, and you can’t even spring for half a pizza?”

When we’d first met, that would’ve had me lunging for my wallet. But I knew Suzume well enough to know how much of her indignation was just an act. “If this is a date, I’ll pay. But if it isn’t, we really should make sure to ask for a split check. You know, so everything’s clear.” I gave her my most agreeable smile, watching her eyes narrow.

“So your argument here is that I should date you to get some free food?”

“I’m just saying that there are some perks.” She made a grumbling sound, and I grinned. “In fact, as a show of good faith, I’ll even get you a beer.”

It was an old joke between us, and she couldn’t hold back her laugh. “Well, that’s the kind of big gesture that can get a woman’s attention,” she teased, deliberately flipping her pigtails.

“Pizza and beer, Suze,” I deadpanned. “I have it on excellent authority that they go together.”

Suze pushed her menu away as the waitress came up. “Large pizza, half vegetarian, half meat lover’s,” she rattled off our standard order as the poor woman, who had
only expected to take the drinks, scrambled for her order pad. Suze paused for a moment and looked back at me, tilting her head in that very vulpine way of hers. Not looking away from me, she said, “Split the checks. But,” she amended emphatically, “the beer goes on
his
.” When the waitress left, she gave me a chiding look. “Don’t try to bribe me, Fort.”