We drove through Lowell, across the river, and then we were in the small adjoining town of Dracut. After a circuitous path through a labyrinth of tiny interconnecting roads, we finally pulled up to our destination—the small public boat launch to Long Pond. Possibly one of the least inventively named lakes in New England, it was sizable, its upper third quadrant crossing the line into New Hampshire. It was ringed on all sides by tiny capes and slouched houses that probably all dated back to the 1940s or earlier, all cheek by jowl on minuscule lots, the primary appeal of which was a tiny strip of sand and a wooden boat dock that someone’s grandfather had probably built over a few weekends back in the days when building permits were optional and a six-pack of beer was required. A few places stuck out—new construction where someone had bought up one of the old properties, razed it to the ground, and proceeded to shoehorn in a hideous McMansion that overwhelmed the tiny property and completely missed the point of lakeside living.
I parked the car and then grabbed the small deli bag that I’d picked up this morning. The parking area, which in the summer was probably stuffed to the point where cars parked on the grass, was completely vacant now, and the moment Suze and I got out of the car, an icy breeze whipping across the water gave us a clear reminder of why that was. Suze managed to restrain herself to a very speaking glance, and hauled a small blanket out of her duffel bag. It was wool, with a bright argyle pattern, the kind of thing that the elderly tuck around their knees during end-of-season games at Fenway Park.
The dock that we walked down was bleached from years in the sun, but we both sat down cautiously on the spread blanket, well aware that generations of splinters probably remained to attack the unwary. While Suze wrangled the deli container, I pulled a long coil of fishing line out of my pocket, then took up the surprisingly difficult task of tying one end firmly to a raw duck gizzard. Neither the smell nor the temperature was helping, and I was well aware that the easiest route, a hook, would be a very bad idea. I finally succeeded, despite Suzume’s ongoing color commentary of the ordeal, and dropped the gizzard down into the lake. The water was clear enough that we could peer down and see our bait hanging there a few inches below the surface, suspended by my line and already the subject of intense scrutiny by some minnows and one fat sunfish.
We stared in complete silence for five minutes, watching the fish, until Suze finally pronounced grimly, “This is going to take all damn day.” She sent a dark-eyed glare my way, as if somehow this were my fault. “She needs to get a freaking cell phone like everyone else.”
“Pretty sure that phones don’t work that well underwater,” I noted.
“She could stash it in a beaver lodge when she wasn’t using it.”
“Beaver lodges now come with electrical plugs for charging purposes?”
Suze reached down and tugged the line, making the duck gizzard wobble in the water. “How exactly is this supposed to work?”
I’d read the entire file last night, but I was a little hazy on this myself. “I think she somehow smells it?” Suze looked unconvinced, and I defended the theory. “Hey, sharks can smell stuff underwater.”
Looking down critically to the gizzard, currently being nibbled at by fish, Suze said, “It’s a really big lake. Does she usually hang around this dock?”
“Um, I don’t think she has a preferred area.” I passed the deli container over to her. There were a half-dozen other pinkish-grayish blobs of meat still in it, with a matching (and extremely odorous) liquid collecting at the bottom. “Here, pour the gizzard juice out into the water. Maybe that will help.”
The day dragged on while we sat and waited, replacing the gizzard each time the little circling fish managed to completely nibble the bait off the line. For a short time the sun came out and we were warm enough to pull off our hats and gloves, but then the gray clouds rolled back in and the temperature dropped again. We talked while we waited, but they were intermittent conversations at best, since we were both actively scanning the water around us, looking for signs that the rusalka was approaching.
Two and a half hours into our vigil, a ripple in the water a hundred yards out caught my attention, and I nudged Suze with my elbow. We both eyed it carefully—between the lake’s beaver population and one slightly out-of-season loon, we’d had a lot of false alarms. But then the ripple appeared again, closer this time, and my heart began beating faster as I realized that there was a large mass moving under the water.
She broke the surface of the lake about ten feet from us, and her natural camouflage was good enough that if I hadn’t been specifically looking for her, I doubted that I would’ve spotted her. The rusalka was cautious, and the only thing visible was her face from forehead to cheekbone. Her skin was a dull and mottled collection of grays and dark blues that matched the surface of the water almost exactly, and her one visible eye was a hazy white. Then there was a blink, and I realized that what I’d seen was an outer eyelid. The eye now visible was a brilliant blue-green, like a freshly polished aquamarine, but it was a solid color, without a visible pupil or any white.
“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 remain
ing 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.
Tainted Blood: A Generation V Novel Page 4
