Tainted Blood: A Generation V Novel by M.L. Brennan Read Free Book Online

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 tohear 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