Page 72 of The Rusalka and Mr. Right

“Marina? The girl you just met?”

“Yes, the girl I just met. She didn’t break up with me. I’m talking ‘missing person’ stuff.”

Dad’s voice comes on, serious and low. “Are the police involved? Are you a suspect? Want me to get you a lawyer?”

“What? No! The town is like... putting together a search party, and I’m going over there with her hair brush so they can see if they can track her.”

“Like with dogs?”

Werewolves, maybe.And maybe searching is the normal people word for scrying. “Yeah.”

“Son, you better be careful. They always suspect the boyfriend and—”

“No one suspects me. This town isn’t like that. This town is... It’s full of the best people, Dad.” My voice thickens up as I peel off a layer of tire, zooming out of the parking lot.

“You want us to come up there? We’re coming up there. We still have our suitcases out from visiting Carter.”

“Work...”

“You need us. You and your brothers have always come before work.”

“No... No, it’s okay. Let me get in touch tomorrow morning. We had some really hot weather today and you remember how I told you she works part-time at a local orchard? She might have gotten dehydrated and fainted. You know what, let me call the hospital. I’ll keep you posted.”

“We’re still packing our bags. I haven’t seen my baby boy in a month. We’ll be up this weekend, either way. Okay?”

“Yeah, Mom, sounds good. Sorry to panic. But um... I’m panicking. Praying would be good, you know?”

“We’ll be praying, son.”

Does prayer work on demons?

Maybe not most demons, but for Marina, for the people in Pine Ridge who I can already see filing into the magic shop as I careen up down quaint little streets?

Yep. I’m going to bet it works.

“I gotta go. I’m at the meet-up for the search party.”

“Text us, call us, day or night, you hear?”

“Love you, too, guys.”

I CAN HEAR WATER. SENSEit all around me.

Then why don’t I feel it caressing me? Why am I so weak? Why do I hurt everywhere? How come my skin feels like it’s literally peeling from my body?

Long, sharp things jab at my neck and snarling noises fill my ears.

My eyes fly open, and I see—the definition of hideous.

The Bone Lord is made of black bones that gleam with sickly wetness in the dim light. His face is covered in hanging strips of flesh, round red orbs of eyes glaring at me with poisonous disgust. His tall form is folded and bent, long legs crouched at the knee, towering rib cage curved under his knobby spine so he can peer down at me.

“At least you’re well-fed,” he hisses, jaws clacking. Long bony spindles of fingers rake across my chest—but don’t poke through. He snarls, disappointed. “Well-protected, too. You’re no longer a handmaid.”

I hold my tongue. Appealing to reason doesn’t work with mad demons.

“You’re useless... like this.”

“Like what?” I whisper, throat so raw that I taste blood when I talk. I wonder how long I’ve been out. What’s he done to me while I was sleeping? I flex my sore body, but the pain is only surface, a magnification of what I’ve felt before when I went too long without water. I don’t think he did anything but steal my energy. Even though I’m terrified, I’m thankful for that small mercy.

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