Page 74 of The Rusalka and Mr. Right

“Scrying probably won’t work,” Madge says, taking it from me with a grim expression. “Something bad is in town.”

I swallow down the retort I want to make. “Koshchei. The Big Bad K. Can we just stop talking and go kill him? Is that notsomething you guys do?” Maybe all their big plans about knights and horses were just talk.

The room falls silent for a second or two. Mr. Minegold clears his throat. “We are perfectly comfortable dispatching the killers in our midst—but following his path is hard. He was strong enough to rise, but I imagine he’s weak by an elder demon’s terms.”

“So let’s do this the old-fashioned way. Dogs? Cell phone pings? What do you do when there are missing people?” I’m trying to be calm. I tell myself screaming and cursing out all the people standing by a big round table while my Marina could be dead is not going to help her.

She’s alive. I know she’s alive, because I’m still up, moving around.

That’s what I tell myself.

Can’t live without her. My soul would know if something was wrong.

Overdramatic? Crazy?

Yes—but only where she’s concerned.

“Drink this. It’ll brace you.”

A ginormous green orc shoves a flask in my hand. He’s the father of the bride from that wedding I went to—and that makes him Farrah Fenclan’s hubby, I guess. “I need a clear head.” I hand it back.

There’s a flash of tusks and a dangerous light in bottomless eyes. “Drink it, laddie. It’s my wife’s finest healing drought, mixed with my best winter mead—the very last of it.”

What the hell? I take a swig.

Fire and pinballs and Molotov cocktails explode in my throat and up my sinuses—and then the fire goes out and the ashes in my head settle.

I’m calm. Dangerous.

“Where’s the knight? The police officer?” I ask, voice slow and low, the kind of voice meant to cut through clamor.

“Ardy’s already out on patrol, looking for her,” Madge says.

“Who’s got good hearing?” Half the room raises their hands.

“Vampires and wolves do,” Minegold explains.

“Didn’t someone say the cop could turn into a horse?”

“Yes, he is a pooka, so that’s one of his forms. But—”

“Cars can’t go where Marina went on foot. I’ll bet you a million bucks that she went in the river, and that’s where he got her—and that’s why no one saw him in town itself. He got her between Onyx Farms and town, and caught her on the outskirts. But a horse can run the riverbanks and even go in the water, right?”

“True. Calder is already leading volunteers in the water,” Farrah soothes.

“I have Marina’s cell number, and I know the route she takes when she walks home from her job at Onyx Farms.” I take a second, much tinier sip. “Ask the cop to saddle up so we can run her route and listen for the phone ringing. The guys in the water can listen, too.”

“We can scry her phone, if not her! That would be a good place to start,” a woman with a delicate face that reminds me of a sugar skull remarks.

“Good idea, Sera. Can you tell if she’s...” Tess, the redhead with the giant baby bump asks.

“Sera is a morrigan,” Mr. Fenclan whispers.

Like I know what the hell that is.

“As far as I know, she lives. And I know I would be called to collect her soul if she died in my region—I take any souls who lose their battles,” this Sera chick says to me, big eyes luminous and beautiful, out of place in the mass of carved bones and flowers that make up her skin. “She is still fighting.”

I’m relieved—and hurting worse than ever. My baby is fighting, and I’m not there to save her. Protect her. Help her. Hell, just cheer her on. I put my hand over my mouth and nod, unable to speak for a second.

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