Chapter Text
“I have a surprise for you, little rill. Come to the water’s edge and I will show you.”
The melancholy human child narrowed her eyes in suspicion. As well she should, given our history. And while there would be pleasure in pitting her body against mine in a desperate struggle for the surface, it was not my purpose this day.
She stood, knobbly human fists digging into her fulsome hips. Her curves became pronounced over the past year, heralding the woman she’d become someday. The rest of her remained so small and doll-like that the juxtaposition was almost comical.
It was difficult to believe she’d lived fourteen winters, or that she had only had sixty more to go if fortune smiled upon her. Human lives were so brief. Colorful insects that alighted on the planet for a time and then flew away.
“Do you still expect me to fall for that bullshit after all these years?” she asked, injecting a note of scorn into her voice. “And I have a name, Lamar. It’s Anita. Use it.”
“You are, and always shall be my little rill,” I purred.
As I’d expected, the endearment was met with her immediate and petulant displeasure. Lines formed between her scrunched brows and her full lips pursed. They were a dusky rose and a pleasant contrast to her pallor.
When she was but twelve winters old, I tasted them. Jasmine, sweet rot, and old blood. All telltale signs of a powerful corpse raiser. Better to pluck the budding flower before it blossomed into something poisonous. But she was absent of malice, and the bittersweet taste of her grief had finally stayed my hand. I’d held her under the water for a mere thirty seconds.
From her reaction, you’d have thought I’d tried to drown her in earnest.
“I turned fourteen today,“ she said, crossing her arms beneath her generously proportioned chest. “I’m not a rill.”
“An eddy, then? Or a whorl?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, fuck you.”
“Perhaps when you are older, little rill. For now, I simply wish to give you the gift you are owed. You survived another winter, and I suppose that’s worth celebrating.”
She blew out a breath through her nose, and seemingly against her will, her lips tugged into a wispy smile.
“If you want to give me a gift, you’ll have to come to shore. I didn’t bring a sacrifice or snus, so you’ll probably kill me, birthday or no.”
“So young to be so cynical,” I teased.
“So old to still play games,” she countered. “This will be your... what? One hundred and sixtieth winter?”
“One hundred and sixty-five. And I’ve told you your blood will suffice. I prefer it to the usual fare you offer.”
“And I’d have to come to the water’s edge to give it to you so...” She tapped her chin, feigning deep thought. Impudent child. “No. I don’t think I will.”
There was no dignity walking duck-footed on land, but it seemed a price I’d have to pay.
Anita’s rosy lips parted in surprise when I levered myself onto the muddy bank, my tail already splitting to form a clumsy approximation of a human lower half. Balancing on the damn things was an exercise in frustration, siphoning some of my goodwill toward the child with every lurching step. I would have to practice, so I might catch her unawares and snare her some dark evening. It would only be fair after this humiliation. If my people could see me now...
“What are you doing?” she asked, voice quavering as she watched my unsteady advance.
The near-black of her eyes darted to my groin every few seconds, staring in horrified fascination at the protuberance between my now-human legs. It was the knowing look of a woman, not the ignorant fear of a girl. How swiftly she’d grown.
I dropped to my knees on the concrete floor of the shanty she called a ‘shelter house’. It was only half-built, so I didn’t see what it could possibly shelter her from.
She’d retreated a few steps so her thighs brushed the park bench. It was an unusually mild February, leaving her safe haven relatively unmolested by snow. She always found her way here with a stack of books when she clashed with her father’s new mate or the fingerlings she’d spawned.
I offered her a long-fingered hand. “I am here to offer you a gift.”
She considered my upraised palm with a raised brow. “There’s nothing in your hand, Lamar.”
“I am offering you old magic. Amongst the initiated, it is known as the Riverman’s Gift.”
The creases in her brow grew deeper, and she cast a disgruntled look at the tomes on the bench, as though the musty volumes had somehow failed her.
“You’re making that up,” she said, though her voice betrayed her uncertainty. “I’ve read every one of Great-Grandpa’s journals and he never mentioned anything like that.”
“He wouldn’t have. It is a gift that can only be bestowed upon females, and I am offering it to you.”
I slid my hand into hers, marveling at her warmth. Perhaps that was why human life was so ephemeral. They burned themselves out before they truly experienced anything.
She tried to pry her small hand from mine, using the water still shedding off my skin to twist free. I caught her elbow instead, dragging her forward so she formed an arch over my head. Her springy curls swung forward like a curtain, obscuring an outsider’s view of our faces.
“Let go,” she snapped. “I mean it. Get the fuck off me. This isn’t even close to funny.”
I raised myself up on oafish human legs just enough to trace the shell of her ear with my lips. Her flesh was tender there, and I was tempted to bite. But again, torment was not my purpose this day.
“My word I will not harm you,” I murmured. The skin of her arm pebbled beneath my touch. Cold and fear. “You are more entertaining alive than dead. Trust me, little rill. It is magic and nothing more. If you dislike it, you may return it.”
Her dark eyes scrutinized my face, trying to read a lie into the offer. She scowled at me.
“I know you’re distantly related to the fae, which means you can’t lie to me. But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t lure me to the water’s edge and let one of the others do the deed. I know Viessa hates me.”
I sighed. She was right, of course. My third wife was the jealous sort. And Anita Blake was as beautiful as she was trying.
“My word that Viessa and the others will not attempt to harm you until the moon has waned. You will be safe under my care. The magic I offer you will allow you to escape the interloper’s schemes for a time. Or would you rather face your father’s flaxen-haired mate?”
Anita’s eyes darted toward the road that led out of the reservoir. A car parked in the lot a half-mile away, and the shape of a slender human woman moved slowly toward us, calling her name. Dislike etched itself into the fine features of Anita’s face.
“What does the magic do?” she asked, still trying to tug free of my grasp.
“The spell will make you like me, for a time. Further steps would be required to render you a nixe for good. Twelve hours from now, you will have legs again.” I lifted my face to hers. “Kiss me, Anita Blake, and you will taste freedom.”
The woman’s calls were growing louder. In the pale winter sun, her hair shone like golden flame.
Anita darted another furtive glance in her direction and then whispered, “Twelve hours?”
I nodded.
Sparing one scornful look for the interloper, she leaned forward and pressed her soft, warm mouth to mine.
And the change began.