Malik rubbed the point of his sharp chin. “Yeah, but it would be best if you could put them in at the middle of the river.”
Which meant trekking back to the bridge. Wel , that was where the car was anyway. If this didn’t work out, I had to where the car was anyway. If this didn’t work out, I had to leave soon. We’d been walking for at least an hour, and I stil needed to make it to—and out of—the Eternal Bloom before dusk. Driving after dark wasn’t an option with the extent to which grave-sight had deteriorated my night vision.
The walk back was no more companionable than the first part of the hike had been, and by the time I spotted the gray stone bridge, sweat coated my skin. Gee, I’ll be pleasant-smelling company when I meet Rianna. I wiped damp curls from my face and fol owed Malik to the center of the bridge. He turned to me, nodding without a word. Guess I’m on. Most witches carried fingersticks for activating or personalizing charms, but the only spel s I used that required blood magic were healing charms, and, wel , I was typical y already bleeding if I needed one, so I didn’t have a fingerstick with me. I did have two daggers: the ceramic knife I used to cast circles outdoors and the enchanted dagger. I tended to drag the ceramic knife through the dirt, so it definitely wasn’t sterile, but I was reluctant to give a somewhat aware dagger a taste of my blood. But I’m willing to give a taste to a man-eating horse? It was probably better if I didn’t think about that.
I dug through my purse and pul ed out the ceramic dagger. A quick examination of the blade showed a caked-on smear of mud. I scraped off as much as I could with my fingernail and then wiped the blade on the leg of my pants.
That was about as clean as it was going to get. I would definitely need a disinfectant when I got home.
After pricking my finger, I sheathed the knife and dropped it back in my purse. I squeezed my finger and blood wel ed from the smal wound. Holding my hand over the edge of the bridge, I squeezed until gravity forced a fat drop of blood to fal to the water below. Malik stepped forward after the third drop hit the water.
“That should be enough,” he said, leaning over the stone
“That should be enough,” he said, leaning over the stone railing to stare at the river’s choppy surface.
I dug through my purse until I found a tissue. Pressing the tissue against my finger, I waited, watching the water rush under the bridge. Nothing changed.
After several moments, I shook my head and dropped the tissue back into my purse. “I don’t think it worked.”
“No, look. It did.” Malik leaned farther over the edge of the bridge and pointed at a spot near the center of the river, almost directly where my blood would have hit the water.
I squinted at the dark shape. “That’s a turtle.”
He shook his head. “It’s the kelpie. You cal ed her. You need to identify yourself.”
“Uh, hi. I’m Alex Craft,” I said, feeling stupid talking to what I was pretty sure was a turtle or a fish. The shadow began to sink back under the water, and Malik’s head snapped toward me. His dark eyes went wide, and his hands fluttered as if urging me to say more. “I work with Tongues for the Dead, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The smal shadow stopped. Then it grew larger. And larger. I could have sworn the river didn’t run too deep here, but the shadow grew to the size of a dog and then to the size of a cow. It headed for the bank. Apparently not a turtle. I shouldered my purse and ran toward the bank, Malik at my heels.
A large equine head emerged from the water. The kelpie’s coat was a dank grayish brown like the dark silt and seaweed tangled in the slimy mane clinging to her long neck. She lifted one large hoof onto the bank, and then another, not so much as scrambling as she climbed from the water. Her hooves struck the ground like thunder as she trotted toward me, and I stopped short. She was massive, each hoof the size of a dinner plate, and even in my three-inch boots, I stood only as tal as her large back.
My hand twitched toward the enchanted bridle in my purse, and I forced my fingers away. I wanted to talk with purse, and I forced my fingers away. I wanted to talk with her, if she was wil ing, not jump straight to trickery. No use making an enemy if I didn’t have to. Nevertheless, it was hard to remain stil as the kelpie lowered her head and drew in enough air to make the curls around my face quiver.
She let the air out again, blowing her lips and revealing very sharp—and very unhorselike—teeth.
“You smel delicious, Alex Craft with Tongues for the Dead.” The voice that emerged from her horse mouth was surprisingly feminine and her enunciation perfect. “Sleagh Maith with a mix of mortal? Would you like to go for a ride, little feykin?” She knelt on her front legs to give me easier access, but I backed away.
“No. That’s okay.”