And Kesh . . . she had no idea what was going on with Kesh. Suddenly he was everywhere. He showed up in the morning to escort her down to the dock, saying that then she didn’t have to find a parking spot for the Karmann Ghia (like she couldn’t tuck the tiny car into a corner and then hide it with magic so she wouldn’t get a ticket), and then came to get her when she was done for the day. He carried her diving gear for her as if she were a schoolgirl, and brought her little gifts like flowers or some ancient trinket he’d found on the bottom of the sea.
Their sunset picnics on the beach seemed to have become an every night affair too. She knew she should be grateful for his attention—he was a prince, after all, and a very handsome one at that—but she was getting to the point where she missed her quiet nights burning marshmallows by a bonfire with Chewie in front of the bus.
But she couldn’t figure out a way to tell Kesh she wanted a night off from his company without hurting his feelings (or offending his royal father, which would have been worse). So she spent her mornings with a grumpy ex-Marine and her evenings with a too-charming Selkie, and she was rapidly becoming sick of it all.
In fact, she just felt sick in general. She blamed too much diving, deeper than was truly comfortable even for her, and too much rich food at her nightly banquets-by-the-sea. Not to mention too many nights spent wide awake and staring at the paneled ceiling of the bus, trying to figure out what she was going to do if she couldn’t solve this problem and live up to her title as Baba Yaga. Or if she even wanted to be Baba Yaga at all. Her thirtieth birthday was rapidly approaching, and she still hadn’t made a decision. Although she’d skipped her last couple of doses of the Water of Life and Death, mostly because she just didn’t feel like she deserved to drink the rich and magical elixir that kept her young and boosted her magical ability.
*
KESH SAT IN the battered wooden chair as though it were a throne, his black silk shirt and expensive linen pants as out of place in the dingy, crowded office as an orchid in a field of dandelions. On the walls, faded maps of fishing routes were interspersed with photos of numerous generations of men in boats, men showing off gigantic fish, and the exterior of the building when it was new and shiny and proud.
Across an equally battered metal desk heaped with invoices, bills, and miscellaneous other bits of paper, all held down bits of flotsam reclaimed from the sea, Leo Koetke shook his head wearily. “I’ve told you, Mr. Kesh, I’m not interested in selling the processing plant. My grandfather started it with his brothers, my father ran it until the day he died, and I’m not about to give up on all that history. Yes, we’ve had a rough couple of years, what with the competition from out of the country and the crappy economy, but we’re hanging in there. So I’m afraid you’re going to have to find someplace else to build your luxury condos.”
Kesh leaned back in a chair that creaked in protest, and smiled benignly at the other man. Neither the slightly run-down surroundings nor their short, balding owner impressed him much. But he had plans that would change all that. Power on land was all about money, and Kesh was discovering he enjoyed playing the games that brought him more of both.
“I have heard that the fish are not running well this year and you have had to cut back on hours and staff,” Kesh said in a conversational tone.
Leo shrugged, calloused fingers fiddling restlessly with a chunk of old iron that might have once been part of an anchor. “Some years the fishing is good, some years it isn’t. That’s the nature of the business. In a couple of weeks, it could all turn around.” He started to rise from his seat. “If we’re done here, I have to get back to work. I’ve got a machine down that I have to jury-rig a part for, and it isn’t going to get done while I’m sitting here talking. Like I’ve told you before, I have no plans to sell.”
Kesh didn’t move and the smile never left his lips. But malice gleamed out of his gray eyes. “I have also heard you are behind on paying your workers, you owe money to suppliers, and you had to take out a large loan on the property. What a shame, when your family has owned the building for so long.”
The shorter man subsided back into his chair and glared across the cluttered expanse of his desk. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but none of that is any of your business.”
Kesh raised one eyebrow. “It is true, though, is it not? Just as it is true that if the fish do not return quickly, you will be forced to close your doors whether you wish it or not.” He leaned nearer, suddenly projecting an aura of menace that had been previously hidden from view. “Would it not be better to sell to me now than to wait until you are forced to shut down and get nothing?”