“I think we’re done here,” Sheriff Barnard said when Wilkes had finished. “I’ll prepare a press release declaring that my office’s investigation has concluded the Vanderhei boy’s death was an accident. When all’s said and done, it was.” He glanced at the tank and shuddered. “And I’ll be in touch about a private conference after I’ve spoken to all the parties involved.”

“Sounds good.” The chief shook his hand. “Daisy, you need a ride home?” His voice was kind and concerned. “Or maybe to your mother’s house?”

I hesitated. “Can you give me a minute here?”

“I’ll be outside in the cruiser,” he said.

Once they’d exited through the gaping hole that had once been a front door, I approached the tank. The rusalka rose to the surface again, dank water streaming over her shoulders.

“Hi,” I said softly, touching dauda-dagr’s hilt in what I hoped was a reassuring gesture. “Would you like me to stay here with you?”

The pale, translucent membranes over her eyes flicked open, and she gazed past me toward the ghouls. “Do you trust them?”

“I trust their leader,” I said, realizing as I said it that it was true. “And he’s given his word to keep you safe.”

The rusalka’s gills fluttered weakly. “Him, then. Not the others. I do not want the others here.”

“Is that okay with you?” I asked Stefan.

He inclined his head. “Of course. If you wish, Rafe will give you a ride home.”

Rafe stepped forward, his dark eyes glittering faintly.

Okay, maybe Stefan’s other lieutenant had proved himself to be loyal, and maybe he had the ravening under control, but . . . no. Just no. I wasn’t ready to climb onto the back of a ghoul’s motorcycle anytime soon.

“Thanks,” I said to him. “But I think I’ll take the chief up on his offer.”

Stefan made a slight gesture with his left hand, still holding the sword in his right. Rafe and the remaining ghouls departed without a word. Outside, a full-throated chorus of motorcycles rumbled to life.

The rusalka sank back into the murky waters.

Stefan came toward me, stopping a few feet away. My chest felt tight. I could see the slit over his heart in his black T-shirt where the sword had pierced it, his skin gleaming pale through the rent. “What you did today took a tremendous effort of will, Daisy Johanssen,” he said to me. “And I owe you a great debt.”

I looked involuntarily at my hands, still feeling the residual chill of dauda-dagr’s hilt, the tremor of death.

“I do not speak of dispatching the Outcast,” Stefan said gravely. “I speak of what you did to quell the battle.”

“Oh,” I said. “That.”