She was a daughter of Ogenas, according to legend, born from the mighty river-that-encircles-the-world, and sister to the Ocean Queen, the reclusive ruler of the five great seas of Midgard. There was a fifty-fifty chance the goddess thing was true of the River Queen, Hunt supposed. But regardless, the residents of this city did their best not to piss her off. Even Micah maintained a healthy, respectful relationship with her.

Hunt asked, “You see anything unusual lately?”

Tharion’s tail idly stirred the sparkling water. “What kind of case is this? Murder?”

“Yes,” Hunt said. Bryce’s face tightened.

Tharion’s claws clicked on the concrete. “Serial killer?”

“Just answer the question, asshole.”

Tharion peered at Bryce. “If he talks to you like that, I hope you kick him in the balls.”

“She’d enjoy it,” Hunt muttered.

“Hunt has learned his lesson about pissing me off,” Bryce said sweetly.

Tharion’s smile was sly. “That is a story I’d like to hear.”

“Of course you would,” Hunt grumbled.

“Does this have to do with the Viper Queen pulling in her people the other week?”

“Yes,” Hunt said carefully.

Tharion’s eyes darkened, a reminder that the male could be lethal when the mood struck him, and that there was a good reason the creatures of the river didn’t fuck with the mer. “Some bad shit’s going down, isn’t it.”

“We’re trying to stop it,” Hunt said.

The mer nodded gravely. “Let me ask around.”

“Covertly, Tharion. The less people who know something’s happening the better.”

Tharion slipped back into the water, again disturbing the poor crab who’d clawed his way back to the quay. The mer’s powerful tail thrashed, keeping him effortlessly in place as he surveyed Hunt and Bryce. “Do I tell my queen to pull in our people, too?”

“Doesn’t fit the pattern so far,” Hunt said, “but it wouldn’t hurt to give a warning.”

“What should I be warning her about?”

“An old-school demon called the kristallos,” Bryce said softly. “A monster straight from the Pit, bred by the Star-Eater himself.”

For a moment, Tharion said nothing, his tan face going pale. Then, “Fuck.” He ran a hand through his wet hair. “I’ll ask around,” he promised again. Far down the river, motion drew Hunt’s eye. A black boat drifted toward the mist of the Bone Quarter.

On the Black Dock, jutting from the city’s bright shoreline like a dark sword, a group of mourners huddled beneath the inky arches, praying for the boat to safely bear the veiled pine coffin across the water.

Around the wooden vessel, broad, scaled backs broke the river’s surface, writhing and circling. Waiting for final judgment—and lunch.

Tharion followed his line of sight. “Five marks says it tips.”

“That’s disgusting,” Bryce hissed.