the churned-up mud around the building, each of them looking faintly ashamed of itself, like they knew they didn’t belong there.
I sped up. Sam matched me. Fern slowed down.
“I don’t want to go into the murder shack,” she said, in what would probably have seemed like a perfectly reasonable tone if I hadn’t been so eager to get something cold in my stomach and wash away the dust at the back of my throat. I turned and flashed her a smile.
“It’s not a murder shack; it’s a respectable drinking establishment that profits from being mistaken for a murder shack by most of the locals,” I said. “Come on. Don’t you want something to drink?”
“I don’t want to be murdered,” said Fern, uncertainly. “You’re sure we won’t die?”
“Come on. My family’s been going to the Red Angel for generations, and none of us have been—okay, a lot of us have been murdered, but not in the bar, and not by anyone who drinks here. We’re good at getting killed.” I shrugged broadly, trying not to focus on the sour look on Sam’s face. I guess being reminded that his girlfriend had the life expectancy of Bobby’s first grade hamster was hard on his nerves. “No one’s getting murdered today. Come have a beer.”
“I don’t drink beer,” said Sam.
“Come have a fruity cocktail with too many cherries in the bottom,” I said. “I promise they won’t offer you banana liqueur unless you ask for it.”
He wrinkled his nose but stepped forward and slipped his hand into mine. I resumed my trek toward the Angel, the others trailing along in my wake.
The main door faced the lake, a dazzling view that was fairly wasted on the windowless bar. I pulled the screen open, propping it with my hip before opening the actual door and stepping into the cool, dark confines of the Red Angel for the first time in literally years.
It hadn’t changed a bit. That wasn’t a surprise. This was the sort of place that viewed bar fights as the moral equivalent of redecorating and had never heard of modernization. The tables were round, scarred, and ancient, covered in thick layers of dark varnish that rendered them all functionally identical. The mingled scents of sour beer and cigarette smoke hung in the air. Technically, smoking indoors had been banned in Michigan since before I was born, but functionally, the health inspectors had a “see no evil, don’t get swallowed alive by an unspeakable terror from the dark woods” relationship with the ownership of the Angel.
The woman behind the bar was svelte and pale, with Nordic facial features, shockingly red hair, and an apron tied tightly around her waist. A little too tightly for how wide around she appeared to be; it curved inward at the back, like she didn’t have any internal organs to get in the way. That, combined with the swishing lash of her tail, confirmed her species as well as any sort of ID card. Huldrafolk.
Sam, who had entered right behind me, froze and stared at her. Rude. Fern and Cylia stepped around him, heading for the server. Cylia was already relaxed, beaming as she bellied up to the bar.
“Huldra?” she asked. When the woman nodded, she pointed to her chest and said, “Jink.”
“No luck bending inside the Angel,” said the woman. “We’ve had a couple of nasty scares.”
“Understood, understood,” said Cylia. “Can I get a beer? Whatever you have on tap is good.”
“Gin and tonic for me, please,” said Fern.
I turned my attention to Sam. “Hey, honey. You’re allowed to relax now. We’re inside, and no one who drinks here is going to rat you out.”
“That woman has a tail,” he said, in a stiff tone.
“Well, yeah. Cynthia’s been running the bar since my grandmother was a little girl,” I said. “She’s a huldra. They’re from Finland, originally, and they can live for hundreds of years before their skins harden and they turn to stone.”
“My wife is one of the angel statues out back,” said Cynthia, as she slid drinks to Cylia and Fern. “Hi, Annie. Mary stopped by and told me you might be passing through. I admit, I thought she was pulling my tail. Who’s your grim-looking friend?”
“This is Sam,” I said. “My boyfriend.” It felt weird to be introducing him that way to Cynthia, who had been a friend of the family for generations, ever since my great-grandmother had shot her door off its hinges.
“And is there a reason your boyfriend is scowling at me