Authors: Ilona Andrews
Bayou Moon (10 page)
Holy crap.
Cerise blinked. William’s eyes were back to their normal hazel. She could’ve sworn she’d seen them glow.
What the hell did she get herself into?
“I’m going to kill that damn fish,” William growled.
Oh, for Gods’ sake.
“Crazy necromancers, anal cousin, financial liability, did any of that penetrate?”
“Crazy necromancers, anal cousin, financial liability, did any of that penetrate?”
“That fish is everything that’s wrong with this place.”
“And what, pray tell, is wrong with the Mire?” Cerise could write a book about what was wrong with the Mire, but she’d earned that right by being born and bred here.
He grimaced. “It’s sweltering and damp. It smells of rotting vegetation, and fish, and stagnant water. It shifts constantly. Nothing is what it seems: the solid ground is mud and the fish have legs. It’s not a proper place.”
Cerise smirked. “It’s old. The Mire was ancient before our ancestors were born. It’s a piece of another time, when plants ruled and animals were savage. Respect it, Lord William, or it will kill you.”
His upper lip rose, revealing his teeth. She’d seen this precise look on her dogs just before they snarled. “It’s welcome to try.”
Ready to take the swamp on, was he? Cerise laughed. He glared. She was dying to know what his prissy behind was doing in the Edge, but she’d made the rule about personal questions and she had to stick to it.
“So what’s a proper place?”
“A forest,” William said, his expression distant. “Where the ground is dry soil and stone. Where tall trees grow and centuries of autumn carpet their roots. Where the wind smells of game and wildflowers.”
“Why, that was lovely, Lord Bill. Do you ever write poetry? Something for your blueblood lady?”
“No.”
“She doesn’t like poetry?”
“Leave it.”
Hehe.
“Oh, so you don’t have a lady. How interes—”
“Oh, so you don’t have a lady. How interes—”
Magic prickled her skin. Her hands went ice-cold. A shiver gripped her. Her teeth chattered, her knees shook, and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on their ends. Fear washed over her followed by a quick squirm of nausea.
Something bad waited for them around the river bend.
A familiar revulsion clamped William’s throat and squeezed. His stomach lurched. Invisible magic sparked off his skin.
The Hand. Strong magic, coming fast. Ahead the river bent to the left. Someone from Spider’s crew had to be just around the turn. Could be one man or could be fifteen. No way to tell.
Cerise froze at the stern. Her body trembled.
“Hide,” he said. “Now.”
She maneuvered the boat into the clump of reeds, sank the pole into the river’s bottom, and crouched, keeping them put. He pulled a white coin from his pocket, locked his arms around her, and squeezed the metal.
Here’s hoping the Mirror’s gadgets work.
Here’s hoping the Mirror’s gadgets work.
The coin grew hot in his fingers. A faint sheen of magic flowed from his hand, dripping onto Cerise’s arm, over her jacket and jeans, over his arms, swallowing the whole boat.
Cerise tensed. Her hands gripped the pole, until her knuckles went completely white. The pupils in her irises grew into dark pools.
A reaction to the Hand’s magic. At least the hobo queen wasn’t working for Spider.
Cerise shivered. The first exposure was always the hardest. He had built up tolerance, chasing Spider, but she had none. If he didn’t contain her fast, she’d lose it and break the spell.
William pulled her tighter against him, clamping the pole in case she let go, and whispered into her ear. “Don’t move.”
A large boat rounded the river’s bend.
Cerise shuddered. He clenched her to him, willing the spell to hold.
The magic sheen around them swirled with a dozen hues and snapped, matching the green of reeds and gray of the water with a mirror’s precision.
The boat sliced its way against the current, drawn by a single rolpie. Men waited aboard, holding rifles. Not the Hand’s regulars—the gear was too varied. Probably the local talent. He counted the rifles. Seven. Too many to kill easily. Someone in that crowd had to be from Spider’s crew . . .
A man stood up at the stern. A long gray cloak hung off his shoulders.
The man raised his hand, and the boat drew to a stop. The rolpie’s head poked through the water. The man at the stern pulled off his cloak. He wore baggy pants and no shirt. Too skinny, like someone had wrapped a skeleton in tight muscle and poured a skin of red wax over it.
William ran through Spider’s crew in his head. A couple of male operatives were skeletally thin, but only one had brick red skin. Ruh. Spider’s tracker. According to the Mirror’s intel, he and Spider were joined at the hip. So the sonovabitch was in the swamp after all.
The skin between William’s knuckles itched, wanting to release the claws. One bite on that toothpick neck and Spider would be out a tracker. Seven rifles and fifty yards of water meant he wouldn’t get a chance. Fine, he would get his shot later. Ruh probably tasted vile anyway.
William breathed in deep and even. Hard to kill seven men and the tracker. In cramped quarters on solid ground, maybe. Especially if it was dark. He’d go through them with knife or teeth, and they’d never know what hit them. But out here, if the spell collapsed, they were sitting ducks.
If Ruh saw them, he’d flip the boat in the air, use it as a shield, and make a run for it. The girl would slow him down, but if they got to the cypresses in one piece, he could pick Ruh’s crew off one by one.
Getting to the cypresses would be a bitch.
An older, stocky Edger pulled a line from a wheel bolted to the boat’s bow and caught the rolpie’s long fragile neck in a slip knot. Keeping one hand on the line, he turned the wheel, winding it down. The rolpie jerked, startled, and fought back like a fish on a wire, but the line gripped its neck and dragged it against the side of the boat. With no room to dive and its head trapped above the water, the beast went limp.
Ruh anchored himself on the bow, his bare feet gripping the deck with toes like bird talons. He leaned forward over the water, his body bent to a degree that would’ve pitched a normal human into the river, and stretched his right arm to the water’s surface.
A bulge of flesh grew on Ruh’s shoulder. It squeezed and relaxed slowly, growing thicker with each contraction. What the hell . . .
Ruh moaned. A huge drop of yellow ichor swelled over the tracker’s right deltoid and burst, releasing a tentacle.
Acid burned William’s mouth. Right, if he ever fought Ruh, stabbing him in the back from above, right between the shoulder blades, would be good.
The tentacle shivered above the tracker’s shoulder, like a worm the color of raw muscle, and clung to Ruh’s red skin. Lubricated by the ichor, the tentacle slid, winding its way down the arm. Another followed it, twisting about the first, then another.
Cerise gagged. He clamped her tighter. If she vomited, the body fluid would break the spell.
The tentacles plunged into the water. The rolpie moaned and screamed, trying to get away.
A sickening magic swept over them like an avalanche. If it was wind, it would’ve rocked the boat.
Cerise shuddered in his grip.
Don’t panic. Just don’t panic.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered into her ear.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered into her ear.
Thin tendrils of magic stretched from the boat. Colorless, shimmering like hot air rising from the ground, they snaked their way along the surface of the river, through the reeds, toward them.
If the spell broke, they were fucked.
The magic hovered, waiting, probing. The colorless tendrils lapped at the edges of the mirror spell.
Hold. Hold, damn you, hold.
The coin burned William’s hand. A spasm rocked Cerise. “Almost over,” he whispered. “Almost done.”
On the boat, Ruh peered straight at them.
William held his breath.
The magic tendrils swelled and split, flowing around the boat. They tasted the shore, slithered over the mud, and retreated.
Ruh turned to the Edgers. William strained. His ears picked up the faint sound of Ruh’s voice.
“Girl didn’t . . . this way. Moving on ...”
They were looking for a girl. The girl? This girl?
The tracker pulled his tentacles out of the river. William caught a flash of a complex web, covered with long red eyelash-thin hairs dripping with water, and then the net folded in on itself. The cilia slid into the tentacles; the tentacles rolled into the shoulder like elastic rubber cords, and the skin sealed over it. Ruh massaged the viscous ichor into his arm, rubbing it into the skin like a lotion, and reached for his cloak.
The older Edger released the rope, and the rolpie shot down the river, fleeing for its life and dragging the boat with it.
William waited. A minute passed. Another. Long enough. He let go of the coin. It lay useless and cold on his palm, all of its charge spent. He had to give it to the Mirror. They made neat toys.
Cerise slumped forward, curling into a ball. The parts of her that weren’t covered with dirt had turned so pale, they looked green. The aftereffect of exposure to the Hand’s magic should be hitting her full force now.
If Spider wanted her, then William had to keep her for himself. Sooner or later Spider would come looking for her, and then they would finish the dance they’d started four years ago.
Cerise coughed.
The wild in him bared its teeth. She was weak and scared. Almost pitiful. Easy prey for anybody. He had to guard her or she’d get herself killed.
“They’re looking for you.” He kept his voice brisk.
She clutched at her stomach. Her words came out strained. “No personal questions.”
“That’s the Hand. Louisiana spies. Why do they want you?”
She shook her head.
Fine. The aftereffects of the Hand’s magic became worse with time. He simply had to wait her out, the way a wolf pack waited out a bleeding deer. Sooner or later the deer would run himself into the ground and then it was dinnertime.
William took the pole from her and sank it into the water, propelling the boat upstream.
SIX
CERISE shivered. Icy needles pricked her spine and stabbed into the muscles of her back. Her neck grew stiff. Her mouth had gone dry and bitter.
Something on many furry legs crawled up her arm. She brushed at it but her fingers closed over nothing. Her skin was clean. She rubbed her arm just to be sure, felt the touch of the little legs on her elbow, rubbed there, and then dozens of invisible bugs scattered up her shoulders and back. Stiff insect bristles and tiny chitinous claws scratched her, skittering down her neck. She jerked, raking at herself.
William leaned over to her and slapped her hand.
“Keep your hands off me.”
“I will, if you keep them off yourself.”
“What’s it to you?” she clenched her jacket to herself, feeling the papers in the smooth plastic. Still there.
“That red freak you saw is a tracker. He needs very little, some spit, a few drops of blood in the river, and he’ll know where you are. We’re paddling upstream. If you claw yourself bloody, the current will drag it down, and at his next stop he’ll find out what you taste like. Then they’ll turn the boat around and come back this way with their seven rifles.”
“How do you know?”
He touched his hand to her forehead, and she pulled back—his skin was burning hot. He showed her his palm, damp with her sweat.
“Right now you think there are ghost bugs crawling on your skin. Your heart is hammering. Your tongue’s dried up, and your mouth tastes like cotton; your hands and feet are freezing, but your body is hot. I know this because I’ve experienced it.” He kept pushing the boat.
Don’t scratch.
She hugged herself to keep warm. Her teeth chattered.
Don’t scratch.
“How did you m-m-manage?”
She hugged herself to keep warm. Her teeth chattered.
Don’t scratch.
“How did you m-m-manage?”
William grimaced. “I was a soldier in Adrianglia. We’ve run into the Hand’s freaks before.” He leaned into the pole. “The Adrianglian Mirror and the Louisianan Hand have been fighting a cold war for years. Adrianglia and Louisiana are too well matched. If a real war broke out, it would drag on for years, so instead they keep throwing spies at each other, looking for a back door to a victory. Adrianglian spies use magic, in their gadgets and their weapons. Louisianan spies
are
magic. They’re so altered some of them aren’t human anymore.”
are
magic. They’re so altered some of them aren’t human anymore.”
She knew all that already. “W-w-why does it make you sick?”
“Eventually the Hand’s freaks get so fucked-up they start emanating their twisted magic. That magic is poison to us. It’s like finding a rotten corpse—the stench makes you vomit, so you have no doubt that it’s bad to eat. Same thing here. The more screwed up they are, the worse their magic is. They know it, too. They use it to weaken their prey. Eventually your body will adjust, but until then you’ll be vulnerable.”
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