Bayou Moon te-2

by Ilona Andrews

  The shark ripped a bloody slab of flesh from the rolpie’s flank.

  William yanked a crossbow stock out of his rucksack and pulled the activation. The stock sprouted arms with a faint click. It was the latest in small arms models, only a foot long, and he was under strict orders not to use it unless absolutely necessary. William jerked back his sleeve, revealing a leather quiver strapped to his forearm, plucked a bolt, loaded in a single smooth move, sighted the fish, and fired.

  A white star streaked through the air. The bolt sprouted from the shark’s gills. The bolt head winked with green and exploded in a pulse of magic. The fish launched straight up, out of the river, its black mouth gaping, blood streaming from a hole in the side of its head, and crashed onto its back. The second shark hit the first, spinning it. Blood roiled through the river. The rolpie streaked away, fleeing for its life.

  The injured shark thrashed and dived down. The second fish gave chase.

  The boat crawled downstream.

  William took a deep breath. The rush of the fight still sang through his veins, setting him on fire. He felt alive, more alive than he’d been in the last two years.

  The old woman was right. He had forgotten who he was. He was a wolf and a killer.

  “Thank you,” the hobo girl said.

  “We’re fucked!” Vern announced from the shore.

  THE boat drifted downstream at the speed of an invalid snail. Vern had no trouble keeping up even with his bum leg.

  “They’re bone sharks. The old kind. They swim up from the Weird sometimes and get trapped in the swamp. Of course they die from fresh water in a week or two, fuckers, but meanwhile they do their damage. It’s over.”

  The boat’s bottom slid against soft mud and stopped. About forty feet separated them from the nearest shore and Vern.

  “What do you mean, it’s over?” William said. “It’s over when you get me to Sicktree.”

  Vern stared at him. “Are you daft? We have no rolpies, which means we’ve got no power and we can’t maneuver for shit. Getting to Sicktree on foot would take days.”

  On the edge of William’s peripheral vision, the hobo girl slid into the water. She did it silently, without a splash, and dove under. Even his ears picked up only the slightest hint of sound. The spaghetti queen had hidden talents. Where the hell was she going?

  “Look around you, man!” Vern waved his arms. “That ain’t a park out there. That swamp is gonna kill you. The Broken is only a day away by boat and about three by foot.”

  Everything that could go wrong … “I don’t think so.” William let some snarl into his voice. “I hired you to get me to Sicktree. That’s where we’re going.”

  Vern jerked his rifle up. “Get off my boat, you Weird fop.”

  William raised his crossbow. “Don’t be stupid.”

  Vern sneered. “You ain’t gonna hit me with that toy …”

  A dark figure stepped out of the reeds behind Vern. A slender foot-long blade slid against his Adam’s apple, reflecting light. William blinked. Smooth.

  The hobo girl leaned to Vern’s ear and whispered something.

  Vern’s fingers opened. The rifle fell into the mud with a wet splat.

  The girl pulled the blade aside. William bared his teeth. She was trouble. Good for her, bad for him.

  Vern limped away at top speed, yelling over his shoulder. “I won’t forget this! I won’t. You’ll see.”

  The hobo girl hooked the rifle with her foot and kicked it into her hands. The rifle barrel glared at William. “You’re in my boat.”

  You’ve got to be kidding me. “You can have this boat. You can have the whole damn swamp for all I care. After I get to Sicktree.”

  “That’s a very nice crossbow,” the girl said. “And you’re very good with it. But I can shoot you twice in the time it takes you to load it.”

  William bared his teeth. “Want to test that theory?”

  She smirked. “Are you sure you want to risk being shot? This bullet would make a very messy hole in your chest.”

  William pulled another bolt from the quiver.

  The girl aimed to the left of him and squeezed the trigger. A feeble click echoed through the swamp. She popped the rifle open and swore.

  “I emptied it last night while the two of you slept.” William sighted her. “Vern didn’t strike me as trustworthy. Looks like I keep the boat.”

  She lowered the rifle. “May I ask where you’re going to pilot your new boat?”

  “To Sicktree.”

  “And in what direction do you think Sicktree is?”

  William stopped. The stream had turned at least half a dozen times. He knew the swamp settlement sat somewhere upstream, but where exactly he had no idea. The Mirror had no maps of this part of the Edge, but the parts that they did map looked like a labyrinth of tiny streams, ponds, and mud banks.

  “I take it, you know the way to Sicktree.”

  She smiled. “I do. You should hire me to be your guide. Or you can spend the next couple of weeks blundering around the Mire.”

  She had him. William pretended to consider it. “Hire you? I think the privilege of riding in my new boat should be enough.”

  “Deal.” She started toward the water.

  “There are some conditions attached to my offer.”

  The girl rolled her eyes.

  “One, if you’re thinking of slitting my throat, don’t. I’m faster and stronger than you, and I sleep light.”

  She shrugged. “Fine.”

  “Two, you bathe the first chance you get.”

  “Anything else?”

  William thought about it. “No, that covers it.”

  The girl waded through the water, pulled herself into the boat, and dug in the bow compartment.

  William watched her.

  She pulled a large canvas bundle and dragged it to the side.

  “What is that?”

  “An inflatable boat. All runners carry them just in case.” She patted the larger boat. “This bad boy is meant to be drawn by rolpies. It’s heavy. The inflatable is light and we can carry it if we have to.”

  She pulled the cords, securing the canvas, dug in it, and swore. “Cheapskate. No inflatable—he’s got his sleeping bag stuffed in there.” She rose, stared at the cabin for a long moment, and tugged at the canvas covering its roof. “Are you going to help, Lord Weird? You can, of course, sit on your behind while I sweat, but it will take twice as long.”

  He grasped his end of the canvas and jerked. The camo fabric fell away, revealing a shallow, square-nose boat strapped to the cabin.

  “A punt.” The hobo girl sighed. “We’ll have to pole it like a bateau.”

  William had no idea what a bateau or a punt was, but he didn’t care. It was a boat and it could float, which meant it could get him to Sicktree to the Mirror’s agent who waited for him there. He cut at the line securing the small vessel to the roof.

  “Call me William.”

  “Cerise,” the hobo girl said. “I’ve got a rule, too.”

  He glanced at her.

  “No questions,” she said.

  Now that was interesting. William nodded. “I can work with that.”

  FIVE

  THE punt boat glided over the deceptively calm stream. Small speckled frogs perched on the wide queenscrown leaves. Somewhere to the left among the growth, a reed-walker traveled on long legs, emitting a staccato of clicks from his throat to ward off rival birds.

  Cerise leaned into the pole, discreetly clamping her jacket tighter to herself. The stiff plastic packet hidden in the lining dug into her ribs. Still there. Tracking down Uncle Hugh took longer than planned—he’d moved and she had wasted two days trying to find his new house. Only four days separated her from the court date. She had to hurry. If she didn’t show up with the documents on time, the family would be ruined. She had to move fast, and fast wasn’t easy with a punt boat and some Weird knuckleheaded drylander who thought he owned it.

  Lord Wil
liam sat at the stern. Muscular, fit, wrapped in black leather, and more handsome than a man had a right to be. The first time she saw him, she almost did a double take. He had the whole tall, dark, and lethal thing going. Except at the moment he wore the expression of a man who’d just got a mouth full of soggy spinach. Maybe he was upset that his pretty leather pants got wet.

  Lord William was bad news. That he was a blueblood from the Weird was plain as day: expensive clothes, well-groomed hair, and excellent weapons. She’d felt a spark of magic when that little crossbow went off. And he fired it fast, didn’t even pause to take aim, and still hit that cursed fish in the gills. The man had training, the kind of training bluebloods from the Weird got when they wanted to play soldier. Excellent balance—he walked on the boat as if it were solid ground. Light on his feet. Very fast. Probably very strong, if the muscle on his arms was any indication. Bad news.

  Why couldn’t she have gotten another Edger or some dimwit from the Broken for a passenger? No, she got Lord Leather Pants here. In the Weird, nobles specialized. Some went into academics like her grandfather. Some devoted themselves to civil service. And some became killers. For all she knew, he was one of those multi-talented bluebloods, who cut down trees with their magic and sprouted weapons all over the place at the slightest hint of danger.

  Cerise stole another look. The blueblood was surveying the Mire, and she let herself linger. He had the prettiest hair she had ever seen on a man: dark brown, almost black, and soft like sable, it fell down to his shoulders. She wondered what he’d do if she threw some mud in it. Probably kill her. Or at least try. Not that she had any intention of letting him win that fight. Talented or no, he wouldn’t stop her sword or her magic.

  She scrutinized his face. Strong chin. Narrow face without a trace of softness in it, square jaw, smart hazel eyes under black eyebrows. Interesting eyes, almost amber-yellow. That’s what you looked at in an opponent—the eyes. The eyes told you what sort of person you faced. When she looked into William’s eyes, she saw a predator. There he sat, all calm, but something behind those eyes promised violence. She sensed it the way one killer sensed another.

  Bad news.

  He caught her looking and scowled. “Give me that damn thing.”

  Cerise leaned into the pole. “Don’t worry, you will get your chance when we hit a stronger current. For now, sit pretty and enjoy the scenery. Look, there is a cute Mire gator to keep you entertained.”

  He glanced to the side, where two large yellow eyes looked back at him from a floating clump of waterweeds.

  Let’s see what you’re made off, Lord Bill … “It’s just a baby. Eighteen feet tops. He won’t bother us. They grow much bigger.”

  No reaction. Come on, tiny boat, big gator, that ought to worry anybody.

  “In a few years, he might get to be around twenty-five feet. Some old fellows grow to thirty. We call them ervaurg . Means ‘big eater.’ ”

  Lord Bill appeared unconcerned. Hmm.

  Cerise pushed him a bit more. “The thing about ervaurgs is that they aren’t like normal animals. When you feed a dog, he’ll sit and wait for you to give him his food. When you feed a Mire cat, he’ll grab the treat and rip it out of your hands. Feeding a Mire gator is like feeding a pair of giant, razor-sharp scissors. One moment you’re holding a chunk of cow carcass on a hook above the water and then huge jaws come out and”—she snapped her fingers—“the meat is gone. No tug, no extra weight, nothing. Just jaws and an empty hook.”

  “Doesn’t make much sense to feed them, then,” William said.

  “We do it for leather. A thirty-foot ervaurg packs a lot of leather, but his hide is too hard to make into anything. You might armor a boat with it, but other than that, it’s not good for much. But when they’re young, their leather is supple, so leather merchants breed them on gator farms like cows and kill them off with poisoned meat when they get too big. Mire gator leather is one of our few exports.”

  “It must’ve killed you not to talk for a whole day,” he said.

  Handsome, scary, and an ass. As expected from a spoiled rich blueblood from the Weird. She imagined thumping him on the head with her pole and gave him a bright smile.

  His eyes narrowed. “I get it. You kept your mouth shut to hide the teeth.”

  And smart. Homeless people didn’t have good teeth. Kaldar had stressed that one to her before she left.

  Cerise would’ve preferred a dumb Lord Bill over the smart one—the smart one was more trouble—but in the end, it didn’t matter. She gave her word and she’d keep it. They’d get to Sicktree, and then she’d drop him faster than he could blink. She would just have to watch him carefully and keep her sword close.

  The swamp rolled by, savage and beautiful at the same time. It’d been a few months since Cerise had come this way, but she remembered it well enough. She was Kaldar’s favorite partner in crime for his excursions to the Broken. He’d wanted to come to look for Uncle Hugh so badly even she couldn’t convince him to stay behind. It took Richard. He’d frowned and Kaldar gave in.

  Cerise glanced at the sky. Please keep the lot of them safe in the Rathole. Please. Someone had to meet her in Sicktree to take her back to the house, and she’d agreed to let Urow do it, because he was the best rolpie driver the family had and because he nagged and piled on the family guilt until she couldn’t stand it anymore. Urow was difficult. He was big and strong, and he thought that made him a good fighter. He also had a chip on his shoulder about being included in the family business. She should’ve said no, but she knew it would crush him and so she didn’t. Now that decision was costing her a bundle in frayed nerves.

  But then Urow would come with a boat and a good, fast rolpie, and she was late enough as it was. She would need his boat and his crazy driving to get her to the Rathole on time.

  Cerise brushed the jacket, feeling the stiff packet of papers again. Still there. Hold on, Mom, Dad. I’m coming.

  * * *

  THE woman lay on the floor, curled into a fetal ball. Spider sighed. Her skin had acquired an unhealthy greenish tint. The matter wasn’t helped by a patina of bruises covering her legs and arms. He always believed in the doctrine of maximum pain with minimal damage during torture—he wanted to break her spirit, not her body—and their sessions left only the lightest of injuries. Unfortunately Genevieve insisted on attacking the guards and trying to kill herself in her spare time. Subduing her without causing injuries proved difficult.

  Her attempts grew more and more reckless. This last one was brilliantly executed and almost took her from him. He couldn’t afford to lose Genevieve. Not yet.

  Spider waited by the grimy wall. The place smelled of mildew. Gods, how he despised the swamp.

  Genevieve stirred with a soft moan. Her eyelids trembled and she whispered, “Non.”

  Gaulish. Finally. She had reverted to her native language. It meant he had cracked her armor. Too little, too late. The Hand informed him that the Mirror was aware of his activities in the Mire and had sent an agent. They were unable to ascertain the agent’s identity, but Spider expected the Adrianglians would send their best. The Mirror did produce worthy opponents once in a while, and he couldn’t afford to jeopardize the integrity of the project. Some tough decisions would have to be made.

  “Yes,” he told her in Gaulish.

  Genevieve pulled herself upright. A blue and black ring clutched at her throat.

  “The bruise on your neck looks atrocious,” he continued in the same language. “I have to admit, using magic to strangle yourself with your collar was an elegant move. Tell me, did you learn metal alteration before your parents were exiled to the Edge or after?”

  She stared at him with intense, focused hatred.

  “It saddens me that you hate me,” he said. “I’m being sincere. You’re a scion of one of the oldest blueblood families, as am I. We should be having a civilized conversation, spiced with good red wine and an occasional witty remark. Instead we find ourselves here.” He spread h
is arms. “In the drain for all of the world’s muck, with you reduced to a battered animal and me your batterer.”

  She didn’t answer. He was wrong. She wouldn’t break anytime soon. A pity.

  “It takes approximately five minutes to choke an adult to death,” Spider told her. “That’s why people in my profession prefer to break the target’s neck. We’re frequently short on time. It took my people thirty seconds to remove the collar. At no point were you in danger of suffocating. But in a way you did succeed. You see, now I’m short on time. I can no longer gently choke you and wait for you to comply. I have to break you now.”

  No reaction. As if she were a mannequin.

  He leaned to her. “For Gods’ sake, Genevieve, this is your last chance. The war between Adrianglia and Louisiana is inevitable. It will be fought in my lifetime, if not in yours. The diary holds the key to winning it. Thousands of lives will be spared on both sides, if this war is resolved quickly in a decisive show of force. That’s why that translation is vital to me. I will have it.”

  She spat at him. He leaned just enough to avoid it and shook his head. “I need an answer. Will you translate the diary? Think before you answer, because you will sign your death warrant with the wrong word. Think of your husband. Your daughters.”

  Her cracked lips moved. “Go to hell.”

  Spider sighed. Why did people insist on frustrating him?

  “John?”

  The door opened and John stepped into the cell. Tall, gaunt, and stooped, his clothes perpetually rumpled, the man had a wary manner about him, resembling a neurotic buzzard. Spider had worked with several mages skilled in human alteration, and John was neither the most difficult nor the easiest to work with. He was, however, the best at what he did.

  John dipped his head. “Yes, my lord?”

  “We’ll have to fuse her.”

  Shock slapped Genevieve’s face. “You’re a monster!”

  Spider gripped her neck, swiping her off the floor, to bring her to his own eye level. “The world is full of monsters. I chose to become one, so the rest of my country-men can sleep peacefully in their beds, knowing that their families are shielded by the likes of me. You’ve tied my hands, Madame. Take responsibility for your decisions.”