Bayou Moon te-2

by Ilona Andrews

  Short and plump, Aunt Pete frowned at her, a look of intense concentration on her face. That look was a killer. Aunt Petunia made the best pies, and that’s exactly how she looked when she mixed the crust. Every time Cerise saw that expression, it catapulted her back in time, and she was five years old again, hiding under the table with a stolen piece of piping hot berry pie and trying not to giggle, while Aunt Pete made a big show of looking for the thief and bumping into the table for added drama.

  Unfortunately, this time Aunt Petunia wasn’t working on a pie. The body of the hunter lay on the table, split open like a butterflied shrimp. The organs had been carefully removed, weighed, and placed into ceramic trays. Soft red mush filled the bottom of the trays. It shouldn’t have been there.

  “I like you, child. You bring such interesting things home,” Aunt Petunia said through a cloth mask.

  “Put your mask on,” Mikita boomed.

  Cerise took the mask from his hand and slipped it on.

  “He’s decomposing too fast,” Aunt Petunia said. “In a few hours there will be nothing left. There.” She nodded at the microscope on the side.

  Cerise looked into the ocular. Long twisted ribbons glistening with faint blue flailed among the familiar globules of blood cells. “What is that?”

  “Worms.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “Hold the sass, missy. I don’t know what they are, but they must’ve hatched when the body began to cool and they’re devouring our cadaver. That’s high-grade magic right there. Someone probably was set for life after making these little monstrosities. There is more. Come look at this.”

  She clamped the hunter’s upper lip with metal forceps and curled it up, revealing fangs. “Look at those choppers. And these two have poison glands.”

  Aunt Petunia moved on to the arm. “And here we have claws between the knuckles. The claw goes back like so, the small sack behind it contracts, and we get a nice stream of sticky goo.”

  The small black claw slid back under the pressure of her forceps, and a drop of opaque goo swelled around it.

  “It doesn’t shoot out now, because our boy is dead and the sack is empty, but I’m guessing a jet of about four to five feet.”

  “More like nine,” Cerise said.

  Aunt Petunia’s eyebrows rose. “Nine. Really?”

  Cerise nodded.

  “He’s one sick puppy.” Aunt Petunia leaned back. “Your grandfather would’ve loved this. He would be appalled, of course, but he would be able to appreciate the workmanship. When you change someone with magic this much, well, they aren’t human anymore.”

  No, they weren’t human. Cerise hugged herself. This thing, this was something monstrous and uncontrollable. People she could deal with. People had weaknesses—they didn’t like being hurt, they cared for their family, they could be intimidated, outwitted, bribed … The way the hunter had looked at her had made her hair stand on end. As if she were an object, a thing, something you could break or eat, but not a person. How did you fight something like that? She couldn’t think of anything that would stop it, short of completely destroying it.

  They would need her flash or a really big gun. Or William. William seemed to work very well.

  “So when do I get to examine the other one?” Aunt Petunia peered at her from above her glasses.

  “What other one?”

  “The gorgeous one you supposedly found in the swamp.”

  Cerise raised her arms in the air. “Does nothing stay put in this house?”

  “Of course not.” Aunt Petunia snorted. “I was told he’s so handsome that Murid actually spoke to him.”

  “He isn’t that handsome.” Cerise hesitated. “Okay, yes, he is.”

  “Hrmph,” Mikita said.

  “You like him!” The older woman grinned.

  “Maybe a little.” Understatement of the year. “He’s an ass.”

  “Hrmph!” Mikita said.

  “I believe my son is trying to tell us that we’re offending his delicate sensibilities with our girl talk.” Aunt Petunia grimaced. “You look tired, dear. And you smell like humus.”

  Thank you, Auntie. “It’s been a long week.”

  “Go. Bathe, eat, sleep, flirt with your blueblood. It’s good for the soul.”

  Mikita lumbered off to unlock the door.

  “He isn’t so much on flirting,” Cerise murmured. “Either he doesn’t like me or he doesn’t know how.”

  “Of course he likes you. You’re lovely. He probably just doesn’t get it. Some men have to be hit over the head with it.” Her aunt rolled her eyes. “I thought I’d have to draw your uncle Jean a giant sign. That or kidnap him and have my evil way with him, until he got the message.”

  “Hrrrmph!!”

  “Go,” Aunt Petunia waved her on. “Go, go, go.”

  “All right, all right, I’m going.” Cerise climbed up and stepped out.

  Mikita carefully closed the door behind her and locked it.

  Flirt with your blueblood, yes, yes. Cerise started up the stairs. How do you flirt with a man who doesn’t know the meaning of the word?

  “THREE,” Ruh whispered. “Two …”

  “One,” Spider said.

  * * *

  AN explosion shook the staircase.

  Oh, Gods.

  Cerise whirled, covering the ten steps in two jumps.

  Heavy thuds hammered against the door. A hoarse scream ripped through the cacophony of shattering glass.

  “Mikita!” She pounded the door. “Mikita, open the door!”

  Something thumped inside. Boards splintered with a dry snap. Metal screeched against the stone.

  “Aunt Petunia?”

  A dull thud answered her and dissolved into the drum of drops on metal. The decontamination shower. Someone was alive in there.

  “Mikita!”

  Above her a door banged and people rushed down the staircase. Erian landed next to her, light on his feet. Above him William popped into her view and jumped, clearing the stairs in the single leap.

  “The door won’t open!” she told him.

  He glanced at the door and ran back up the stairs, almost knocking Ignata, her cousin, out of the way. A moment later Ignata ran down, her worried face a pale oval in the tangle of curly reddish hair. “Mom? What’s going on?”

  “Something exploded in the lab. Your brother and your mother are both in there, and I can’t get through. The decontamination shower is on.”

  “Mikita! Mom! Mother!” Ignata waited for a breath. “We must open the door.”

  “We can’t,” Erian said quietly. “They’ve triggered the shower.”

  “They’re hurt,” Ignata said.

  William had taken off. She had no time to wonder where he was going.

  “Erian is right.” It hurt her to say it, but it had to be said. “If we open it, we risk spreading whatever it is they’re trying to contain all over the house.”

  “You two are out of your minds.”

  “There are children upstairs,” Cerise said.

  Ignata stared at her. “They could die in there!”

  “If they do, you can blame me for it later.” Cerise clenched her teeth.

  Richard appeared in the doorway above. “What’s going on?”

  Erian held up his hand. “Noise. Water running.”

  Ignata leaned against the wall and hugged herself, her hands white-knuckled on her forearms.

  A faint scratch cut through the sounds of water. Cerise put her ear to the door. “Mikita?”

  “Here.” His voice came in a hoarse whisper.

  She closed her eyes for a second, overwhelmed by relief. Alive. He was alive.

  “Aunt Pete?”

  “Hurt.”

  Oh no.

  “Can you open the door?”

  “Stuck … tight.”

  “Hang on, Mikita,” she breathed. “Hang on. We’ll get you out.”

  Think, think, think. The magic-treated neutralizing solution would
kill any contamination. She had no doubt about it—her grandfather had taught Aunt Petunia to make it, and his magic never failed. “Erian, do we have any neutralizing solution left?”

  “How much do you need?”

  “As much as you can carry.”

  He ran up the stairs, taking them two at the time.

  Cerise glanced at Ignata. “I need you to move, so I can have room.”

  Ignata climbed up the steps.

  She had to cut the lock out. “Richard, I need a knife.”

  He passed her his knife. She concentrated on the blade. The door was three inches thick. It would take more than one strike.

  Cerise flashed, slashing at the door handle with the blade. A three-inch-long gouge scoured the metal.

  Slash. She broke through the metal.

  Slash.

  Slash.

  Sweat broke out on her forehead. Not fast enough.

  Slash.

  Slash.

  Finished. A ragged crescent cut cleaved the lock from the rest of the door. Cerise rammed the door and bounced off. Stuck tight.

  William landed on the stairs next to her, a roll of pale bubble gum lined with paper in his fingers. He tore a chunk of bubble gum, pressed it against the upper hinge, tore another strip, stuck it on the lower one, peeled the paper away in one single-layered movement, grabbed her hand, and ran up the stairs, pulling her into the crowded kitchen, away from the door.

  “Explosives!” Richard barked.

  The family pressed against the wall.

  A second passed.

  Another.

  The explosion popped, small, almost like a firecracker going off.

  William dropped her on her feet and dashed back down the stairs. Richard followed. Cerise chased them.

  “Mikita, get away from the door,” Richard called out.

  Erian reappeared, carrying a bucket of the neutralizing solution. Cerise grabbed one side of the bucket, he grabbed the other.

  Richard and William rammed the door with their shoulders in unison.

  The door creaked, careened, like a tooth about to fall out, and crashed down. Cerise and Erian heaved and dumped a glittering liquid cascade into the opening. The water fell, leaving Mikita, drenched and pale, holding his mother in his arms as if she were a child. He took a step and crumpled. They lunged forward and caught his big body before he hit the floor.

  SIXTEEN

  SPIDER raised his eyebrows. No explosion.

  “You were right,” he said. “They’re gone and they’ve taken Lavern’s body with them.”

  Gone to the Rathole. Gone behind the wards where they couldn’t be touched. He braided his fingers, thinking. Cerise, Cerise, Cerise. Such workmanship with the sword. A single strike per body, flash stretched over the blade—an almost forgotten skill. But who was with her? Who was the second person in the boat?

  “What now?” Ruh’s yellow eyes regarded him.

  “We could return to the base.” Spider smiled. “But then there is that trace of odd blood in the water. There were three people in that boat. One of them was Cerise, we know that. One of them was her cousin, the thoas. The question is, who was the third person? The thoas had bled and was poisoned. From what we know, it was likely copper poisoning, which would rob him of consciousness. Cerise wouldn’t be able to move him by herself. She had help from her passenger, who was likely a man and a strong one. I want to know who he is. Aren’t you curious, Ruh? I’m curious. It’s such a nice little cottage. Looks very hospitable. I think that I shall call on them.”

  CLARA tugged at the woolen blanket, freeing Urow’s feet. He couldn’t sleep with his feet covered and usually wriggled until his clawed toes emerged from under the blanket. Her gesture served no purpose now. Urow had sunk so deep into his herb-induced sleep that a roar of an ervaurg in his ear wouldn’t wake him. Let alone the feel of wool on his feet.

  She brushed his hair from his forehead, feeling the cool skin of his face. The fever had ebbed, and his breathing slowed to an even rhythm, still a touch too shallow, but steadily improving. Her fingers traced the deep lines at the corners of his eyes. The laugh lines. He called them Clara’s wrinkles. He claimed she was responsible for most of them. Before meeting her, he hadn’t laughed enough to make them.

  She felt tears swelling up and held them back. She had almost lost him. Just like that, he would’ve been gone, ripped away from her.

  For a space of a breath she closed her eyes and dared to imagine what it would be like if he were no longer there. His smile, his strength, his voice, all gone. Her throat hurt. She tried to swallow and couldn’t, struggling with a hard lump until it finally burst from her mouth in a small sob. Nothing would ever be the same. Gods, how do people survive that?

  She opened her eyes. He was still breathing.

  My Urow.

  She blinked the tears from her eyes and looked away to keep from crying, looked to the walls of the room, which bore bundles of dried herbs and small wooden shelves. An assortment of knickknacks filled the shelves: a ceramic cow, painted deep red; a tiny teapot with bright red stars of bog flowers painted on the pale green; a small doll in a cheery yellow and blue dress. She had always wanted a girl, ever since she gave birth to Ry nineteen years ago, and so she had bought the doll, determined that one day she would give it to her daughter. Her gaze traveled to the crib. She finally had her wish. Took three boys, but she had her little girlie. Everything seemed to be going so well …

  Why? Why did the feud have to flare now? Was it because they were happy?

  Urow’s fingers moved under the blanket, and she bent forward, afraid she woke him up. His lips moved a little, but his eyes remained closed, his breathing even. Still asleep.

  She could sit like this till he awoke, watching his chest rise and fall. For a moment it was almost too tempting, but then she had three boys to feed and the dinner wouldn’t make itself. Clara let her fingers graze his cheek one last time and rose.

  On her way to the kitchen, she paused by the shelf and picked up the doll. The painted blue eyes looked at her. A single line made a happy smile on the doll’s face. Five months ago, when she gave birth, she had decided that she was going to wait until Sydney grew big enough to play with the doll before she would give it to her.

  Life was too short and ended too suddenly. If you didn’t take advantage of what you had today, tomorrow it might be ripped from you.

  Clara tugged the doll skirt straighter and took a step to the crib. Sydney lay curled; her blanket kicked free, the dark fuzz of baby hair sticking straight up from her head. Clara tucked the doll in the fold of her daughter’s little arm and put the blanket over them.

  In the kitchen she fired up the stove and checked the fish stock she’d made in the morning. She’d clarified it a good two hours ago by stirring a beaten egg and crumpled eggshell into the pot and carefully simmering it at a near boil to separate the grease.

  It needed more pepper. She checked the glass jar, but there was none left. She could send Gaston out for some water-bright. It wasn’t as good as real pepper but would do in a pinch.

  But then, one of the boys had to stand guard. With Mart and Ry gone, only Gaston remained to keep watch. Those were Urow’s rules, and she would follow them to the letter. Especially now. The soup would survive without the pepper. Besides, when the two oldest returned from herding the rolpies into the shelter, she could ask one of them to fetch some.

  You’d think we are at war. She dropped the sieve into the sink, irritated, stirred up the fire to warm up the stock, and reached into the cold box for the widemouth fish caught by the boys the night before.

  The odd thing was, she liked Gustave Mar. She never cared for Genevieve that much—too smart and too … not prissy exactly, but too … too something. Like she was just born better than they were, with better manners and a prettier face, and she wasn’t unapologetic about it either, as if that was a natural thing to be. Genevieve made her feel like a stupid mud rat. Clara had never cared for the woman
, and her daughters weren’t much better either.

  Clara hacked the fish’s head off with a cleaver and filleted it with deft precise strokes. But Gustave was always pleasant, she had to admit that. Still, he was gone now, and nothing would bring him back. And even if it did, how many lives would it take to rescue him? Nobody was worth that much blood. No matter what that daughter of his thought.

  The stock was close to a boil. She bent and scraped the fish bones off the cutting board into the garbage vat and saw feet in black boots in her kitchen.

  Clara straightened very slowly, her gaze rising from the boots and black trousers to the jacket, to the wide shoulders, and then to the face above the dark collar. It belonged to a blond man of indeterminable age, somewhere between late twenties and early forties. The face was pleasant enough. She glanced into his eyes and froze. They were empty and stone-hard. Trouble eyes. Fear shot through her.

  How did he get by Gaston? She’d heard no noise, no commotion.

  “Limes,” the man said, offering her a handful of the bumpy citrus fruit. “You’ll need some for the fish soup, so I took the liberty of picking some up on my way through your storeroom. I understand the trick is to cut them paper-thin so they’ll float on top of the soup when you pour it into the bowls.”

  Those eyes, they made her want to raise her hands in the air and back away slowly, until it was safe to run for her life. But there was nowhere to run. This was her house. In the next room Urow and the baby lay helpless. Clara kept her eyes firmly on the man’s face. Stay asleep, Sydney. Stay asleep, because if he gets you, I’ll do whatever he says.

  “Well, are you going to take the limes or aren’t you?”

  She opened her mouth, knowing that saying anything was a mistake and unable to help herself. The words came out hoarse. “Get out of my house.”

  He sighed, put the limes on the counter, and leaned against the cabinet, like a black crow come to caw on her grave. “Two people came here less than eight hours ago. They brought a thoas with them and left him in your house. That thoas, who is he to you? Your husband, perhaps?”

  “Get out,” she repeated, moving back. The cleaver in her hand was useless. He’d take it away from her and chop her to pieces with it.