Authors: Ilona Andrews
Bayou Moon (14 page)
William leaned back, watching her through half-closed eyes. “You want to know about the bat?”
“For starters.”
“They’re called deaders. I’m Adrianglian. I told you—we’re all about gadgets and toys that amplify our magic. Some people have implants; some use military-grade magic amplifiers. Louisiana went the other way. They undergo permanent, irreparable body modification that makes them into freaks. Some of them sprout tentacles from their asses. Some spit poisoned barbs. From what I’ve heard, the kind of shit they do to their bodies is banned in other countries. The tracker you saw on the river—he wasn’t born that way. The ambusher didn’t grow all that armor by himself either. They cooked them up somewhere.”
The armored freak was ugly, but the tracker deeply disturbed her. Something about watching those tentacles slither awoke a primal, deep-seated revulsion. She would never manage to scrub that image out of her mind, and she couldn’t wait to pay him back. “I’ll kill that tracker one day.”
“Get in line.”
The two of them grimaced at each other.
“The Hand uses a kind of necromancer, a scout master,” William said. “You said your cousin was a necromancer. You know how the natural necromancers operate?”
They twisted the head off your favorite doll, stuffed a dead bird into it, and made it walk around. And then they were puzzled why you got upset. “More than I ever want to.”
“Well, this one takes it to a whole new level. A scout master sheds chunks of himself and stuffs them into corpses, turning them into deaders.”
Ew. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”
He shook his head. “These deaders become a part of him. He sees what they see. Then he finds himself a nice quiet spot, sends them out, and waits for the reports to roll in.”
“That is incredibly disgusting.”
“My turn.” William leaned in, his hazel eyes fixing her with a direct stare. It was an odd gaze, magnetic and powerful, but betraying nothing. His voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, and Cerise leaned closer to hear it. She could’ve stared into those eyes for a thousand years and never noticed the time passing by.
“Why does the Hand want you?”
“That’s a neat trick you do with your eyes, Lord William,” she murmured. “Very scary.”
“Answer the question.”
“They have my parents.”
“Why?”
She smiled at him. He actually thought he’d get an equal trade. “That’s a second question. What are you doing in the Mire?”
“Looking for something that was stolen from my family. It’s an heirloom, a ring. It was given to us by an Anglian king back on the Old Continent. The man who stole it ended up here, and I have to retrieve it.”
If his family was truly that old, he should have been able to flash. He shot a crossbow, he was a master with a knife, and he could probably mow through opponents with his bare hands, but so far he hadn’t flashed. Probably because he couldn’t. He shouldn’t have survived the trip to the Broken either. Cerise smiled to herself. She had guessed right. Someone in Lord William’s long list of ancestors had dipped a toe in some muddy waters—the blood of either an Edger or a migrant from the Broken flowed through his veins.
“Why did the Hand kidnap your parents?” William asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
She shook her head. “Our family is in a feud. Has been for the last eighty years. One generation slaughters each other, the feud dies down until the next crop of people grows up, and then we go at it again. A few days ago, my parents left to check an old house on the edge of our land. When they didn’t come back, I went out to look for them. I found the family we’re feuding with on the property. They told me the Hand took my parents. They neglected to mention why.”
“You didn’t do anything about them being on your land?”
She caught a hint of disapproval in his voice. Fury bubbled up in her. “That’s an extra question, William. But fine. I’ll answer it. I had three horsemen; they had six rifles. I did the math and the results weren’t in my favor. But don’t worry on my behalf. I’ll see the light fade from their eyes before this is over.”
She rose, washed her bowl, and went into the bedroom.
SEVEN
WILLIAM finished the stew—it was food, and he had no idea when he’d get to eat again. He rinsed his bowl, padded to her bedroom on quiet wolf feet, and nudged the door open with his fingertips. The girl was already asleep. She slept sitting up against the wall, her legs crossed, her sword leaning on her shoulder. He had a feeling that if he came any closer, she would wake up with her blade in him, so he just stood in the doorway.
He studied the way the wave of her dark hair framed her face, spilling over her shoulders down almost to the floor. She was so pretty, it was like looking at a painting. Except this painting was alive and warm, and her scent made him want to whine like a puppy because he had to stay away.
She’d fixed the wound on his side. He’d sat very still and let her do it. He still remembered the feel of her fingers on his skin. If she’d known what he’d been thinking, she would have run away screaming. Then maybe not. Screaming didn’t seem to be her thing.
Her story sounded genuine enough. The Edgers loved to feud over stupid crap, and once the feuds started, they never really died down. The smaller the stakes, the harder they fought.
Cerise hadn’t given him a single name, except her own, and he had no guarantee that even that was genuine. She planned to dump him in Sicktree and vanish into the swamp. If they were on solid ground, he could track her, but in the swamp, where water broke up scent trails, he wasn’t sure. She knew what she was doing.
If this was a normal conflict, things would be simple. She would be an enemy. But if she was telling the truth, she was a victim, a noncombatant. Noncombatants were off-limits. Until she made herself into an enemy by attacking him, he had no justification to treat her as such.
He wanted her to like him. Women rarely liked him, even in the Broken. They seemed to sense that something was wrong with him and gave him a wide berth.
What William needed was a way into her family, so he could figure out why Spider had decided to screw with them. Cerise was his way inside. He had to get her to like him or at least make her think he was useful enough to bring along. He had to think like a human and be sly.
Being sly wasn’t among his virtues. Cats were sly. Foxes, too. He was a wolf. He took what he wanted, and if he couldn’t have it, he’d bide his time until an opportunity to take it presented itself. She mentioned she expected to make Sicktree by the end of the next day. His window of opportunity was shrinking. He was running out of time.
William looked at her one last time and moved off into the living room. He pulled the cushions off the couch, made a makeshift pallet on the floor, and lay down, blocking the door. The Mirror had a man in Sicktree, Zeke Wallace. Officially he was a leather merchant and taxidermist. Unofficially he worked for Adrianglia and smuggled contraband in his spare time. According to Erwin, Zeke would provide him with up-to-date intelligence on Spider: where he and his crew had been seen, whom they contacted in the Mire, and so on. Zeke could help identify Cerise, but that was about it. The rest was on him.
Think. You’re a human, too. Think.
He was still trying to come up with something, when sleep mugged him.
THE sound of faint steps tugged on William through his sleep. He opened his eyes in time to see Cerise’s bare ankles as she slipped past him outside.
Running out on him.
I don’t think so.
I don’t think so.
William rolled into a crouch and followed her out. The dour lake stretched placidly under a morose gray sky. At the dock Cerise waded into the water up to her knees, still wearing her long T-shirt. He followed her, moving silently across the grass to the dock, padding across the boards until he could see her face. Her eyes were closed. She lifted her head to the dreary sky and stood, her arms out slightly, as if welcoming someone.
Her hair spilled over her shoulders in a glossy waterfall. Her face was sad.
William sat on the edge of the dock. What the hell was she doing now?
CERISE breathed in the morning air. She’d slept badly. Once she woke up because she dreamed that they had gotten to Sicktree and Urow was dead. The next time she’d dreamed the house was attacked. The dream had been so vivid, she actually got up and went as far as her doorway. From that point she could see the dining room and the living room, both dark, and William asleep in front of the door, barring the way for any intruders. In his dreams, the hard edge faded from the blueblood. He looked peaceful and calm. Watching him reassured her and she went back to sleep.
It was morning now, and she was awake, but the anxiety refused to go away. It saddled her and dug the spurs in. The responsibility for the whole family now lay with her, and it dragged her down like an anchor, so heavy, she wondered if she would sink if she dived into the lake.
Life was so much easier when she only had to obey Dad’s orders. So much easier. She missed him and Mom so much, it hurt. If she didn’t find them, the family would crumble. And Lark . . . She didn’t even want to imagine what would happen to Lark.
I will not sink. I will float.
Cerise took a deep breath and let herself fall into the cold water softly. It picked her up and carried her along. She stretched, weightless, her long hair streaming around her in a soft veil. She had done this ever since she was a little girl. The water never failed to soothe her.
Failure happened. The trick was to accept the risk and try anyway.
The water lapped at her, washing away the jitters. Calm came.
She opened her eyes. The pregnant dark sky threatened rain. The dark boards of the dock slid past her. William’s face swung into view, peering at her from the dock.
He stared at her with utter amazement, like a kid who had stumbled on to a bright odd-looking bug.
“Hi,” she said.
“What are you doing?”
“Floating.”
“Why?”
“It’s relaxing. You should try it.” Too late she realized that sounded like an invitation. Great. Just great. Would it have killed her to think before she opened her mouth?
Jump in with me, Lord Bill, I’m swimming here, half-naked . . .
Jump in with me, Lord Bill, I’m swimming here, half-naked . . .
William shook his head. “No.”
Wait a minute. What did he mean “no”? “Why not?”
“I don’t like water.”
“Why?”
William grimaced. “It’s wet. And the pel . . . the hair stinks like fish for hours afterward.”
Cerise blinked. Was he serious? “Swimming is fun.”
“No, swimming gets you from point A to point B. What you’re doing isn’t swimming. You’re not going anywhere.”
Full of opinions, Lord Bill. “Swimming is good for you, and you could always shampoo your precious hair afterward. Your hair looks good after you wash it.”
He grimaced.
“I bet the women from the Weird tell you that you have great hair all the time, Lord Bill.” She bet they told him he was handsome as sin, too.
His face turned grim. “Women from the Weird tell me nothing. They don’t talk to me unless I pay them.”
Well, that was neither here nor there. William peered at her. “If you’re finished splashing in this muddy puddle, I’d like to get to Sicktree now.”
Cerise raised her eyebrows. “Muddy puddle?”
“To you it might seem like a giant crystal-clear mountain lake, but trust me, it’s a dirty little pond. I bet the bottom is squishy slime, too. I suppose trading the rotten spaghetti stench for the fish one is an improvement ...”
He was going to take a dive into this lake. He just didn’t know it. Cerise rose, finding footing in the soft mud. The water came up to just below her breasts and her wet shirt stuck to her body. William’s gaze snagged on her chest.
Yep, keep looking, Lord Bill. Keeeeeep looking.
Yep, keep looking, Lord Bill. Keeeeeep looking.
Cerise raised her hand. William leaned forward, poised over the water. His strong dry fingers closed about hers. She smiled, gripped his hand, and bent her knees, hitting him with her full weight, trying to pitch him into the lake.
Other books
The Red Door (The Door Series Book 1) by Massey, J. L.
Canada and Other Matters of Opinion by Rex Murphy
Murder in Havana by Margaret Truman
Western Man by Janet Dailey
If Tomorrow Never Comes by Lowe, Elizabeth
Death's Ink Black Shadow by John Wiltshire
The Fine Line of Revenge by Martin Cox
A Regency Christmas Carol by Christine Merrill
Westwood by Stella Gibbons
The Generals by Per Wahlöö