Bayou Moon te-2 Read online

  He dropped her.

  “Go ahead and fuse me,” she hissed. “I will kill the lot of you. You will get nothing. My family will bury you in the swamp without that diary.”

  Tiresome. Spider glanced at John. “How much time?”

  John surveyed the woman on the floor. “She’s nearing fifty. Ideally a month, but I can do it in two weeks.”

  “Make it ten days.”

  “She won’t be stable.”

  Spider looked at John for a long moment to make sure he had the man’s attention. “She is my key, John. If you break her, I will be quite put out.”

  The alteration specialist swallowed.

  Spider paused before the door. “Tell me when she is in the first stage. Her daughter left the family compound and traveled to the Broken. I want to know why.”

  AHEAD a bright green spot of fresh vegetation marked the mouth of Sandal Creek. Cerise turned the boat, steering it into the weeds. The bow mashed the green reeds. She laid into the pole, putting all of her weight into it. The boat tore through the green and landed in clear water.

  A narrow channel stretched before them, flanked by purple willows. Tiny magenta and blue leaves littered the calm water.

  Lord Bill’s eyebrows crept together, but if he had questions, he kept them to himself.

  “That river back there gets a bit senile in another half a mile,” she told him. “It forgets that it’s flowing through the swamp and gets a good current going. Instead of paddling against the current, we’re skipping the whole mess and saving ourselves a couple of hours. We should be back to the main river in about seven miles.”

  She tossed the pole at him. He snapped it out of the air. Good reflexes.

  “Your turn. Don’t use your arms, let your weight do the work. I’ll see about lunch.”

  Lord Bill stood up, keeping his balance like he was born on water, and stabbed the pole into the water. The boat predictably slid from under him. It took him a couple of tries but he hit his stride.

  Cerise sat down, dug in her bag, and pulled out a short fishing pole and the bait box she’d liberated from Vern’s boat. She hooked a fat white grub and let the line fall into water.

  “NOTHING yet?” William glanced at Cerise.

  The hobo girl shook her head. The fishing line trailed forgotten behind the boat. She sat alert, her gaze scanning the banks, her body calm but ready. Like a veteran soldier expecting an attack.

  “Something’s wrong,” she murmured. “The stream should be teeming with fish. It’s too well blocked for sharks and too small for ervaurgs.”

  “Or you might suck at fishing.” He surveyed the swamp. Torn clouds dappled the sky. The willows lined the shore, like slender women washing their locks in the water. No small noises, except for the distant shrieks of some insane bird.

  William inhaled deeply. No odd scents, beyond the usual smorgasbord of algae, fish, and vegetation. And Cerise. She was right. It was too quiet.

  The hobo queen rolled into a crouch and reached into her jacket. Here comes the blade. He’d been waiting for her to pull it out again. A foot long, narrow, single-edged, simple hilt. In good shape. She wasn’t homeless—the sword gave her away before the teeth did—but the way she held it struck him as odd. Her grip was loose. Almost delicate, with the hilt caught in her long slender fingers. Clutching your weapon made you clumsy, but a firm grip was best. If you held you sword like it was a painting brush, sooner or later someone would knock it out of your hand.

  Ahead an old willow leaned over the bank, its long branches cascading down to the river. A dark shadow shifted in the water under the willow leaves.

  “Don’t move,” Cerise whispered.

  He froze, pole in his hand. The boat glided slowly, using up the last of its speed.

  Ripples pulsed under the willow, wrinkled the river, and vanished.

  Cerise crouched at the bow, watching the water like a hawk.

  A huge blunt head sliced through the river an inch from the surface, followed by a sinuous serpentine body. William held his breath. It kept coming and coming, impossibly long, moving in total silence, so enormous it seemed unreal. A low fin sliced through the water, sun glinted on the brown hide speckled with yellow flecks, and the creature vanished.

  At least fifteen feet. Maybe more.

  “A mud eel,” Cerise whispered.

  William nodded toward the pole. She shook her head.

  The boat drifted downstream, heading for the right bank. The bottom scraped mud. They stopped. He raised the pole to push off.

  The eel smashed into the side of the boat with a thud. The craft went flying. William leaped onto the bank. His feet touched the mud, it gave, suddenly liquid, and he sank to his hips.

  The eel’s blunt head reared from the water and hissed, its black maw flashing a forest of sharp needle teeth. The creature lunged onto dry land, clawing at the mud with short stubby paws. The damn thing had legs. Fucked-up place, fucked-up fish.

  William spun the pole and rammed it into the nightmarish mouth. Jaws locked on the wood, ripping it out of his hands. Round fish eyes fixed on him, expressionless and stupid.

  He pulled a knife from his jacket.

  The eel reared back. A bright red mark glowed on its forehead, a crimson skull with two gaping black circles for eyes.

  William snarled.

  The fish lunged.

  Steel flashed, biting deep into the eel’s left orbit, and withdrew. The milky gel of the fish eye slid free, its golden iris glistening like a small coin on wet cotton.

  The eel jerked. Its huge body whipped around. The fish plunged into the river and sped away.

  The hobo girl sighed and wiped the blade on her sleeve. “A single sinkhole on this bank for fifty feet in any direction and you managed to jump right into it. That takes real talent. Are you trying to make my job harder, Lord Bill?”

  Lord Bill?

  “The name’s William. You stole my kill.” He put his hands against the mud, trying to lift himself free, but it just crumbled under him. She could slit his throat from ear to ear, and there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  “Sure I did. You were just about to rip that big bad fish to tiny pieces.” Cerise grabbed a willow with her left hand and leaned toward him. He gripped her fingers. She grunted and pulled him free.

  Strong for a woman. And quick, too. That was one of the fastest strikes he’d ever seen.

  Cerise was looking at him. “You look adorable.”

  Black slimy mud stained his pants, filling the air with the scent of old rot. Great. And he didn’t even get to kill the fish.

  “It’s peat,” she said. “It will wash right off. The eel won’t be back for a few minutes, so if you want to clean up, now is your chance.”

  William pulled off his boots, emptying half a gallon of sludge onto the bank, and waded into the stream. The oily peat rolled off him in a slick wave, leaving no stains.

  That was a hell of a sword thrust, fast, precise. Professional. The Mirror had no female agents in the Mire. Maybe she was Hand, one of Spider’s crew. William ran through Spider’s known flunkies in his mind, mentally comparing her to the women. No match. Either the Mirror had no information about her or they had neglected to share it.

  William had a distinct urge to turn around, grab her, dunk her under the water, and wash all that dirt off her face, so he could see what she looked like.

  He was a blueblood. He had to keep his cover.

  William climbed out. The hobo queen greeted him with a huge smile. “So how are you enjoying your tour of the swamp so far?”

  Smart-ass. He pulled on his boots. “Branded fish with legs weren’t in the guidebook. I want a refund.”

  She blinked. “What do you mean, branded?”

  “It had a skull etched between the eyes.”

  “Did it glow red?”

  “Yes.”

  Her face dropped. She tilted her head to the sky. “That was rotten of you. I didn’t deserve that. I have more than enough
to deal with, so how about you stop throwing rocks at my windows? If you don’t like the way I’m handling things, come down and try fixing this mess yourself.”

  “Who are you taking to?”

  “My grandparents.”

  “In the sky?”

  She faced him, her dark eyes full of indignation. “They’re dead. Where else would they be?”

  William shrugged. Maybe it was one of the odd human things changelings didn’t understand. Or maybe she was just crazy. All Edgers were mad. He’d known that from the start. He was letting a crazy woman lead him deeper into the swamp. How could this not turn out well?

  Gods, he missed his trailer. And his coffee. And dry socks.

  Cerise strode to the overturned boat.

  “What does the skull mean?”

  “Never mind.”

  He picked up the pole and stepped in front of her. “What does the skull mean?”

  She flipped the boat over. “It’s Sect.”

  He followed her. “And that means what?”

  “The eel belongs to the Gospo Adir Sect. They’re necromancers. They alter eels and other things with magic and use them as watch dogs. The eels are vindictive as hell by nature, but this one is enhanced, which means it’s smart and it’s trained to hunt down trespassers. The damn thing will follow us around until we have to kill it, and if we do kill it, the Sect will want me to pay restitution for it.”

  Cerise pushed the boat from the shore and threw their bags into it.

  “So let me get it straight—the fish attacks us, but you have to compensate this Sect for it?”

  Cerise heaved a sigh. “Look before you jump, Lord Bill. It’s a good rule. Learn it.”

  Blueblood. Act like a blueblood. Bluebloods don’t growl at the hired help. “Wil-li-am. Do you want me to say it slower, so you can remember it?”

  She clenched her teeth. “I hate dealing with the Sect. They aren’t reasonable. We’ll end up killing the stupid creature, and then Emel will eat a hole in my head over it.”

  “Who’s Emel?”

  “My cousin. The Red Necromancer. That’s why I will have to pay restitution. The eel knows me by scent. It wouldn’t have attacked me if I were on my own, so if you weren’t with me, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  He would strangle her before this trip was over. “Should I just let the fish eat me next time?”

  “It would certainly make things easier.”

  William scraped the last of his patience together and tried to pretend to be Declan. “I’ll pay you for the fish.”

  “Yes, yes, and that flock of pigs crossing the sky looks particularly lovely this time of day.”

  He lost it and snarled. “I said I’ll pay for the damn fish if we have to kill it!”

  She waved her hands in the air. “Do me a huge favor, Lord William. Keep your thoughts to yourself for the next few miles. If you keep talking, I’ll have to hit you with this pole, and nobody wants that.”

  THE stream turned, spilling back into the river. Cerise leaned onto the pole, and the boat slipped into the wider water.

  At this rate they’d reach Broken Neck by nightfall. She had no desire to chance crossing the labyrinth of peat islands and sunken cypresses in the middle of the night, not with the damn eel following them. They’d have to find a secure spot to camp. Maybe they would avoid Broken Neck altogether. Take one of the offshoot streams. It would be safer but slower. And her time was in short supply. More so because of the idiot blueblood.

  You stole my kill. Ha.

  Cerise glanced at him. Lord William had taken his crossbow out. His amber eyes scanned the water. There was something deeply predatory in the way he sat, silent and alert. Like a cat waiting to sink his claws into living flesh.

  Cerise thought of the eel and William, stuck in the mud, only a knife in his hand. Most people would’ve panicked. He just waited for the fish to charge him. His eyes were predatory back then, too. Calculating, hot amber eyes, full of outrage, as if he was insulted the eel had attacked him.

  She’d seen her share of exiles from the Weird. Once in a while, Louisiana would send a blueblood into the Edge. Some of them were powerful, some were desperate, but none were like William. She wanted to pry him open and figure out what he was made of. Why was he here in the Mire? What did he want?

  He was only a blueblood, Cerise reminded herself. She would dump him in Sicktree. She had bigger things to worry about. She just liked looking at him, because he happened to have a handsome face and because with the two of them alone in the entire swamp, there wasn’t anything else to look at.

  “Looking for the eel?” Cerise asked.

  He glanced at her and Cerise almost dropped the pole. His eyes luminesced like the irises of a wild cat hidden in darkness.

  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?”

  “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—”

  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.

  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.