Bayou Moon (The Edge #2)(52)
Author: Ilona Andrews

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.

Chapter 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.