Bayou Moon (The Edge #2)(104)
Author: Ilona Andrews

Ruh withdrew and retrieved a length of rope, still attached to the tree limb. He dropped the end of the rope into the pond and fed it to the black water.

The weight clamped onto the line and Ruh strained to pull it up. His hands slid a little, finding little purchase on the peat-slicked line, but despite his weak grip, the rope slowly coiled at his feet. Finally a head broke the surface, grotesque with its skin and hair blackened. A mouth gaped wide and gulped the air.

Ruh grasped Spider’s hand, wrenched him ashore, and crouched as the cell leader rested. The peat-sheathed water had little air in it. A few minutes longer and Spider would’ve suffocated. Or perhaps drowned was the more appropriate word. Ruh puzzled over it.

"I’ve made arrangements for the pickup as you’ve instructed me," he said. "Four operatives will meet us at a creek a mile and a half to the southwest. Through that path." He pointed to the narrow trail that sliced through the hill.

"I can’t feel my legs." Spider’s voice sounded even.

So that explained the odd taste.

Ruh nodded. "Then I will carry you, m’lord."

"The Box?"

"They’ve taken it. But I will track it down."

"I know you will …" Spider nodded and paused. His eyes focused on something beyond Ruh. "In the bushes," he said softly.

A tentacle slivered from Ruh’s shoulder and tasted the air. The scent lanced the cilia on his arm. Animal fur. The stench of urine, unlike any he had encountered. The moist odor of breath, laced with scents of rotting meat. And magic. Strange, contorted, abnormal magic, pulsing with fury.

"It’s not an animal," he whispered. His hand found the heavy knife and loosed it from his belt.

He spun around just as the huge shape launched from the top of the hill. It sailed into the open in an impossibly long leap, its tail lashing like a whip. The spiked curve of the spine flexed. Sickle talons rent the air, aiming for Ruh’s chest. Too stunned to dodge, he slashed at the horrid jaws, gaping open on the abominable face. The knife sliced deep into the flesh and met bone.

The beast snapped. Triangular teeth bit Ruh’s arm. He felt nothing, no tug, no jerk, but suddenly his arm vanished. Blood spurted in a hot fountain from the stump of his elbow. The beast gulped.

An explosion of pain in his shoulder nearly shocked him into unconsciousness. The monster gulped again and turned toward him, paw over paw, blood stretching in long strands from between the yellowed fangs.

Ruh ran. On his third step, a heavy weight smashed into him, crushing him, pinning him down. The world went dark, and Ruh saw the inside of the beast’s mouth before the jaws severed his head from his shoulders. Foul stench filled his nostrils. The sticky tongue smothered his face, snuffing out awareness.

SPIDER plunged his hands into the ground and pulled. The hot wedge of pain that sat in the small of his back flared into a blinding daze. He stretched, chancing a glance at the beast. It tore into Ruh’s back and flung a piece of bloody meat into the air.

Desperately, Spider stretched. His fingers closed about a spiked sphere. The Mirror’s bombs. Probably from William. The irony . . .

The beast growled. The hair on Spider’s arms rose. He stifled the instinctual reaction and pushed himself forward, through the pain, to another tiny sphere.

The beast stepped over Ruh’s savaged corpse and started toward him.

Pull, flash of pain, bitter taste in the mouth. Three. Now he had three. If three didn’t do it . . .

A huge paw sank into the muck next to him. Talons bit into his side and flipped him on his back. He kept the bombs clutched in his fist. The tiny bumps on the surface of the spheres sank in under the pressure of his fingers. The bombs would explode a second after he let them go.

The beast lowered his head. Drool dripped on Spider’s chest. He looked at the grotesque face. Red eyes stared back at him, deliberate, smart. They caught him. Mesmerized him. He sank deep into their depths, stunned by their ferocity and intellect and pain. One chance. He had one chance, or it would end right here.

The massive jaws opened wide, wider, cavernous.

"Hello, Vernard," he whispered.

A low groan broke free of the beast’s mouth. It stretched into an ululating cry and suddenly shifted into a long coherent word.

"Genevieve …"

"I fused her," Spider said. "Took her from your family."

The thing that used to be Vernard Dubois snarled in rage.

"I’ll take Cerise, too," Spider promised. "I will kill you, and then I’ll find her and take her, too."

The jaws unhinged and plunged down to bite. Spider tossed the bombs into the black throat and shoved himself to the side.

Vernard’s head exploded. A wet mist of blood and brains showered Spider’s stomach. Thick slabs of meat pelted him. The stump of the body toppled and crashed forward. Spider threw his hands out to shield himself, but the weight was too great, and it plunged on top of him. A wide gap glared where the beast’s neck used to be, and as it fell, blood gushed from it in a hot sticky flood, drenching Spider’s face.

With sick dread, Spider waited for the body of the beast to glue itself together.

A moment passed.

Another.

Spider strained, gripping the ground. The corpse pinned him down, and in the wide gash he saw the black, moist sack of the heart still pumping. He reached into the ruined body, ripped out the bulging organ, and bit into its flesh. The blood burned his mouth. He tore the still living flesh with his teeth and forced it down.

If there was any truth in Vernard’s journal, the beast’s heart would restore him. He choked down another bite and let it go before nausea made him lose it.

Spider clenched his muscles, thrusting himself into agony. His torso slid from under the beast. He dragged his hand across his mouth, wiping away the blood, unable to believe he lived. He breathed in deeply and savored the damp Mire air he so used to hate. It tasted sweet.

Spider rolled to his stomach. A mud field stretched before him, seemingly endless. An eternity away the southwestern path gaped. A mile and a half.

Spider clutched at the ground with dirty fingers and pulled himself six inches forward. Pain lashed him. He caught his breath and pulled again.

Chapter Thirty

WILLIAM opened his eyes. Wooden boards ran above his head. He blinked. Pain swept through him in a torrent, ripping out a groan. Things swam out of focus.

A door banged. A dim shape thrust into the room. William struck at it, but his arm fell limp.

"It’s me, it’s me," Gaston’s voice said. A hand restrained him.

William snarled.

"Come on now, friend," Zeke’s voice said. "You’re safe, it’s all good. All good. Gaston, slide him back into bed, before he chokes himself. There we go."