Bayou Moon (The Edge #2)(16)
Author: Ilona Andrews

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.

If Ruh saw them, he’d flip the boat in the air, use it as a shield, and make a run for it. The girl would slow him down, but if they got to the cypresses in one piece, he could pick Ruh’s crew off one by one.

Getting to the cypresses would be a bitch.

An older, stocky Edger pulled a line from a wheel bolted to the boat’s bow and caught the rolpie’s long fragile neck in a slip knot. Keeping one hand on the line, he turned the wheel, winding it down. The rolpie jerked, startled, and fought back like a fish on a wire, but the line gripped its neck and dragged it against the side of the boat. With no room to dive and its head trapped above the water, the beast went limp.

Ruh anchored himself on the bow, his bare feet gripping the deck with toes like bird talons. He leaned forward over the water, his body bent to a degree that would’ve pitched a normal human into the river, and stretched his right arm to the water’s surface.

A bulge of flesh grew on Ruh’s shoulder. It squeezed and relaxed slowly, growing thicker with each contraction. What the hell . . .

Ruh moaned. A huge drop of yellow ichor swelled over the tracker’s right deltoid and burst, releasing a tentacle.

Acid burned William’s mouth. Right, if he ever fought Ruh, stabbing him in the back from above, right between the shoulder blades, would be good.

The tentacle shivered above the tracker’s shoulder, like a worm the color of raw muscle, and clung to Ruh’s red skin. Lubricated by the ichor, the tentacle slid, winding its way down the arm. Another followed it, twisting about the first, then another.

Cerise gagged. He clamped her tighter. If she vomited, the body fluid would break the spell.

The tentacles plunged into the water. The rolpie moaned and screamed, trying to get away.

A sickening magic swept over them like an avalanche. If it was wind, it would’ve rocked the boat.

Cerise shuddered in his grip.

Don’t panic. Just don’t panic. "I’ve got you," he whispered into her ear.

Thin tendrils of magic stretched from the boat. Colorless, shimmering like hot air rising from the ground, they snaked their way along the surface of the river, through the reeds, toward them.

If the spell broke, they were fucked.

The magic hovered, waiting, probing. The colorless tendrils lapped at the edges of the mirror spell.

Hold. Hold, damn you, hold.

The coin burned William’s hand. A spasm rocked Cerise. "Almost over," he whispered. "Almost done."

On the boat, Ruh peered straight at them.

William held his breath.

The magic tendrils swelled and split, flowing around the boat. They tasted the shore, slithered over the mud, and retreated.

Ruh turned to the Edgers. William strained. His ears picked up the faint sound of Ruh’s voice.

"Girl didn’t . . . this way. Moving on …"

They were looking for a girl. The girl? This girl?

The tracker pulled his tentacles out of the river. William caught a flash of a complex web, covered with long red eyelash-thin hairs dripping with water, and then the net folded in on itself. The cilia slid into the tentacles; the tentacles rolled into the shoulder like elastic rubber cords, and the skin sealed over it. Ruh massaged the viscous ichor into his arm, rubbing it into the skin like a lotion, and reached for his cloak.

The older Edger released the rope, and the rolpie shot down the river, fleeing for its life and dragging the boat with it.

William waited. A minute passed. Another. Long enough. He let go of the coin. It lay useless and cold on his palm, all of its charge spent. He had to give it to the Mirror. They made neat toys.

Cerise slumped forward, curling into a ball. The parts of her that weren’t covered with dirt had turned so pale, they looked green. The aftereffect of exposure to the Hand’s magic should be hitting her full force now.

If Spider wanted her, then William had to keep her for himself. Sooner or later Spider would come looking for her, and then they would finish the dance they’d started four years ago.

Cerise coughed.

The wild in him bared its teeth. She was weak and scared. Almost pitiful. Easy prey for anybody. He had to guard her or she’d get herself killed.

"They’re looking for you." He kept his voice brisk.

She clutched at her stomach. Her words came out strained. "No personal questions."

"That’s the Hand. Louisiana spies. Why do they want you?"

She shook her head.

Fine. The aftereffects of the Hand’s magic became worse with time. He simply had to wait her out, the way a wolf pack waited out a bleeding deer. Sooner or later the deer would run himself into the ground and then it was dinnertime.