Bayou Moon (The Edge #2)(48)
Author: Ilona Andrews

They rode to the top of a hill. A huge house sat in a clearing, two stories high and big enough to shelter a battalion. The ground floor was built with red brick and caged by sturdy pillars that supported the second-story wraparound balcony. The pillars passed through the balcony’s floor, transforming into light wooden collonettes, carved and painted white. A single wide staircase led up to the balcony and the only door he could see.

It was built like a fortress. Maybe the Mars planned to hold off a siege.

Smaller buildings flanked the house, rising on the sides and slightly behind, like a flock of geese led by the largest bird. To the left, a small water tower jutted against the sky. Why would they need a water tower in the swamp? If you dug a six-inch hole, it filled with water in seconds.

"The Rathole, Lord Bill," Cerise said. Her voice was cheerful, but her eyes had narrowed. He read anger in the tense lines of her mouth. When he told her about himself, the compassion in her eyes was like that ointment she slathered on his wounds – soothing and warm. She dulled the sharp memories, and he was grateful to her for it. But now she was mad at him.

"What did I say?"

She arched her eyebrows. "I don’t know what you mean."

"Don’t do this. What did I say to piss you off?" He had to fix it. It gnawed at him now and wouldn’t let go.

Cerise shook her head. "I don’t want to talk about it right now."

He clenched his teeth to keep from pulling her off the horse and shaking her until it spilled out of her. "Tell me what I did."

She turned in her saddle and looked at him over her shoulder, hair spilling down, eyes on fire.

"What?" he growled.

"Think about it. You’ll figure it out."

William ran through the conversation in his head, recalling her reactions. He couldn’t for the life of him find anything offensive in what he said. Military, orphanage . . . She seemed upset by what he told of his life, but it wasn’t directed at him. It was directed at people who made his life hell. Blah, blah, blah . . . "It’s much easier to just pay the woman for her time. That way you can do what you need to do and be on your way. That’s the way I prefer it." "Well, if you’re hoping for a roll in the hay with me, you’re out of luck, William. I’m not for sale."

She was pissed off, because she thought he’d lumped her in with whores. Why the hell would she think that? He never called her a whore . . .

"William, you’re kind and strong and handsome. There are tons of women who’d climb over razor wire for a chance to make you happy. They’d be insane not to."

Understanding dawned in his head. She liked him.

She liked him. She thought of herself as one of those women, and she was pissed off because he told her that he preferred to pay for his sex and leave. She didn’t want him to leave. She wanted him to stay. With her.

William searched his memory, trying to find some indication of flirting. He’d watched countless women flirt with Declan, everyone from random passersby at the market to blueblood ladies at the formal balls.

"I bet the women from the Weird tell you that you have great hair all the time, Lord Bill."

"I jumped in to rescue you, you fool!"

"You demolished them."

"What would happen if you caught me?"

She liked him. The beautiful girl with eyes like black fire wanted him. William almost laughed, except she would have killed him on the spot. You tripped, hobo queen. She should have never let him know, but now he’d figured it out and it was too late. He’d have to stalk her, he decided. Carefully and patiently. He would bring her flowers, swords, and whatever else she liked, until he was sure when he pounced, she wouldn’t want to run away.

He looked at her, showing her the edge of his teeth.

"Look, I didn’t mean to imply that you were a slut," he told her. "I know nothing about you. And just if there is any question, I never hurt a woman, never forced anyone to do things with me. It was always a clear-cut deal, half the money up front, half when we were done. You and I agreed to work together. Whatever I did or didn’t do in the past doesn’t matter. My private life doesn’t matter. It only matters what I do from this point on."

She shrugged.

"Are you done being mad?"

"Yes."

"Good." Insane woman.

They rode into the yard. He hopped off the horse and caught a thick scent of wet fur and the sharp piss signature marking the territory. Dogs. Shit.

A loud hoarse baying erupted from a dozen furry throats. William tensed. Some dogs didn’t mind his scent, but most reacted as they should when a wolf walked into their territory. They fought him for dominance and lost.

Hi, Cerise, sorry your dogs attacked me and I slaughtered the lot of them, but good news, now you have lots of nice pelts . . .

A dog pack burst from around the corner. Big dogs, too, a hundred pounds at least, some black, some tan, all with the square heads of a mastiff breed and docked tails. Damn it all to hell.

The dogs charged him, running at full speed.

The knife jumped into his hand, almost on its own.

The first dog, an enormous pale male, lunged at him and went down on his front paws, ass in the air, tail wiggling.

What the hell?

The mob swirled around him, paws scraping dirt, noses poking him, tongues licking, drool flying in long sticky gobs. A smaller dog squealed – someone stepped on her paw.

"All right, down! Calm the hell down!" Cerise barked. "What has gotten into you?"

He reached over and petted the alpha’s giant head. Sad brown eyes looked at him with canine adoration. Dogs were simple creatures, and this one seemed to love his scent.

"That’s Cough," Cerise told him. "He’s the idiot in charge."

The dog sniffed his hand and licked it, depositing muddy slobber on his skin. Ugh.

"Cough, you dufus. Sorry, usually they’re more reserved. They must like you."

"They do," a calm female voice said from above.

A woman stood on the balcony, next to Kaldar. Tall and lean, she looked like Cerise if Cerise were twenty years older and had spent those decades in the Red Legion doing shit that kept her awake with nightmares. Where Cerise was muscle, this one was made mostly of sinew and bone. Her gaze fastened on him, focusing, measuring the distance, as if she were a raptor sizing up her prey. A sniper.

If the eyes didn’t give her away, her rifle would have. He’d seen it only once in an obscure catalog. A Remington 700 SS 5-R. A sniper rifle. Remington produced only about five hundred of those a year. The Edge was the last place William expected to see one.

"My aunt Murid," Cerise told him.