Bayou Moon (The Edge #2)(67)
Author: Ilona Andrews

The older woman looked at the night-soaked cypresses. "When Hugh was nineteen, he met a girl. Georgina Wallace. She was very pretty, and Hugh was very handsome. So she took him for a ride. They saw stars together for a few weeks. Then Georgina decided that she was all funned out and broke the news: she was engaged to Tom Rook over in Sicktree. Hugh was her last fling before the wedding."

"Ugh."

"Hugh didn’t understand. He loved her so much, and he couldn’t imagine that she didn’t love him. I tried to calm him down and to explain that sometimes things didn’t turn out. I tried to explain that Georgina lied, but he couldn’t let it go. To him, she was everything. She accepted him, she made love to him. In his mind, that meant they belonged to each other forever. Hugh thought she was his mate. His soul mate."

Cold washed over Cerise. "What happened?"

"Hugh took off. The next morning they found Tom Rook and Georgina, and Tom’s brother, Cline. Tom and Georgina were torn to pieces. Cline survived. He’s crippled for life, but he survived. He said a huge gray dog broke into the house and ripped into them."

"Hugh set one of our mastiffs onto them?"

"No." Murid closed her eyes. "Not a mastiff. Cline never left the Mire. All he knew were dogs. But I saw the tracks the animal left. It was a wolf. A big gray wolf."

"There are no wolves in the Mire," Cerise said.

"There was one that night."

Cerise frowned. "What do you mean?"

Murid looked at the swamp. "That night Hugh left for the Broken. There are a lot of Louisianans from the Weird here, and in the Weird’s Louisiana they kill people like Hugh. Do you understand, Ceri? They kill his kind. They strangle them at birth or drown them, like rabid mutts."

The realization hit Cerise like a rock between her eyes. Uncle Hugh was a changeling.

It couldn’t be. Changelings were demonic things from scary slumber party stories. They were mad, murderous, evil things. There was a reason why the Dukedom of Louisiana killed them – they were too dangerous. They turned into wild animals, and they slaughtered and ate people. Everything she’d heard about them made them out to be monsters.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t picture Uncle Hugh as a monster. Uncle Hugh was family. He built the wooden tree house where she used to play. He trained the dogs. He churned ice cream. He was calm and strong, and his eyes were kind and she’d never seen him angry.

"Has he killed anyone else since?"

Murid shook her head. "Not unless the family asked him to."

"Does Father know?"

Murid nodded.

There had to be a reason for this story. Maybe her father made him leave. Maybe Murid saw this as a chance to bring her brother back.

"Changeling or not, he is my uncle. He’s welcome in the house anytime."

"He knows that. He’s in the Broken by his choice."

Okay. "Then why did you tell me this?"

"Hugh is a very strong man." Murid looked into the distance. "Very good with a crossbow and a rifle. His reflexes are better honed, and he barely needs any time to aim at the target. Death doesn’t bother him at all. He accepts it as a fact and moves on."

William.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. No. Please, no. "Uncle Hugh is very fast, isn’t he?"

Aunt Murid nodded.

"And his eyes glow in the dark?"

Murid nodded again. "He could always tell me what was cooking when we were at the range, because he could smell it from the kitchen."

The range was a good ways from the house. Far enough that if you were at the house and you needed to get the attention of somebody down there, you had to yell at the top of your lungs. Cerise cleared her throat, trying to keep her voice even. "You took William down to the range with you today."

Murid looked away at the swamp. "Chicken with cumin and rice."

"I see." Things made so much sense now. Cerise bit her lip. William was a monster. The orphanage, the military, that wildness she sensed in him – everything made sense.

"You have to spell things out," Murid said. "No games, no hints. You have to be very, very clear with him, Cerise. Be very careful and think before you act. He’s dangerous. Hugh didn’t change shape often, but William does, because he knows how to hide it. He’s been trained to fight and whoever trained him knew how to make the most of William’s strengths. So far he’s behaving himself, but if you’re alone with him and you don’t have a blade, you don’t stand a chance. Don’t send him the wrong messages and don’t get yourself raped. William may not even know it’s wrong to force a woman."

Her memory thrust the lake house before her. Oh, he knew. He knew very well.

"If you let him, he’ll love you forever and he won’t know how to let go. Make sure you truly want him before you take that plunge. And …" Murid hesitated. "Your children . . . If you were to have any."

Their children would be puppies. Or kittens. Or whatever William was.

"Families aren’t for people like me."

Oh, dear Gods. She finally found the man she wanted, after all this waiting, and he turned out to be a changeling. Maybe she was cursed. "It can never be easy, can it?"

Aunt Murid leaned toward her. "I had my chance with a man. I didn’t take it, because it was too hard and too complicated. Look at me now. How so very happy I am, old and alone. Fuck easy, Ceri. If you love him, fight for him. Nothing worth keeping is free in this world. If you don’t love him, cut him loose. Just don’t take too long to decide. Our future might be short."

She turned and walked away, into the gloom.

WILLIAM padded through the night, following Cerise’s scent trail. He’d always paid close attention to female scents. Some were smothered with perfume, some were tinted with whatever the woman had eaten last. Some fragrances tantalized, others shouted, and a few cringed and proclaimed, "Easy prey."

Cerise smelled the way he imagined his woman would smell. Clean, with a slight trace of shampoo from her hair, a touch of sweat, and a hint of something he couldn’t quite describe, something healthy, dangerous, and exciting that primed his nerves.

Mmmm, Cerise.

He chased her scent down the balcony, around the house, separating it from Murid’s trail. The two women stopped here for a while, then Murid left, but Cerise remained, resting her hands on the rail and looking at something . . . He leaned over the rail. Down below him Mire pines stretched to scratch at the night sky. Pale blossoms of maiden-bells bloomed between the roots, delicate like cups made of frosted glass. Cerise stood here looking at the flowers. If she liked flowers, he would get them for her.