Bayou Moon (The Edge #2)(90)
Author: Ilona Andrews

Richard took the sword. A hush fell on the room.

He held the blade out above the bottles. His face took on an expression of intense concentration.

A second passed. Another.

That was why Cerise was in charge, William decided. In battle, Richard would be dead by now.

Magic flashed from Richard, an intense electric blue. It danced along his blade. He struck and beheaded the six bottles with one strike.

A ragged cheer rolled through the library.

Richard passed the sword back to Cerise. Bottles were grabbed. Ignata splashed some wine into William’s cup.

"Today we drink the fifty-year-old wine," Cerise announced, holding her cup up. "To living the next day well."

They drank. William gulped from his cup. The wine rolled down his throat, fire and joy blended into one. For the first time since leaving the Legion, he felt a part of something bigger than himself.

"We were hoping that Lord William would tell us what we’re facing," Richard said.

"We want to know about the Hand." Ignata poured more wine into his cup.

William took another sip. All right. He could do that. "As long as we’re clear: Spider is mine."

Heads nodded in agreement.

"Spider’s standard unit usually consists of twenty-four agents in an advanced state of magic alteration."

"Why twenty-four?" Kaldar asked.

"It’s an easy number to divide: two groups of twelve, three groups of eight, four groups of six, and so on. We killed three."

"I thought you only killed two," Kaldar said.

"Three," Cerise told him. "Are you going to let the man talk or will you interrupt some more?"

William tapped his memory. "Spider’s close circle, his elite. Karmash Aule. Origin: unknown. Height: seven feet, two inches. Approximate weight: three hundred and sixty pounds. White hair, red eyes. Enhancements: reinforced spine, transplanted glands, resulting in above-average reaction time and increased strength. Position: second in command. Prefers blunt weapons. Likely to rely on and overestimate his own strength. Easily enraged. Moderate pain tolerance. Possible weakness or target areas: joints, glandular implant in the left side directly under the ribcage.

"Veisan. Origin: unknown. Height: five feet, six inches. Approximate weight: one hundred and forty pounds. Bloodred skin, braided blue hair, blue eyes. Enhancements: glandular apothecary, resulting in superior reaction time, extreme speed, enhanced hand-to-eye coordination. Position: slayer. Prefers bladed weapons. Unstable. Once she begins to kill, she will not stop until the catalysts from her apothecary are exhausted. While engaged, unable to distinguish between civilians and military personnel. Possible weaknesses: none."

They were staring at him as if he’d grown a second head.

"You don’t do revenge halfway, do you, William?" Murid said.

"No. Ruh. Origin: Northern Province. Height: six feet, two inches. Approximate weight: one hundred and sixtyfive pounds …"

Richard grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and started taking notes.

POSAD’S dark eyes didn’t catch the light of the setting sun. They sat on his face like twin pools of carbon, solid black and sparkless. Spider stared into them until Posad blinked. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes. I finish packing and destroy the garden. Then I wait for the home team to clear the base and leave with them. I’ve done this before."

"You do not go upstairs."

Several bees landed on Posad’s deformed shoulder and pushed past the scale of dried skin sheltering the hive opening. "I do not go upstairs."

Spider nodded and walked away, to where Veisan waited with his saddled horse. The muzzle of her mare glistened with ointment, and Spider grimaced at the strong stench of mint emanating from it. No horse would bear Veisan unless her scent was masked.

He mounted, casting one last look at the mansion. Somewhere within it his prized alteration specialist was taking the first steps on the path to his death.

"A waste," he murmured. It couldn’t be helped. The hunger in John’s eyes was too strong and the information within the journal too volatile to allow the pair to come into contact. He would miss John, miss his expertise. Yet no expense could be spared for the sake of the realm.

008

FROM the shadowed depths of his bedroom, John watched Spider ride away. He forced himself to read for another hour and set out for the fusion room. He started slowly, on quiet feet, pretending nonchalance, but the mansion lay empty around him, and spurred by anticipation, he walked faster and faster until in the end he was running.

In his haste, he almost burst into the room, but caught himself at the last moment and halted, with his hand on the door.

A fused being had no will of its own. It was both susceptible to instruction and unable to refuse an order. But the fused being retained traces of its personality. It couldn’t disobey directly, but it could take advantage of a poorly phrased command. This was especially true if the human subject had been strong-willed, and Genevieve Mar had one of the most powerful spirits he had encountered.

John caught his breath and swung the door open. The ugliness of fusion had ceased to affect him long ago, and as he stepped into the room, he watched only the creature’s weapons: the three long, flexible appendages, studded with thorns. The plant equivalent of a whip. The whips operated on hydraulic power, flexing when their vascular bundles flooded with fluid. The supply of liquid was finite, and the whips were capable of a single devastating strike. That reserve spent, they would have to rebuild before striking again. From experience, he knew the time between strikes ranged from fifteen minutes to half an hour. Fifteen minutes. A smart man could accomplish a lot in fifteen minutes.

The journal lay on the desk behind the fusion. Spider’s bait.

John stared at the fusion. First things first. He had to exhaust its hydraulic reservoir. He cracked his knuckles. "Obey. Use your whip to pick up the journal and gently place it on the floor at my feet."

009

WILLIAM stared at a black hair left on the handle of the door leading to his room. The old wine packed a hell of a punch. His head swam. He pulled the hair off and stepped inside.

Gaston jumped off the chair.

"Do me a favor." William tried to sit on the bed. At the last possible moment, the treacherous piece of furniture made a panicked attempt to jerk out from under him. He landed on the covers, pinning the bed in place with his weight. That was some wine. "Don’t leave your hair on the door handles. Or across bag handles. Or wrapped around letters."

"I wanted you to know that I was in the room."

William pulled one boot off. "For one, you opened the window, and there was a draft under the door. For another, the door handle was still warm. And then – "