Bayou Moon - Andrews, Ilona [19]
The girl dropped to the ropes. A small knife flashed.
William jerked his heavy tactical blade from its sheath. “Stop.”
She pulled back, and he chopped through the line in a single cut.
The rolpie leaped out of the water and dove deep. Go, William urged. Go.
He chopped the second line. The severed rope flew, and the second rolpie surfaced in a foamy fountain. Huge jaws pierced the foam. Triangular shark teeth flashed and tore into the rolpie’s side. The creature screamed. The girl screamed, too, pounding her fist on the rail. William ground his teeth.
The shark ripped a bloody slab of flesh from the rolpie’s flank.
William yanked a crossbow stock out of his rucksack and pulled the activation. The stock sprouted arms with a faint click. It was the latest in small arms models, only a foot long, and he was under strict orders not to use it unless absolutely necessary. William jerked back his sleeve, revealing a leather quiver strapped to his forearm, plucked a bolt, loaded in a single smooth move, sighted the fish, and fired.
A white star streaked through the air. The bolt sprouted from the shark’s gills. The bolt head winked with green and exploded in a pulse of magic. The fish launched straight up, out of the river, its black mouth gaping, blood streaming from a hole in the side of its head, and crashed onto its back. The second shark hit the first, spinning it. Blood roiled through the river. The rolpie streaked away, fleeing for its life.
The injured shark thrashed and dived down. The second fish gave chase.
The boat crawled downstream.
William took a deep breath. The rush of the fight still sang through his veins, setting him on fire. He felt alive, more alive than he’d been in the last two years.
The old woman was right. He had forgotten who he was. He was a wolf and a killer.
“Thank you,” the hobo girl said.
“We’re fucked!” Vern announced from the shore.
THE boat drifted downstream at the speed of an invalid snail. Vern had no trouble keeping up even with his bum leg.
“They’re bone sharks. The old kind. They swim up from the Weird sometimes and get trapped in the swamp. Of course they die from fresh water in a week or two, fuckers, but meanwhile they do their damage. It’s over.”
The boat’s bottom slid against soft mud and stopped. About forty feet separated them from the nearest shore and Vern.
“What do you mean, it’s over?” William said. “It’s over when you get me to Sicktree.”
Vern stared at him. “Are you daft? We have no rolpies, which means we’ve got no power and we can’t maneuver for shit. Getting to Sicktree on foot would take days.”
On the edge of William’s peripheral vision, the hobo girl slid into the water. She did it silently, without a splash, and dove under. Even his ears picked up only the slightest hint of sound. The spaghetti queen had hidden talents. Where the hell was she going?
“Look around you, man!” Vern waved his arms. “That ain’t a park out there. That swamp is gonna kill you. The Broken is only a day away by boat and about three by foot.”
Everything that could go wrong . . . “I don’t think so.” William let some snarl into his voice. “I hired you to get me to Sicktree. That’s where we’re going.”
Vern jerked his rifle up. “Get off my boat, you Weird fop.”
William raised his crossbow. “Don’t be stupid.”
Vern sneered. “You ain’t gonna hit me with that toy . . .”
A dark figure stepped out of the reeds behind Vern. A slender foot-long blade slid against his Adam’s apple, reflecting light. William blinked. Smooth.
The hobo girl leaned to Vern’s ear and whispered something.
Vern’s fingers opened. The rifle fell into the mud with a wet splat.
The girl pulled the blade aside. William bared his teeth. She was trouble. Good for her, bad for him.
Vern limped away at top speed, yelling over his shoulder. “I won’t forget this! I won’t. You’ll see.”
The hobo girl hooked the rifle with her foot and kicked it into her hands.