Bayou Moon - Andrews, Ilona [21]
Lord William sat at the stern. Muscular, fit, wrapped in black leather, and more handsome than a man had a right to be. The first time she saw him, she almost did a double take. He had the whole tall, dark, and lethal thing going. Except at the moment he wore the expression of a man who’d just got a mouth full of soggy spinach. Maybe he was upset that his pretty leather pants got wet.
Lord William was bad news. That he was a blueblood from the Weird was plain as day: expensive clothes, well-groomed hair, and excellent weapons. She’d felt a spark of magic when that little crossbow went off. And he fired it fast, didn’t even pause to take aim, and still hit that cursed fish in the gills. The man had training, the kind of training bluebloods from the Weird got when they wanted to play soldier. Excellent balance—he walked on the boat as if it were solid ground. Light on his feet. Very fast. Probably very strong, if the muscle on his arms was any indication. Bad news.
Why couldn’t she have gotten another Edger or some dimwit from the Broken for a passenger? No, she got Lord Leather Pants here. In the Weird, nobles specialized. Some went into academics like her grandfather. Some devoted themselves to civil service. And some became killers. For all she knew, he was one of those multi-talented bluebloods, who cut down trees with their magic and sprouted weapons all over the place at the slightest hint of danger.
Cerise stole another look. The blueblood was surveying the Mire, and she let herself linger. He had the prettiest hair she had ever seen on a man: dark brown, almost black, and soft like sable, it fell down to his shoulders. She wondered what he’d do if she threw some mud in it. Probably kill her. Or at least try. Not that she had any intention of letting him win that fight. Talented or no, he wouldn’t stop her sword or her magic.
She scrutinized his face. Strong chin. Narrow face without a trace of softness in it, square jaw, smart hazel eyes under black eyebrows. Interesting eyes, almost amber-yellow. That’s what you looked at in an opponent—the eyes. The eyes told you what sort of person you faced. When she looked into William’s eyes, she saw a predator. There he sat, all calm, but something behind those eyes promised violence. She sensed it the way one killer sensed another.
Bad news.
He caught her looking and scowled. “Give me that damn thing.”
Cerise leaned into the pole. “Don’t worry, you will get your chance when we hit a stronger current. For now, sit pretty and enjoy the scenery. Look, there is a cute Mire gator to keep you entertained.”
He glanced to the side, where two large yellow eyes looked back at him from a floating clump of waterweeds.
Let’s see what you’re made off, Lord Bill . . . “It’s just a baby. Eighteen feet tops. He won’t bother us. They grow much bigger.”
No reaction. Come on, tiny boat, big gator, that ought to worry anybody.
“In a few years, he might get to be around twenty-five feet. Some old fellows grow to thirty. We call them ervaurg . Means ‘big eater.’ ”
Lord Bill appeared unconcerned. Hmm.
Cerise pushed him a bit more. “The thing about ervaurgs is that they aren’t like normal animals. When you feed a dog, he’ll sit and wait for you to give him his food. When you feed a Mire cat, he’ll grab the treat and rip it out of your hands. Feeding a Mire gator is like feeding a pair of giant, razor-sharp scissors. One moment you’re holding a chunk of cow carcass on a hook above the water and then huge jaws come out and”—she snapped her fingers—“the meat is gone. No tug, no extra weight, nothing. Just jaws and an empty hook.”
“Doesn’t make much sense to feed them, then,” William said.
“We do it for leather. A thirty-foot ervaurg packs a lot of leather, but his hide is too hard to make into anything. You might armor a boat with it, but other than that, it’s not good for much. But when they’re young, their leather is supple, so leather merchants breed them on gator farms like cows and kill them off with poisoned meat when they