Bayou Moon - Andrews, Ilona [29]
William leaned over to her and slapped her hand.
“Keep your hands off me.”
“I will, if you keep them off yourself.”
“What’s it to you?” she clenched her jacket to herself, feeling the papers in the smooth plastic. Still there.
“That red freak you saw is a tracker. He needs very little, some spit, a few drops of blood in the river, and he’ll know where you are. We’re paddling upstream. If you claw yourself bloody, the current will drag it down, and at his next stop he’ll find out what you taste like. Then they’ll turn the boat around and come back this way with their seven rifles.”
“How do you know?”
He touched his hand to her forehead, and she pulled back—his skin was burning hot. He showed her his palm, damp with her sweat.
“Right now you think there are ghost bugs crawling on your skin. Your heart is hammering. Your tongue’s dried up, and your mouth tastes like cotton; your hands and feet are freezing, but your body is hot. I know this because I’ve experienced it.” He kept pushing the boat.
Don’t scratch. She hugged herself to keep warm. Her teeth chattered. Don’t scratch. “How did you m-m-manage?”
William grimaced. “I was a soldier in Adrianglia. We’ve run into the Hand’s freaks before.” He leaned into the pole. “The Adrianglian Mirror and the Louisianan Hand have been fighting a cold war for years. Adrianglia and Louisiana are too well matched. If a real war broke out, it would drag on for years, so instead they keep throwing spies at each other, looking for a back door to a victory. Adrianglian spies use magic, in their gadgets and their weapons. Louisianan spies are magic. They’re so altered some of them aren’t human anymore.”
She knew all that already. “W-w-why does it make you sick?”
“Eventually the Hand’s freaks get so fucked-up they start emanating their twisted magic. That magic is poison to us. It’s like finding a rotten corpse—the stench makes you vomit, so you have no doubt that it’s bad to eat. Same thing here. The more screwed up they are, the worse their magic is. They know it, too. They use it to weaken their prey. Eventually your body will adjust, but until then you’ll be vulnerable.”
“When d-d-does it wear off?”
“Depends.”
What sort of answer was that? “How long d-d-did yours last?”
There was a tiny pause before he answered. “Eighteen hours.”
“How d-d-did you k-k-keep from scratching?”
“I didn’t. They chained me in a cell by the neck and let me go at it.”
“That’s h-h-horrible.” What kind of army was he in exactly that they would let him claw himself bloody? “Couldn’t they sedate you or s-s-s-something?”
His voice was matter of fact. “They didn’t bother with it.”
“That’s not right.” Her teeth danced, and Cerise bit down, sending her knees into an uncontrollable shiver. “It’s going to g-g-get worse, isn’t it?”
He leaned to her and peered into her eyes. “Do you see small red dots floating?”
“No.”
He grimaced. “Then it’s going to get worse.”
Awesome. “W-w-w ... w-w-w ... w-w-w ...”
“Take your time,” he told her.
“W-w-w-weird assholes.”
He barked a short laugh.
The bugs continued their mad jig. If only she could get warm . . .
“Is there another way to Sicktree?”
Her mind took a few long moments to digest his question. At last Cerise understood. “The tracker will d-d-double back eventually. We m-m-must leave the river.”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
The bugs on her arms began gnawing at her skin, burrowing into it, trying to chew their way through muscles to her veins and the blood within. She clenched her fists to keep from scratching.
Her nose was running. She had an absurd feeling that if only she could get ahold of something sharp like a knife blade and scrape it against her skin, the bugs would