Bayou Moon - Andrews, Ilona [51]
They swarmed her. She whirled, cutting through them, slicing limbs in half, severing muscle and bone. Blood sprayed, she paused again, and the fighters around her fell without a single moan.
Four seconds and the deck was empty. Nothing moved.
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
He would have to fight her before this was over, just to find out if he could beat her.
A rapid staccato of clicks came from the back of the larger boat. The hunter was still alive.
“I see I missed a spot,” Cerise said.
The hunter stared at her, his eyes solid black in the moonlight. His hand jerked up . . .
William jumped, shoving her out of the way.
Pale liquid sprayed the deck in the spot where she had just stood and hissed, hardening into a corrosive paste.
The hunter creaked like he was crushing a load of beetles in his throat. “Give girl.”
William snarled. “Come and take her.”
The second stream of spray hit the spot where he’d just stood. Now both of the hunter’s hands were empty. No more web.
The hunter charged him, clawed hands ripping the air in a wide swing. William dropped under the thick arms and swept at the agent’s legs from a crouch. The hunter jumped, avoiding the kick, and struck, claws poised like daggers.
William dodged and laughed. The Louisianan thought that having claws made him a hotshot. It’s not the same, pal, unless you’re born with them.
The hunter whirled, slashing. William sidestepped and hammered a kick to the agent’s kneecap. Cartilage crunched. The leg folded and the hunter dropped to his knees. William grabbed the man’s bald head, locked the vertebra, and twisted. The neck snapped with a light popcorn pop.
Frothy yellow spit boiled from the hunter’s mouth. His eyes rolled back. William let go and the agent toppled like a log, facedown.
It felt good. William chuckled and stepped over the body. “Weak knees and elbows. All that magic makes them easy to break.”
He glanced at Cerise. She didn’t look happy. She should’ve been happy. They won.
Her gaze slid over him. She was sizing him up.
William shrugged, popping his neck. You want to dance, hobo queen, I’m ready. What do I get when I win?
She thought about it. He saw it in her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she could take him, but she was willing to try.
A scream ripped through the night. They both turned. Far to the left a smaller boat drifted off.
“Urow needs help,” Cerise said.
“We should help, then.”
She nodded.
He hid his disappointment and helped her fish the rolpie reins out of the water
NINE
CERISE brought Urow’s boat alongside the Hand’s second boat. A mangled corpse sprawled on the boat’s deck, his chest a bloody mess of claw marks. A trail of slick bloody smudges led away from the cadaver to a small cabin.
Oh no, Urow. No.
Cerise jumped across the water, slid a little on the wet deck, and righted herself. William landed next to her, light on his feet like a cat. The salty metallic stench of fresh blood flooded her nostrils and coated the inside of her mouth, and for a few moments, she could smell and taste nothing else.
She rushed to the cabin. The door hung crooked on its hinges. Cerise peered inside. Empty except for a corpse slumped against the cabin door.
“Here,” William called.
She circled the cabin. A woman’s body lay crumpled on the deck by a pulley. Next to her Urow sagged, curled into a ball.
Stupid man. Stupid, stupid man. She ran to him, grasped the shoulders, and heaved, flipping him on his back. A thick purple swelling marked his shoulder.
Copper. Someone had poisoned Urow with copper. Heat washed over her. Only the family would know to do that: only Mars knew that Urow was meeting her. Someone had talked to the Hand. Cerise clenched her teeth. Why? Why would anyone do that?
She probed the swollen mass of tissue with her fingers. She couldn’t even find the wound.
“That’s not normal,” William said.
“There must’ve been copper shavings in the head of the bolt. It’s poison to thoas. He’s dying.”
“What can we