Bayou Moon - Andrews, Ilona [66]
“What unit did you serve in?”
“The Red Legion.”
“The red devils?”
He nodded again. “Look, I want to kill Spider. The only lead I’ve got right now is you. Spider wants you, which means you’re my bait.”
“Don’t I feel special.” She cocked her to the side. “How do I know you didn’t make the lot of it up?”
He spread his arms. “You could ask Zeke, who’ll tell you the same story. If you’ve got a way of learning things outside the Edge, you could ask about the Massacre of Eight in the Weird. But all of that takes time. You need me, Cerise. You don’t know how to fight the Hand. I do. We’re on the same side.”
“Is there anything else you need to tell me?”
Every time I look at you, I have to put a leash on myself. “No.”
“If you lied to me, I’ll hurt you,” she promised.
He showed her his teeth. “You’ll try.”
She sighed. “You worry me, Lord Bill. You’re trouble.”
He won again. William hid a laugh. “You should be worried, and I am.” He folded the arms of the crossbow and headed toward the boat.
She put her hand on her hip. “Where are you going?”
“To the boat. You called me Lord Bill again. That means we’re cool.”
Cerise slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand and followed him.
“Fine. I’ll take you with me. But only because I don’t want to run into the fight blind.”
They walked to the boat side by side. He breathed in her scent, watching the way her long hair shifted as she moved. She was graceful and she stepped so carefully, picking her way along the mud, almost as if she was dancing. It finally sank in—he’d spend the next few days under her roof. In her house, filled with her scent. He would see her every day.
She would see him every day. If he played his cards right, she might even do more than see. He had to stay cool and bide his time. He was a wolf. He had no problem with patience.
“I just want to know one thing,” Cerise said.
“Yes?”
“When you kill Spider, are you going to chop off his head and have Zeke stuff it to make sure he’s really dead?”
TWELVE
THE porch boards creaked under Lagar’s foot. The whole manor was rotten. The inside of the house smelled musty, the paneling damp and slimy, dappled with black mildew stains.
He’d wanted the manor so much, he got in bed with the Hand for it. Fucking freaks. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to shed the memory of their magic, hot and sharp, brushing against him like a bunch of heated needles. And all for what? For this piece-of-shit house.
The only reason he’d wanted the damn house was because it belonged to Gustave. Gustave had everything: he ran his family and they worshipped him, he was respected, people asked him for advice . . . And Cerise lived in his house.
Chad appeared from behind the house, hands clutching the rifle.
“What is it?”
“I can’t find Brent.”
Lagar followed the guard around the house to a garden overgrown with weeds and ickberry. A small puddle, burgundy-dark in the gray dawn light, slicked the mud on the edge of the bushes. Blood.
Chad shifted from foot to foot. “I came to relieve him ...”
Lagar raised his hand, shutting him up. Long scratches marked the wet slime, wide apart, driven deep by a massive weight. Footprints approached the tracks. Brent must’ve seen the scratches and hesitated in this spot. The momentary pause cost him his life. Something leapt at him and carried him off.
Behind him Chad shifted from foot to foot. “I thought maybe a Mire cat ...”
“Too big.” Lagar peered past the sea of weeds to the crumbled stone wall that separated the once cultivated piece of land from the pines. Quiet.
“Where is the rifle?” he thought out loud.
“Uh ...”
“The rifle, Chad. Brent had one. Why would an animal take it?”
It began to drizzle. The rain wet the gray-green ickberry leaves, the red milkwort, the tall spires of laurel that kept their purple flowers locked in green against the rain. Cold wetness crept from Lagar’s scalp down his neck and across his brow. He didn’t bother wiping it away.