Bayou Moon - Andrews, Ilona [68]
“What about the river?” he asked.
“The river, too. There are ward stones crossing the bottom. You can’t get to the Rathole unless we want you there. But the wards don’t go very far. Most of our land isn’t covered.”
That explained why Spider didn’t just raid the house. A safe base was good. “What about your grandparents’ house?”
She shook her head. “No wards there. Grandfather refused to have the place warded.”
The fog retreated. They turned into a smaller stream. Cold drizzle sifted from the sky. William ground his teeth. Did it ever stop raining in this fucked-up place?
Being back at his trailer would’ve been very nice right now. He’d make himself a cup of good strong coffee and watch some TV. He’d bought a new season of CSI that begged to be cracked open. He liked CSI. It was like magic. If he felt in need of some comedy, he could always find COPS. He’d started watching the show to find out how good the Broken police were in case he had to have a run-in with them, but the shirtless drunken idiots proved too hilarious and stole the show. The only thing he’d learned about the cops was that they had to run a lot.
He pictured himself on the couch, Cerise tucked next to him. Nice. Never happen, he reminded himself.
He just wanted to be dry. Just for a few minutes. And to wash his hair. The pelt had to be kept clean or it would itch and get bugs in it. He didn’t spend money on expensive toys, like pricy cars or phones, but he did buy decent shampoo and he went to a salon to have his hair cut. Salons smelled good, and the pretty women who cut his hair flirted with him and leaned close.
The constant dampness drove him crazy. At this rate, he’d sprout waterweeds on his head before the week was out. The next time he had to have a haircut, they’d have to trim the mushrooms from his scalp.
The stream opened into a cove, framed by pines and stout picturesque trees with round yellow leaves. William leaned to get a better look. Pretty.
A small dock protruded into the water, a natural extension of the dirt path that led up a hill. To the left a heavy wooden gate barred what was probably another stream. He smelled rolpies. His ear caught the distant grunting squeals beyond the gate. The Edgers must’ve kept them penned up like cows.
A man stepped out onto the dock and looked at them. Black hair, fit, tall, about thirty. If they were in the Weird, William would’ve sworn he was looking at a blueblood. The man held himself very straight, taking up more space than his lean body needed and radiating enough icy, stuck-up elegance to give Declan’s relatives a run for their money. William growled in his mind and pulled Declan out of the recesses of his memory. If this guy was a blueblood, he’d have to concentrate not to give himself away.
“That’s Richard. My cousin,” Cerise said.
A small mud-slathered creature sat by Richard’s feet. He was lecturing it. William couldn’t quite catch the words but it looked like a serious chewing out. William focused on the little beast. A kid. Looked like a girl, sitting with her knees clasped to her chest, long hair a mess of mud and leaves.
Cerise drew a deep breath. He glanced at her. She was looking at the little girl. Her black eyebrows knitted together. Her mouth quivered once, wanting to droop at the corners. He glimpsed sadness in her eyes. Then she hid it and pulled the smile on like a mask.
Richard’s words floated down to them. “. . . absolutely not appropriate, especially hitting him in the head with a rock ...”
The little girl saw them. She shoved past Richard and dove into the water. Richard stopped in mid-word.
“Oh, Lark,” Cerise whispered.
The little girl swam through the water, limbs flashing. Cerise slowed the rolpie. The kid dove and scrambled onto the boat, wet and dripping mud. She lunged at Cerise and clutched at her, burying her face in Cerise’s stomach. Cerise put her arms around the child and looked like she was