Bayou Moon - Andrews, Ilona [75]
Emel winced.
“I say it’s right that she killed your eel. What kind of a pet is that for a respected man anyway? Couldn’t get a dog or a cat. No, this knucklehead gets himself a bald fish with legs!”
Light giggling pulsed through the crowd.
“Meemaw Azan—” Emel started but she cut him off.
“I don’t care if you’re a necromancer! Coming over here, all important, doesn’t say hello to his granny. Too good for your family, are you, Emel? I know I brought my grandchildren up better than that. I think I’ll have me a talk with your mother!”
A spark of fear flared in Emel’s somber eyes. “I should go,” he said softly.
“It’s for the best,” Kaldar murmured. “I’ll give Cerise your message.”
Emel bowed to his grandmother and took off toward the door amid the cackling audience.
Grandmother Az put her tiny fists on her hips. “And don’t you walk away from me, Emel Mar! I am not finished with you! Emel!”
The necromancer grabbed his robe, broke into a run, and escaped through the door. Grandmother Az waved her arm around and poked William in the shoulder. “Can you believe that child? Well, doesn’t that just sink my boat! And he was such a sweet baby, too.”
LAGAR pulled the boat to the shore, threw the reins on a cypress knee, and stepped on the wet grass. A lake of ferns rustled before him.
“Peva?”
No answer came. He took a step into the ferns and saw a trail of broken stems leading away from a pine. A small bag of tracker’s mix lay on the roots, the nuts and raisins scattered on the ground. Above it, a circular black mark, the kind a flare arrow made, glared at him from the pine’s trunk.
Peva had no flare bolts. The hair on the back of Lagar’s neck stood on its end.
He unsheathed his sword in a single fluid motion and searched the ground.
Twin puncture marks, two wounds in the dirt, marked the spot by the pine root. Someone had shot at his brother and lived to retrieve the missiles. Unless Peva took them for his own.
Lagar jogged to the edge of the fern field. Several stems lay broken on the ground. His gaze snagged on a bolt protruding from a cypress trunk. A green glyph marked the shaft. One of Peva’s. Too low for a target. Besides when Peva aimed, he always hit. He’d shot to distract someone’s attention from himself. Lagar crouched, pointing the tip of his sword in the direction of the bolt, and turned the other way.
A large cypress blocked his view twenty feet away. He ran to the cypress, circled the bloated stem . . .
Peva lay on his back on the ground. The blue tint of the bloodless skin, the rigid features, the brown stain of blood on the chest, it all rushed at Lagar at the same time and punched him deep into the gut, where the nerves met. He dropped to his knees.
Rain came, drizzling the swamp with cold water. It plastered Peva’s hair to his head, filling the dead eyes with false tears. A phantom hand squeezed Lagar’s throat until it hurt.
Lagar pulled his brother close and held him.
FOURTEEN
CERISE rode quietly, letting the horse pick the pace. The swamp rolled by on both sides of the road: pale husks of the dead trees rising from the bog water that was black like liquid tar.
They won the first round. Peva was dead. The court had ruled in favor of the family. They had the right to retrieve Grandfather’s house. Now they just had to do it.
She should’ve been happy. Instead, she felt empty and worn-out to the core, as if her body had become a threadbare rag hanging off her bones. She was so weary. She wanted off her horse. She wanted to curl up somewhere dark and quiet. And most of all, she wanted her mother.
Cerise sighed. It was a ridiculous urge. She was twenty-four years old. Not a child by any means. If things had gone differently, she would’ve been married and had children of her own by now. But no matter how she tried to rationalize herself away from it, she wanted her mother with the desperation of a child left alone in the dark. The need was so basic and strong, she almost cried.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried. It had to be years.
The logical part of her knew