Finally, she just shook out a loop of doubled rope. Swinging it around her head, she heaved it at a likely-looking nub of rock and saw it land about ten feet to the left.
"Some cowgirl you make," she muttered. "How the hell do you throw a snake?"
Swing again, miss again. This time, the rope splatted down about fifteen feet to the other side. She retrieved it, fingers slimy from the green goo the rope picked up in its slither.
"It's okay," she muttered. "Take your time. We aren't going anywhere."
Leaning up against the rock lip cramped her movements. "It would be real nice," she added, "to just step back a pace and be able to get my shoulder and hips into the throw."
She looked down and scratched that idea. There were a lot of rocks between her and the water. Sharp rocks. How the hell did she ever miss those things the first time?
Swing, throw, miss. Swing, throw, miss. Swing, throw, hit! The rope draped over a lump of rock, and she twitched gently on the two lines leading from her hand. The damn thing lay doubled, the woven sheath construction too limp, too pliable, to form a nice wide loop like a good cow-rope noose. The rope curved and her pull dragged it off the nubbin again and it slithered back into the wet grease.
Swing, throw, miss. Swing, throw, miss. Swing, throw, hit, slither. Swing, throw, hit, slither.
Jo gritted her teeth. Son-of-a-bitch rope was damn well going to land on that nub of rock and it was damn well going to loop over it and it was damn well going to catch and hold. If she could make wet green wood burn with a glare, she damn well could breathe a little stiffness into a rope.
She narrowed her eyes and hefted the doubled climbing rope again. Anger seemed to trigger whatever it was she did, and she was seriously working on getting angry, right now.
She swung the rope again, threw it, controlled her glare. The noose floated out into a beautiful curve, the two threads separating into the prettiest loop she'd ever seen. They settled like a pearl necklace around the nubbin of rock, and she pulled tight against it, feeling the strength of her anchor in the deep thrum of taut springy rope.
Heat boiled in her belly and flushed strength into her arms. She pulled herself up and over the final lip and slid, hand over hand, through the slimy algae and up the funnel of rock until her knuckles bumped the rough bark of tree-roots. Gently, one hand at a time, she shifted from the rope to firm rock and still more distant holds. She brought her knees onto grit instead of grease and finally gathered her feet under her body to stand, hugging a dry cedar as if the spiraling bark was her lover's body.
"David, I'm out," she whispered.
{. . . .}
No words. She barely imagined the faintest hint of exhausted thought, buried under the long slow dreams of trees and the bright darting quicksilver of whatever squirrels used for brains. David had scattered again, now that she was safe.
Jo slumped against the tree, exhausted and hungry, her legs so shaky she slid down the bark and thumped her butt on a lumpy root. Some food would be nice, right now, she thought. Double cheeseburger with fries. A half-gallon of Ben and Jerry's finest. Flaming kebabs down at The Riverside, with a pitcher of dark ale and a basketful of garlic bread.
Useless thoughts. She ran through her list of assets: one revolver with eight remaining bullets and some kind of a hex she could overcome if she got mad enough, one Bic lighter maybe half-full, one Swiss army knife, one yellow ski jacket covered with green slime, the clothes she stood up in. To hell with the rope: that thing was heavy. Besides, from now on she was damn well going to watch where she put her feet.
She had to find David. Whatever was happening to him, she had to find him and stop it.
{. . . dragon . . .} barely rose above the background noise of forest life. She remembered the great obsidian snake with its cryptic references to a Master.
She could follow water back the way she came. The stream crossed the trail, and the trail led back to the dragon.
If that Master was behind David's problems, the scumbag had better watch out. She had just gained one additional asset: a belief in magic and a faint but growing sense of how to control her powers. Somebody's ass was about to get fried, and she didn't think it was hers.
Damn Maureen!
* * *
Sean followed her touch on the forest gently, gently, in his head. He didn't dare to think of moving until she was well out of sight and hearing. One more bullet and he was dead.
He coughed quietly, the jerking muscles rousing knife-sharp pains in his chest and side. Something lumpy scratched at his throat and he coughed again, spitting out blood. Bitch. She'd blown a hole in his lung and another in his liver. That was bad enough, but her curse really had put venom on the bullets.
"I wish you joy of each other," he muttered, remembering his jesting words to Dougal and Maureen. Mixing the two quests, Fiona for Brian and Dougal for Maureen, began to look like a mistake similar to letting a pyromaniac loose in a fireworks factory. Sean had thought he'd find an ally against his damned half-brother, and look what he got, instead.
The older one, Jo, was further away now. Sean allowed himself to curl around the stabbing pain in his gut. He'd just stood there in shock after the first bullet slammed into him. Then the second tore through his belly and out his back. Only instinct dropped him out
