A bulge of flesh grew on Ruh’s shoulder. It squeezed and relaxed slowly, growing thicker with each contraction. What the hell …
Ruh moaned. A huge drop of yellow ichor swelled over the tracker’s right deltoid and burst, releasing a tentacle.
Acid burned William’s mouth. Right, if he ever fought Ruh, stabbing him in the back from above, right between the shoulder blades, would be good.
The tentacle shivered above the tracker’s shoulder, like a worm the color of raw muscle, and clung to Ruh’s red skin. Lubricated by the ichor, the tentacle slid, winding its way down the arm. Another followed it, twisting about the first, then another.
Cerise gagged. He clamped her tighter. If she vomited, the body fluid would break the spell.
The tentacles plunged into the water. The rolpie moaned and screamed, trying to get away.
A sickening magic swept over them like an avalanche. If it was wind, it would’ve rocked the boat.
Cerise shuddered in his grip.
Thin tendrils of magic stretched from the boat. Colorless, shimmering like hot air rising from the ground, they snaked their way along the surface of the river, through the reeds, toward them.
If the spell broke, they were fucked.
The magic hovered, waiting, probing. The colorless tendrils lapped at the edges of the mirror spell.
The coin burned William’s hand. A spasm rocked Cerise. “Almost over,” he whispered. “Almost done.”
On the boat, Ruh peered straight at them.
William held his breath.
The magic tendrils swelled and split, flowing around the boat. They tasted the shore, slithered over the mud, and retreated.
Ruh turned to the Edgers. William strained. His ears picked up the faint sound of Ruh’s voice.
“Girl didn’t … this way. Moving on …”
They were looking for a girl. The girl? This girl?
The tracker pulled his tentacles out of the river. William caught a flash of a complex web, covered with long red eyelash-thin hairs dripping with water, and then the net folded in on itself. The cilia slid into the tentacles; the tentacles rolled into the shoulder like elastic rubber cords, and the skin sealed over it. Ruh massaged the viscous ichor into his arm, rubbing it into the skin like a lotion, and reached for his cloak.
The older Edger released the rope, and the rolpie shot down the river, fleeing for its life and dragging the boat with it.
William waited. A minute passed. Another. Long enough. He let go of the coin. It lay useless and cold on his palm, all of its charge spent. He had to give it to the Mirror. They made neat toys.
Cerise slumped forward, curling into a ball. The parts of her that weren’t covered with dirt had turned so pale, they looked green. The aftereffect of exposure to the Hand’s magic should be hitting her full force now.
If Spider wanted her, then William had to keep her for himself. Sooner or later Spider would come looking for her, and then they would finish the dance they’d started four years ago.
Cerise coughed.
The wild in him bared its teeth. She was weak and scared. Almost pitiful. Easy prey for anybody. He had to guard her or she’d get herself killed.
“They’re looking for you.” He kept his voice brisk.
She clutched at her stomach. Her words came out strained. “No personal questions.”
“That’s the Hand. Louisiana spies. Why do they want you?”
She shook her head.
Fine. The aftereffects of the Hand’s magic became worse with time. He simply had to wait her out, the way a wolf pack waited out a bleeding deer. Sooner or later the deer would run himself into the ground and then it was dinnertime.
William took the pole from her and sank it into the water, propelling the boat upstream.
SIX
CERISE shivered. Icy needles pricked her spine and stabbed into the muscles of her back. Her neck grew stiff. Her mouth had gone dry and bitter.
Something on many furry legs crawled up her arm. She brushed at it but her fingers closed over nothing. Her skin was clean. She rubbed her arm just to be sure, felt the touch of the little legs on her elbow, rubbed there, and then dozens of invisible bugs scattered up her shoulders and back. Stiff insect bristles and tiny chitinous claws scratched her, skittering down her neck. She jerked, raking at herself.
William leaned over to her and slapped her hand.
“Keep your hands off me.”
“I will, if you keep them off yourself.”
“What’s it to you?” she clenched her jacket to herself, feeling the papers in the smooth plastic. Still there.
“That red freak you saw is a tracker. He needs very little, some spit, a few drops of blood in the river, and he’ll know where you are. We’re paddling upstream. If you claw yourself bloody, the current will drag it down, and at his next stop he’ll find out what you taste like. Then they’ll turn the boat around and come back this way with their seven rifles.”
“How do you know?”
He touched his hand to her forehead, and she pulled back—his skin was burning hot. He showed her his palm, damp with her sweat.
“Right now you think there are ghost bugs crawling on your skin. Your heart is hammering. Your tongue’s dried up, and your mouth tastes like cotton; your hands and feet are freezing, but your body is hot. I know this because I’ve experienced it.” He kept pushing the boat.
William grimaced. “I was a soldier in Adrianglia. We’ve run into the Hand’s freaks before.” He leaned into the pole. “The Adrianglian Mirror and the Louisianan Hand have been fighting a cold war for years. Adrianglia and Louisiana are too well matched. If a real war broke out, it would drag on for years, so instead they keep throwing spies at each other, looking for a back door to a victory. Adrianglian spies use magic, in their gadgets and their weapons. Louisianan spies
She knew all that already. “W-w-why does it make you sick?”
“Eventually the Hand’s freaks get so fucked-up they start emanating their twisted magic. That magic is poison to us. It’s like finding a rotten corpse—the stench makes you vomit, so you have no doubt that it’s bad to eat. Same thing here. The more screwed up they are, the worse their magic is. They know it, too. They use it to weaken their prey. Eventually your body will adjust, but until then you’ll be vulnerable.”
“When d-d-does it wear off?”
“Depends.”
What sort of answer was that? “How long d-d-did yours last?”
There was a tiny pause before he answered. “Eighteen hours.”
“How d-d-did you k-k-keep from scratching?”
“I didn’t. They chained me in a cell by the neck and let me go at it.”
“That’s h-h-horrible.” What kind of army was he in exactly that they would let him claw himself bloody? “Couldn’t they sedate you or s-s-s-something?”
His voice was matter of fact. “They didn’t bother with it.”
“That’s not right.” Her teeth danced, and Cerise bit down, sending her knees into an uncontrollable shiver.
