remember mission maps and objectives. His memory was exceptional even among changelings.
William had practiced in the Broken out of habit, memorizing random things he read and watched, everything from gun catalogs to cartoons. He could recite the first hundred or so pages of an average paperback after having read it once. But the amount of information the Mirror had crammed into him strained even his brain, and now it hummed as if some phantom bees had made a hive in his skull. Eventually his mind would come to terms with the information, and he’d either learn it permanently or allow himself to forget it, but for now it was giving him a hell of a headache.
A man walked out of the crowd, heading for the cow. About forty, with gray hair cut in what would’ve been a mullet if he wasn’t balding, the man walked with a slight limp, dragging his left leg. He wore black jeans, a black T- shirt, a gray flannel shirt, and a Remington rifle. Looked like a 7400 from where William was standing, but he’d have to see it closer to be sure.
The man stopped a couple of feet away and looked him over. William raised his chin and gave him a flat stare. The newcomer struck him as an enterprising sort of man. The kind that would slit your throat for a box of tissues in your bag while you slept.
The man turned to the woman, gave her a long once-over, and spat into the grass. “Here for the Edge?”
“Yes,” William said.
The woman nodded.
Yep, he would be spending the next few days in the company of that enchanting stench. Could be worse. At least she didn’t reek like vomit.
“Name’s Vern. Follow me.”
Vern limped his way from the swap meet into the brush. The hobo followed. William shouldered his rucksack and went after them.
They hiked through the brush for about twenty minutes when he sensed the boundary. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
Vern turned around. “Here’s the deal. We cross into the Edge here. You die in the crossing, that’s your problem. Don’t count on any CPR and shit. If you make it through, we’ve got a two-day trip up through the swamps. Both of you paid half. The second half is due when we land in Sicktree. If you give me any trouble, I’ll shoot your ass and won’t worry twice about it. You change your mind and want off the boat, you get off in the swamp. I ain’t turning back, and I ain’t issuing no refunds. We clear?”
“Clear enough,” William said.
The woman nodded.
Vern grimaced at her. “You mute or something? Never mind, none of my business.”
He turned and stepped into the boundary.
Thirty seconds of agony later, the three of them were bent double on the other side, trying to catch their breath.
William straightened first, then Vern. The woman stayed bent, sucking in the air in small pained gulps. Vern headed down through the brush to where sounds of running water announced a stream.
The hobo woman didn’t move. Too much magic in her blood.
“You got it?” William asked.
She jerked upright with a groan, pushed past him, and followed Vern.
He pushed through the brush and almost ran straight into the water. A narrow stream lay before him, its placid water the color of dark tea but still translucent. Giant cypresses with thick, bloated stems flanked the stream. They stood densely, as if on guard, their knobby roots anchoring them to the mud. At the nearest tree, Vern waited in a large boat, a wide, shallow vessel with peeling paint and dented sides. A wooden cabin took up most of it, more a shelter from the sun than a cabin really: the front and back walls were missing. Two ropes hung from the nose of the boat, dipping into the water.
“No motor?” William asked, stepping aboard.
Vern gave him a look reserved for the mentally challenged. “Not from the Edge, are you? One, a motor makes noise, so the whole swamp will know where you are, and two, you’ve got a motor boat, that’s some valuable shit. The Edgers will shoot you for it.”
Vern picked up the ropes. Two twin heads poked from the water on long sinuous necks, like two Loch Ness monsters that somehow grew otter heads.
“Rolpie power,” Vern said. “Keep your damn hands inside the vehicle and stay away from the sides. The Mire’s full of gators, most bigger than this boat. They see your shadow on the water, they’ll lunge into the boat to get you. And I ain’t jumping in to rescue your ass.”
He slapped the reins, smacking his lips. The rolpies dove, and the boat took off, gliding across the dark water into the swamp.
WILLIAM leaned against the cabin wall and watched the swamp slide by. If someone had asked him yesterday morning what hell looked like, he would’ve said he didn’t know. He’d spent twenty-four hours in the swamp, and now he had an answer. Hell looked like the Mire.
The boat crawled down the river, framed by dense clumps of vegetation and reeds. In the distance, cypresses rose, their bloated trunks grotesquely fat, like old men with beer guts squatting in the mud. Sunrise was due in half an hour, and the sky and the water glowed the pale gray of a worn-out dime.
William inhaled deeply, sampling the scents on his tongue. The feeble stirring of the air that passed for wind in this place smelled of algae, fish, and mud. His senses regained their sharpness in the Edge, and the stench rising from the mess of muck, rot, and water combined with the heat made him want to bite someone just to let out some frustration.
The constant movement of the boat grated on his nerves. Wolves were meant to walk on firm ground, not on this shell of fiberglass, or whatever the hell it was, that insisted on swaying and rocking every time one of the rolpies gulped some air. Unfortunately firm ground was in short supply: the shore was a soup of mud and water. When they had stopped for the night and he’d stepped onto what seemed like solid ground, his boots had sunk in up to the ankle.
He’d spent the night in the boat. Next to the spaghetti queen.
William glanced at the hobo girl. She sat across from him, huddled in a clump. Her stench had gotten worse overnight, probably from the dampness. Another night like the last one, and he might snap and dunk her into that river just to clear the air.
She saw him looking. Dark eyes regarded him with slight scorn.
William leaned forward and pointed at the river. “I don’t know why you rolled in spaghetti sauce,” he said in a confidential voice. “I don’t really care. But that water over there won’t hurt you. Try washing it off.”
She stuck her tongue out.
“Maybe after you’re clean,” he said.
Her eyes widened. She stared at him for a long moment. A little crazy spark lit up in her dark irises. She raised her finger, licked it, and rubbed some dirt off her forehead.
Now what?
The girl showed him her stained finger and reached toward him slowly, aiming for his face.
“No,” William said. “Bad hobo.”
The finger kept coming closer.
“You touch me, I’ll break it off.”
Something splashed ahead. Both of them looked at the river.
A wave wrinkled the surface a few hundred yards out.
The girl squinted at it.
Here it was again, a shallow ripple. It bopped up and down. Something sped to the boat.
“Sharks!” The girl lunged at Vern.
He gaped at her.
“Sharks, you moron!” She pointed at the water.
Ripples sliced through the surface. A huge fin emerged. A second followed.
