His eyes studied her. “Fine,” he said. “I won’t fight you for your knife if you tell me how we can get to Sicktree.”
Cerise forced her mind to work. It started slowly, like a rusty water mill. “Small stream. Three miles up the river on the right side, between two pines, one of them lightning-scorched. It will take us to Mozer Lake, but we’ll have to drag the boat for the last two miles.”
Once she started scratching, she wouldn’t stop. There are no bugs, there are no bugs . . .
“Hobo queen!”
“What?”
“Mozer Lake.”
Mozer Lake. What about the damn Mozer Lake? She pictured the waterways. Sicktree. They were going to Sicktree, to that piss-and-shit sewer hole of a town. There was something vital about Sicktree.
Urow.
Urow was in Sicktree. She had to get to her cousin, so he could bring her home, fast, so she would make the court date, so they could take back the house, and kill the Sheeriles and the Hand, and get her parents back. Save parents. Get to Sicktree. Right.
“Mozer Lake opens into Tinybear Creek,” she said. “Tinybear will become Bigbear. We can abandon the boat before the Bigbear joins the main river and cross the swamp on foot to Sicktree.”
Cerise ran through the course in her mind. “Three miles, stream on the right, Mozer Lake, Tinybear, Bigbear, Miller’s Path.” She paused, not sure if she’d said it correctly. “Three miles, stream on the right, Mozer Lake, Tinybear, Bigbear, Miller’s Path.”
“Thank you, Dora. Put the sword back into Backpack and we’ll go.” He nodded at the river.
“Who is Dora?”
“You are. Dora the Explorer. Vamanos. Put the sword away or I will take it from you.”
Arrogant prick. “Touch me and d-d-die,” she told him.
He chuckled. It was a raspy deep sound. Wolves laughed like that.
Cerise sheathed the sword and hugged the scabbard. The bugs dug harder, tiny steel mandibles chewing on her ligaments, turning the muscle under her skin into bloody soft mush . . . Cerise locked her jaws, remembering the grotesque web of tentacles slick with crimson hair as it left the muddy water. Damn freak. The next time we meet, I’ll make your arms even. I’ll keep mincing you into pieces until you tell me where my parents are.
“It’s g-g-going to rain,” she said, pointing at the thick gray clouds.
William glanced at the clouds. “Rain’s good for us. Covers our trail.” He paused and leaned over to her. “It’s all in your head. Don’t let it push you around. I’ll keep you safe until you’re back on your feet.”
Keep her safe, ha. She would keep herself safe. Huddled on the bench, Cerise pulled her jacket tighter around herself and tried not to scratch.
CERISE’S shortcut stream turned out to be mud slicked over with a foot and a half of water. Too shallow for the boat carrying the full load. William shifted his grip and waded on, dragging the boat and their bags in it. Cerise walked in front of him, sword out.
She hadn’t taken it to her skin. She hadn’t scratched either, but the Hand’s magic took its toll: she stooped, as if carrying a heavy load, and hadn’t said a word to him in the last hour. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or if he missed her needling.
The swamp had grown dark. Shadows disappeared. Storm clouds churned overhead, gray, thick, and heavy. A gust of wind ripped through the reeds and bushes, rustling the undergrowth. Rain was imminent.
Cerise kept trudging ahead. She was beginning to drag her feet. The more sensitive you were to magic, the harder the Hand hit. Ruh was altered enough to make even William gag, and he’d been exposed to the Hand’s magic before.
Ultimately it came down to willpower. She had guts and endurance—William gave her that—but the worst was yet to come. When the aftereffects really hit, and eventually they would, she could go into convulsions. If she died, his shot at Spider could die with her. He had to keep her alive and safe.
Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled, shaking the leaves. The air smelled of scorched sky. Heavy, cold drops drummed on the cypresses, at first a few, then more and more, until finally the clouds burst and a torrent showered the swamp, so dense even he could barely see beyond a few feet.
William raised his face to the dark sky and swore.
Cerise turned to him. The rain had soaked her, turning her clothes into a single dark mass and mixing with the mud on her face. She looked like she had sprouted from the Mire itself, like some shrub from a mud bank. Bloodshot eyes stared at him. She was running on fumes.
Cerise opened her mouth. The words came out slowly. “Don’t worry, you won’t melt. Not sweet enough.”
“You see those dots I mentioned, you tell me.”
“Will do.”
They kept going. The boat scraped the ground and became wedged.
“We’ll have to c-c-carry it,” Cerise said, swiping her bag.
William shouldered his rucksack. She lifted the nose of the boat.
“I’ve got it,” he told her.
“It’s heavy.”
“I’ll manage.” He flipped the boat over and hoisted it on his shoulders. He could carry her and the boat for several miles, but she didn’t need to know that. His field of vision shrank to the small space directly beneath his feet, the rest taken up by dark boat and Cerise’s jacket and legs. They moved on.
Water and mud soaked William to the bone. It was under his leathers and in his boots. His socks formed soggy clumps that bunched against his feet. He would give a year of his life to shed the wet clothes and run on all fours. But the girl and his load kept him in human skin.
He missed his trailer. His small, shabby trailer, which was dry and had a flat-screen TV and beer in the fridge. And dry socks. That was one of the things he loved most about the Broken. He could buy all the socks he ever wanted.
Cerise stopped and he nearly rammed her with the damn boat. “What is it?”
“We missed the turnoff!” she yelled over the storm. “The stream must’ve changed course because of the rain. We’re too far to the left. We need to go that way, to the lake!”