She waved her hand to the right, at the gloom between the trees.
Everything that could go wrong did. Never failed.
William turned and followed her through the brush. A familiar ghostly pressure brushed his skin. They were near the boundary. For a furious second he thought she’d led him back to it in a circle.
She stopped again. He jerked back. Impossible woman.
Cerise pointed. “Look!”
He shifted the boat to see. In front of them the wide expanse of the lake stretched like a pane of muddy glass. On their left a dock protruded into the water and at the base of the dock sat a house.
Dark windows. No trace of smoke or human scents in the air. Nobody home.
The road by it looked too smooth—paved. William focused and made out the outlines of a satellite dish on the roof. A Broken house. He was right—they were near the boundary.
Cerise leaned closer. “Sometimes the Mire makes pockets that lead to the Broken. They’re usually tiny and disappear after a while.”
He bent to her. “We hit that pocket, the Broken will strip you of your magic. A cure for all your ills.”
A tiny light flared in her eyes.
Lightning struck, the world’s heart skipping a beat.
A dark object broke the surface of the lake, rising out of the water.
William hurled the boat aside and shoved Cerise back, behind him.
The dark thing stood upright. William stared, his eyes amplifying the low light.
Seven feet tall, the creature rose on thick columnar legs. Two eight-inch-long bone claws thrust from its wrists, protruding past its fingers. Its head looked human enough, but the rough bumps distorted the outline of its body, as if it had been carved out of rough stone by someone in a hurry.
Lightning flashed again and he saw it, clear as day in the split second of light. Mad bloodshot eyes stared at him from a human face ending in an oversized jaw. Its skin, the color of watery yellow mud, wrinkled on the creature’s neck and limbs, as if it were too big for its body. Thick bony plates slabbed its back, stomach, and thighs.
Thibauld, his memory told him. One of Spider’s crew. Severely altered, ambusher class. Shit.
Thibauld peered at them, looking from William’s face to the girl and back. He blocked the way to the boundary. To get to the house, they would have to get past him. According to the Mirror’s intel, Thibauld had a superior sense of smell. A bad opponent on land, he was hell in the water. Spider must’ve parked him in the lake on the off chance Cerise would come this way. He probably had most major waterways blocked.
William focused, judging the distance to the agent. His crossbow was in the pack on his back. A second to drop the pack, two to pull the crossbow, another second to load . . . too long. He’d have to rely on his knife.
The Hand’s agent raised his arms. The long scimitar claws pointed at Cerise. His mouth gaped open, revealing rows of short triangular teeth. They would shred flesh like a cheese grater, and the jaws looked strong enough to bite through bone. Great.
A dull, deep voice issued from Thibauld’s mouth, pronouncing each word with agonizing slowness. “It . . . is . . . mine.”
“No,” William told him.
The claws pointed at him. “You . . . die,” the agent promised.
“Not today.”
Cerise lunged. William sensed her move and thrust his arm out, knocking her down, before she got a taste of the claws. “Stay behind me!”
Cerise crashed into the mud and stayed there.
The muscle on Thibauld’s frame expanded, snapping the loose skin tight. William eased the backpack off his shoulders.
An odd, warbling sound rolled in Thibauld’s grotesque throat. The Hand’s agent charged.
William dodged left. Claws fanned his face. He thrust under the tree-trunk arm and sliced at the exposed strip of skin over the ribs. The knife cut hard muscle. He sliced again, feeling the knife slide harmlessly across the bone plate. Damn armor-plated turkey. What wasn’t covered by plates was shielded by thick muscle. His knife wasn’t doing enough damage.
Thibauld spun, arms wide, aiming to backhand him. William jerked back. Thibauld missed but kept spinning like a windmill, claws rending. William ducked the first blow, dodged the second, and then Thibauld’s arm smashed into his shoulder.
The blow took him off his feet. William flew, curling into a ball, hit the mud with his back, and rolled to his feet. His left arm had gone numb. Strong bastard. William couldn’t afford to take another hit.
Ten feet away Thibauld blinked his bloodshot eyes, swiveling his head from side to side. Looking for Cerise. No, you don’t.
“Over here, dimwit! Pay attention!”
The agent stared at him.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Do you need a special invitation?”
Thibauld stomped forward. That’s right, come to me, come closer, away from the girl.
Thibauld was only six feet away. William lunged forward, obviously aiming for the agent’s chest. Thibauld moved to counter, claws raised for the kill. Fell for it. William reversed his stroke. His blade carved at the inside of the agent’s arm, slicing deep into the flesh just below the biceps. He ducked under the claws and pulled back.
Nothing. A cut like that should’ve disabled the arm, but Thibauld seemed no worse for wear.
No blood, no sound of pain, no wince. Nothing.
Thibauld raised his arms, shifting his stance. The agent couldn’t catch him with his claws, so he decided to grapple. William bared his teeth. If he was by himself, he’d cut and run. The more Thibauld ran around, the faster he’d bleed out. But the moment he ran, Thibauld would lumber over to Cerise, who was still sprawled in the mud. In retrospect, he may have pushed her a bit too hard. Or the Hand’s magic had battered her more than she showed.
A narrow line of red swelled across Thibauld’s arm. Woo-hoo, he’d managed a scratch. Great. Now about a hundred of those and he would be set.