Cerise stared at Lagar. Where are my parents, you smug sonovabitch?
The door banged, and the third Sheerile brother sauntered into view, carrying Lagar’s sword. Arig, at eighteen, was the youngest and the dumbest. In a dark room in a crowd full of strangers, Cerise could’ve picked all three of them out in seconds. She had grown up knowing that one day she would have to kill the Sheerile brothers, and they knew they had to kill her before she did them in. She’d come to terms with it a long time ago.
Arig held the sword out to Lagar, but the blond Sheerile ignored it. They didn’t mean to fight her today. Not yet.
Cerise brought her horse to a halt by the porch.
Lagar gave her a short nod. “Lovely morning to you.”
“Same to you, Lagar.” She smiled, making an effort to look sweet and cheerful. “You boys lost?”
“Not that I know of.” Lagar gave her the same friendly smile.
“If you’re not lost, then what are you doing on my land?”
Lagar peeled himself from the post with affected leisure. “My land, love.”
“Since when?”
“Since your father sold it to me this morning.”
Like hell he did. She pursed her lips. “You don’t say.”
“Arig,” Lagar called. “Bring the deed to our pretty guest.”
The youngest Sheerile brother trotted over to her horse and offered her a piece of paper rolled into a tube. She took the tube from him.
Arig leered. “Where’s your cute little sister, Cerise? Maybe Lark would like some of what I’ve got. I can show her a better time than she’s had.”
A shocked silence fell.
Some things were just not done.
A lethal fire slipped into Lagar’s eyes. Peva stepped off the porch, walked over to Arig, and grabbed him by the ear. Arig howled.
“Excuse us a minute.” Peva spun Arig around and kicked him in the ass.
“What did I do?”
Peva kicked him again. Arig scrambled through the mud, up the rickety porch, and into the house. Something thumped inside, and Arig’s voice screamed, “Not in the gut!”
Cerise glanced at Lagar. “Letting him go around without a muzzle again?”
Lagar grimaced. “Look at the damn deed.”
Cerise unrolled the paper. The signature was perfect: her father’s sharp narrow scrawl. Lagar must’ve paid a fortune for it. “This deed’s false.”
Lagar smiled. “So you say.”
She handed it back to him. “Where are my parents, Lagar?”
He spread his lean arms. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen them since this morning. They sold us the manor and left in perfect health.”
“Then you don’t mind if we check the house.”
He bared his teeth at her. “As a matter of fact, I do. Mind.”
The crossbows and rifles clicked as one, as safety latches dropped.
Cerise fought for control. It flashed in her head: jump off the mare, use her as a shield against the first volley, charge the porch, split Arig’s stomach with a swipe of the blade, thrust into Peva . . . But by then both Mikita and Erian would be dead. Six crossbows against three riders—it was no contest.
Lagar was looking at her with an odd wistful expression. She had seen it once before, two years ago, when he got drunk out of his mind at the Summer Festival. He’d crossed the field and asked her to dance, and she spun one time around the bonfire with him, shocking the entire Mire into silence: two heirs of feuding families playing with death while their elders watched.
She had an absurd suspicion that he was thinking of pulling her off her horse. He was more than welcome to try.
“Lagar,” she whispered. “Don’t screw with me. Where are my parents?”
Lagar stepped closer, dropping his voice. “Forget Gustave. Forget Genevieve. Your parents are gone, Cerise. There’s nothing you can do.”
The cold knot in her stomach broke and turned into rage. “Do you have them, Lagar?”
He shook his head.
Her horse sensed her anxiety and danced under her. “Who has them?” No matter how far away the Sheeriles had hidden them, she would find them.
A thin smile curved Lagar’s lips. He raised his hand, studying it as if it were an object of great interest, watching the fingers bend and straighten, and looked back at her.
The Hand. Louisiana spies.
Ice slid down Cerise’s spine. The Hand was deadly. Everybody heard stories about them. Some of them were so twisted by magic, they weren’t even human anymore. What would Louisiana spies want with her parents?
Lagar raised his voice. “I’ll send a copy of the deed to your house.”
She smiled at him, wishing she could let her sword slide across his neck. “You do that.”
Lagar bowed with a flourish.
“This is it,” she said. “No turning back.”
He nodded. “I know. Our great-grandparents started this feud, and you and I will finish it. I can’t wait.”
Cerise turned her horse and urged it on. Behind her, Mikita and Erian rode through the rain.
Her parents were alive. She would get them back. She would find them. If she had to paint their trail with Sheerile blood, all the better.
CERISE burst into the yard at a canter, her mare’s hooves splashing mud. She’d asked Erian to ride ahead to get everyone together. He must’ve done a hell of a job, because Aunt Murid stood on the verandah with a crossbow. Up to the left, Lark sat in the pine branches, and to the right, Adrian had climbed up into a cypress. Both had rifles and neither missed often.
Derril ran up to take the reins from her, his eyes wide.
“Is Richard here?”
Her cousin nodded. “In the library.”
“What about your uncle Kaldar?”
Derril nodded again.
“Good.”