Ilona Andrews - On the Edge

Ooooooooooooh.

Jack forgot to breathe.

The knife rotated on the rope, glinting in the sun. Sharp. Shiny.

He had to have the knife.

Jack lay still, listening, waiting. Traces of Declan’s scent hung above the clearing, but the blueblood was long gone.

The moment he touched the knife, the rope would yank the trigger, and the sapling would jerk straight, pulling a hidden loop. The loop would catch him and send him flying through the air.

Jack swallowed. This had to be done very carefully.

“SHOULDN’T you be out looking for my brother instead of sitting here eating lunch?” Rose passed the potatoes to Declan.

“You’re supposed to want me to fail, remember?” Declan snagged two additional Edge burgers off the platter. He seemed to really like them. They weren’t anything special. She’d seasoned the ground beef with garlic, salt, pepper, and a pinch of swamp spice, added an equal amount of cooked rice, shaped the mix into oblong patties, rolled them in bread crumbs, and fried them. The rice made the meat go twice as long, and nobody could taste it.

Declan ate like a horse. If he did manage to catch Jack, which she seriously doubted, Rose vowed to go down to Max Taylor’s and exchange the two doubloons now in her possession for some money. She would need more groceries to feed him.

Having him in her kitchen was like trying to serve lunch to a deadly tiger. Declan was too large, his shoulders too broad, his eyes too predatory. His face was inscrutable. She wished she could search his head and find out what really went on in there.

He caught her looking and hit her with a direct stare. His gaze lingered on her face.

On the other hand, it probably was best she didn’t know what he was thinking.

Declan sliced a piece of the burger, put it into his mouth, and chewed with an expression of complete happiness. “My wife will never have to cook,” he said.

“Why?” Georgie asked, imitating Declan’s surgical precision with his own knife and fork.

“Because I employ a cook. But I want you to promise me, Rose . . .” He put another piece of the burger into his mouth and paused.

“You really should cut your food into pieces small enough so you don’t have to swallow before you can talk,” she said. Take that, Mr. Manners.

“I wasn’t busy chewing. I was savoring the taste. It might surprise you, but when I find something delicious, I take my time to enjoy it.”

His gaze caught hers just in case she missed his innuendo.

“You don’t say,” she said dryly.

He ate another bite. “Promise me that when we marry, you’ll occasionally make these. As a special treat.”

“You’re impossible,” she told him and slid the platter of burgers closer to him in spite of herself.

Georgie poked his burger with his fork and leaned over to Declan. “Her fried chicken is better,” he said.

“Georgie!” She glared at him in outrage. “Whose side are you on? You’re not supposed to tell him my fried chicken is good.”

Georgie blinked in confusion. “What am I supposed to say?”

“You’re supposed to tell him I’m a horrible cook, so he’ll go away and leave us alone.”

Declan made an odd noise that sounded somewhat like a strangled cough.

Georgie glanced at Declan. “He’ll never believe me. He likes your burgers.”

“You have to convince him. Be charming. Use your Edger wiles.”

Georgie furrowed his eyebrows in thought and looked at Declan. “Don’t eat her fried chicken. It tastes good, but she puts rat poison in it.”

The inscrutable mask on Declan’s face shattered. He leaned forward and laughed.

KNIFE. Knife, knife, knife.

Jack crawled through the grass like a fluffy caterpillar. He’d circled the clearing three times, studying the lure from all angles, until he finally determined the size of the loop. It lay in wait in the grass, ready to snag him the moment the knife was touched.

But the loop was long and narrow. He could jump over it. He knew he could.

Jack crouched in the grass, tight and ready from the ends of his white whiskers to the tip of his short tail. Jump, bite the knife, and spring the trap.

Sure, the lure would’ve caught any other beast, but Jack wasn’t a dumb beast. He was smart.

Jack exploded into flight. He sailed over the loop, air rushing past him, everything crystal clear and slow around him. The handle of the knife loomed before him. He bit it, the feel of its treated wood handle like honey in his mouth, and flew by, free and clear. The sapling sprang upright. The loop whistled past him. Safe!

A green net rushed at him from below. He tried to veer in midflight, but it caught him and clamped him tight. He scrambled in its soft folds, slicing at it with his claws. The knife slid from his mouth and fell through the mesh to the ground. A meow of despair broke from Jack. He bounced a couple of times in the knot of the net, suspended high above the ground like a kitten in a sack, and then the net was still.

A whispery rustling of leaves made Jack open his eyes. He unsheathed his claws and hissed.

Declan emerged from the undergrowth. He moved quietly and his eyes were different now: focused and dark. Hunter’s eyes. Jack tensed.

The blueblood approached the net and then stopped, looking up.

“Are you hurt?”

Jack hissed and spat, growling fighting noises.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Declan bent down, picked up the knife, wiped the handle on his sleeve, and sat on a mossy log.

“There is a great difference between a knife and a sword.”

He unsheathed the smaller sword he carried at his waist. The afternoon sun caught it, turning the blade into a beautiful long claw bright with reflected light.

“Swords are long and cumbersome. They are made to kill your opponent in battle from a distance.” He glanced at Jack with his scary green eyes. “Swords are not for you.”

He sheathed the sword and picked up the knife. “Knives are quick. Efficient. Quiet. There’s no such thing as a knife battle. When a knifemaster pulls out his blade, he doesn’t want to fight off his opponent. He means to kill him.”

Declan leapt off the log and struck at the empty air so quickly he became a blur.

“Rogues carry knives.”

The knife sliced and stabbed unseen opponents in a shimmering dance of steel. Jack watched, mesmerized. So quick.

“Thieves. Spies. Assassins. They carry knives.”

Declan tossed the blade into the air, caught it by the tip, and flipped the knife so the handle landed into his palm. “A knifemaster armed with a blade like this can go through a room full of soldiers. I’ve seen it happen.”

Jack wanted the knife so badly, even his tail itched for it.

Declan examined the blade. “A fighting knife like this can’t be stolen. But you could earn it.”

Jack pricked his ears.

“If you prove to me that you can be quick, efficient, and quiet.” Declan sat back on the log. “Two miles north from here, there is a trail of the beasts that chased you. They run fast along the ground and they can climb, but they’re slow in the trees. A forest cat can easily outrun them in the branches. If such a cat were to track them, quietly and patiently and find their lair . . .”

Jack growled and spat. He would fight them, he would . . .

“No fighting,” Declan said. “Sleek, stealthy, and silent. Like a knife sliding into a man in the darkness. Track the beasts. Find their lair. Don’t be seen. If you do this and show me where they are, you’ll earn the knife.”

He smiled. “But that’s an adventure for tomorrow. Right now we have to decide what to do with you. I caught you fair and square. Are you going to come quietly like a wise and patient predator, or will I have to carry you in the net, like a wild beast?”