The man was leaning against a tree trunk at the edge of the lawn, peering through the branches at the house. Eason stood three metres behind him, pointed the fluxpump at his legs, and fired.

«Who are you?»

«Jesus God, you shot me! You fucking shot me. I can't feel my legs!»

It was another bovine islander, same as the first. Eason shook his head in wonder, and moved the fluxpump's barrel slightly. «In three seconds you won't feel your prick if you don't answer me. Now who are you?»

«Don't! God, I'm called Fermoy. Fermoy, OK?»

«Right. Well done, Fermoy. So what are you and where do you come from?»

«I'm a shipwright over on Boscobel.»

«Where's Boscobel?»

«An island, nine kilometres away. God, my legs!»

«What are you doing here, Fermoy?»

«We came for the man. You.»

«Why?»

«You're wanted. There must be money for you.»

«And you thought you'd collect?»

«Yes.»

«Who were you going to give me to, Fermoy?»

«Torreya.»

«Why her?»

«You were running from Kariwak. We thought she must want you. You wouldn't be running, else.»

«Who told you I was running?»

«Ross.»

Eason stared down at him, teeth bared in rage. That drunken shithead. He'd been safe on Charmaine, home dry. He made an effort to calm down. «When did he tell you?»

«This morning. We were drinking. It came out. You know what he's like.»

«How many of you came?»

«Three, just three.»

So Tiarella had been right about that. «And how many people on Boscobel know I'm here?»

«Only us.»

«Right. Well, thanks, I think that's covered everything.»

The third bounty hunter, Whitley, was easy to find. He lay, strangely motionless, in the centre of a broad circle of mangled undergrowth. Eason took a couple of cautious steps towards him, fluxpump held ready.

A vivid lightning bolt sizzled overhead.

Whitley was wrapped from his neck downwards in what looked like a spiral of tubing, thirty centimetres thick, jet black, glistening slickly. He was gurgling weakly, drooling blood. Eason squinted forward, every nerve shrieking in protest, and switched his retinal amps to infra-red. The coil of tubing glowed pale crimson, a length of it meandered through the broken grass.

»Jesus! »

The snake's head reared up right in front of him. It was a demonic streamlined arrowhead seventy centimetres long, the jaw open to show fangs the size of fingers. A blood-red tongue as thick as his forearm shot out, vibrating eagerly.

Training or not, Eason lurched back in terror.

«Solange won't hurt you,» Tiarella shouted above the storm. «He's affinity-bonded to me.»

She was standing behind him, her rain-soaked nightshirt clinging like a layer of blue skin.

«That thing is yours?»

«Solange? Yes. He's another of my father's designs. But I'm not sure he was supposed to grow this big. He does eat rather a lot of firedrakes, you see.»

The real horror was the lightness of her tone. So matter-of-fact. Crazy bitch!

Eason took another couple of steps back. The snake had been on the island the whole time. She could have set it on him whenever she wanted and he would never have known. Not until the very last instant when it came rustling out of the thick concealing undergrowth.