Steel's Edge

NINE

“YOU look good,” John Drayton said from the opposite end of his cabin. “Solid. All grown-up. I remember when you were sickly. You kept raising animals because you couldn’t stand to watch something die. I take it you’ve gotten over that.”

George examined the man in front of him. The key was to cordon off his own anger and evaluate him as he would any other opponent. The years had banged John around, but he was in good health. He ate well and carried a few extra pounds. The air in the cabin hinted at the spicy notes of his cologne. His clothes were well cut from good fabric. His hair was professionally shorn to flatter his face. John Drayton was a vain man, and he liked spending money on himself.

George remembered him as being big, a tall shadow. He remembered him being funny. He would make jokes.

The thought spurred the vicious part of him into a gallop. Jokes. Right.

For the first hour and a half, John had kept his mouth shut, probably waiting for him to talk. Waiting for “How could you abandon us, Father?” and “I’ve waited for you to come back, Father!” Waiting for some tell, some clue or lever to push. Keep waiting, scumbag.

Most people didn’t handle silence well, and John had banked on it and lost. George had no problem with silence. It was an effective tool, and he’d seen his Mirror handlers use it to great effect. Having finally realized that no clues would be coming, John decided to start talking and probe for weaknesses. George had sat in on enough of the Mirror’s interrogations to guess the most likely course this conversation would take: John would try to bridge the gap between the six-year-old sickly child he left behind and the sixteen-year-old he saw now.

“You remember what I told you when I left?”

Like an open book.

“I said—”

You mind the family, Georgie. Keep an eye on your sister and brother for me.

“—for you to keep an eye on your sister and brother for me. You’ve done good. Jack’s still alive, that’s something. Couldn’t have been easy to make that miracle happen.”

What do you know about it? What do you know about Jack, about his rages, about his not understanding how people think, about Rose spending hours to coax him back to humanity? What do you know, you slimy weasel? You know nothing of our family. You chose to know nothing.

“How’s Rose?”

Where were you when she worked herself into the ground? Oh, that’s right, getting rich from misery, rape, and pain.

“You afraid to speak to me, George?” John slapped his palm on the desk. “Damn it, boy. Tell me how my daughter is!”

George moved Lynda a step closer. “Do that again, and I’ll let her gnaw on your neck, slowly, one bite a time. Rose will be delighted when I bring her your head.”

John leaned back. Fear shot through his eyes. He hid it fast, but George had seen it. Yes, he knew the type. John would do anything, say anything to avoid physical pain and punishment. He feared being held accountable more than anything.

“You wouldn’t do that,” John said. “Not the Georgie I remember. The Georgie I remember was kind.”

“The Georgie you remember had a father.” Argh. He knew he shouldn’t have responded to the bait. Too late now.

John’s face brightened. “You still have one. Look, I know I haven’t done right by you kids. And it’s not like I set out to haul slaves for a living. I just kind of fell into it.”

“Do tell. How does one fall into slavery?”

“The same way one falls into anything.” John spread his arms. He was becoming more animated, happy he’d found some common ground. “You’re hard-up for cash, and one day in port, a man asks you if you want to make some easy money.”

Easy-breezy. No need to worry about paltry things like honor, integrity, and sleeping well at night.

“That’s the only kind of money you were ever interested in, isn’t it? The easy money.”

“Hey, I work hard just like anybody else. I just had a stretch of hard luck there for a while.” John leaned forward. “Georgie, listen to me. Whatever else happens, I’m still your father. I’ve done pretty well for myself here, and I wanted to come and find you guys. I kept thinking, just do one more run, get a little bit more money, then I’ll split. But I’m in a good place now, and I’m sick of these slaver assholes. We can take off, you know. You and me. I can show you the ropes, bring you into the family business. I’m a good sailor, Georgie. Let me tell you, when you go out on the ocean and leave the shore behind, it’s something. Just water everywhere, sapphire blue for miles and miles. Water, wind, and sky. You can taste the freedom. There is adventure there. Mystery.”

He was good.

“What about Jack?”

John shrugged. “What about him? Jack’s a good kid. Didn’t go nuts like his people do.”

“His people?”

John leaned closer. “Oh, come on, Georgie. We all know it. Rose is mine, you’re mine, but Jack was never mine. For him to be what he is, one of his parents had to be a changeling, and there ain’t no changelings in my family or your mother’s. I checked. My father wasn’t one, my mother isn’t one . . .”

George fought against grinding his teeth.

“Their parents weren’t changelings, and on your mother’s side, nobody was one for three generations back either. Your mother, she wasn’t a bad woman, but she was troubled. You think it was easy knowing she opened her legs to every bastard that came through town? It hurt me. Really hurt me, but I’ve come to terms with it. And so should you. You always looked out for Jack. Rose and your grandma, they put that burden on you, and I never thought it was fair. Everyone deserves a break, Georgie. Everyone. Come with me. Jack can look after himself. And later, when you’re older and I’m ready to retire, you can take over. This ship isn’t just named after me. It’s named after you, too.”

No, it isn’t. He looked into John’s eyes and saw a cold calculation there. In that moment George realized he would be dead the moment they left land behind. They’d find what was left of him later, bobbing on the waves with his throat slit and his body torn by fish. My own father.

“Thank you, but I already have a career.”

“What sort of a career is that?” John pointedly looked over his rags. “If you got one, it doesn’t pay too well by the looks of it. No offense to you, boy, but you can do better. Or are you talking about those bandits over there? That’s no good. We picked you up near Kelena, that means it’s either the Rook, the families, or Jason Parris, and it has to be Parris, because the families know better, and Rook likes running his show personally, and I haven’t seen him. Am I right? I am right. Parris is a ravenous shark, that’s what he is. Cutthroat. Can you take a man’s life, Georgie? You think about that because you’ve got to be a cold, calculating killer to be in his company.”

“I’m not with Jason Parris.” George leaned back.

“Who are you with, then?”

George reached inside his sleeve, peeled off the coin he kept taped on his forearm, and tossed it to him. “I’m with the people who fish for ravenous sharks.”

John caught the coin. The magic charge bit his fingers with tiny sparks. He flinched. The surface of the coin flowed, turning into a miniature mirror. Every agent of the Mirror carried one. Some wore rings, some had earrings, and some embedded it into a knife’s hilt. He’d chosen a coin. It seemed appropriate.

John stared at his own reflection. Blood drained from his face. John dropped the coin like it was hot.

“I’m an underagent of the third degree, Father. I started when I was fourteen. My mission count is at twelve, ten successes and two aborts. My kill count is at seven, and I’m very good with a rapier. In two years, when I complete my training, I’ll be the youngest full-fledged agent in the Mirror’s recent history. Coincidentally, in two more years I’ll also graduate from Brasil’s Academy, since I’ve taken their entrance exams and passed them with a perfect score. There is a place for me waiting in the Diplomatic Corps.”

John Drayton stared at him, his face slack with shock.

“So you see, Father, if I ever feel the need to play at being a sailor, a vessel will either be provided for me, or I’ll purchase one. Given that my name is now George Camarine and the Duke of the Southern Provinces thinks of me as his grandson, I can afford an entire fleet. A small one, but it will be sufficient.” George smiled, a controlled baring of teeth. “I’ve already accomplished more in my life than you could ever hope to achieve. Your promises of a grandiose smuggler life hold no attraction to me, so do be quiet, Father. I’m fighting a strong urge to kill you, and I’d hate to slip up and do you in before Jack comes back.”

Knuckles rapped on the door.

“Enter,” George said.

The door swung open. Richard shouldered his way in, favoring his left side. His left arm rested in a sling. He had washed off his disguise and looked like himself. Jack followed, supporting Charlotte. She, on other hand, looked like a shadow of her former self: pale, exhausted, and sickly.

“Did you run into trouble?” George asked.

“Some,” Richard said. “Any problems?”

“None. Just talking to the dead man.”

John licked his lips. “What have I ever done to you that you hate me so much?”

“The crew you were supposed to be meeting by Kelena was chasing me,” Richard said. “I’m the Hunter.”

John drew back.

“I ended up at your mother’s house,” Richard said. “We’re distantly related by marriage, and she recognized me and tried to help me.”

“Grandmother is dead,” Jack said. “The slavers burned our house. You killed grandma, Dad.”

John’s hands shook. He swallowed. “I wasn’t there.”

Oh no, you don’t get to weasel your way out of this one. “Not directly, but you made it possible,” George said. “You contributed.”

John dragged his hand over his face and through his hair.

Richard took a piece of paper off the desk, wrote something on it, and pushed it across the desk to John. “Five names. What do you know?”

John looked at the list. His voice lost all emotion. “They’re called the Council. That’s where the real money goes. Maedoc is the muscle; he supplies the slavers. Casside is the main investor. I don’t know what the other two do. Brennan runs the whole show. That’s all I’ve got. I’m low on the ladder. If you expect me to testify, I won’t. I’ll never make it. Brennan will have my throat slit before I ever get a word out, and even if I did, it’s all rumors. I never met any of them. We never talked. I follow the schedule, pick up slaves, bring them here, and get paid. That’s the end of it.”

“I’m done with him.” Richard turned to him. “He’s yours.”

Finally. He rose.

“George,” Charlotte said softly.

He turned to her.

“Think about what you’re about to do. He is your father. Think about the cost.” She glanced past him. “Think about the guilt.”

It dawned on him: Jack. Jack always wanted their father to return. When they were small, he used to sit in a tree, watching the road, waiting for him to come back. In elementary school, in the Broken, Jack would fight anyone who dared to say anything bad about their dad, and he would beat them bloody. George had no problem with his hands being bloody, and neither did Jack in the heat of the moment, but he might regret it later. Jack tended to brood, and sometimes his brooding took him to dark places. He was only fourteen.

John Drayton had to die. He had to pay the price for the inhumanities he helped commit, but George couldn’t let John’s death ruin his brother. The scumbag wasn’t worth a single minute of Jack’s self-loathing.

“You’re right,” George said. “It’s not worth it. We’ll get a boat, take him to the mainland, and have him put away. You’ll be in prison for so long, you’ll forget what the sun looks like.”

“Do what the boy says,” Richard said.

John rose. “Right.” He reached out to ruffle Jack’s hair. Jack pulled back, avoiding the touch.

John dropped his hand. “Right.”

They went out, Richard first, then John, and George, with Lynda in tow. Jack was the last.

Outside, the stench of smoke assaulted George’s nostrils. The island town burned, the orange glow of its fire reflecting in the waters of the harbor. A cleansing fire, George decided. And a warning. Richard had unleashed Jason Parris on the island like a tornado. The news of the Market’s burning would carry, and soon every slaver along the Eastern seaboard would know he wasn’t invincible and his paycheck wasn’t safe. It was a brilliant move. Richard was a born tactician. George would have to remember that.

The cabin door swung open behind him. Jack emerged.

Richard stepped closer to him. “I need you to watch Charlotte for me. She overspent herself.”

“Why me?” Jack asked.

“Because Jason’s crew is full of bad men, and she’s alone and vulnerable.”

Jack glanced first at Richard, then at George. He wasn’t quite buying it.

“Can you just do one thing without arguing?” George tossed his hair back. “Just do it.”

“You do it.”

“You owe me for the canal.”

Jack growled something under his breath.

“Don’t worry,” Richard said. “I haven’t forgotten.”

Forgotten what?

Jack shrugged and went into the cabin.

“Into the boat.” Richard pointed to a small barge waiting by the side of the vessel. They must’ve used it to come aboard.

They got into the barge, Richard at the nose, then John Drayton. George sent Lynda in next, added insurance. Everyone sat. George took a seat at the stern, passed his hand over the motor, starting the magic chain reaction, and the boat sped across the harbor to the shore. Midway through it, George let go of Lynda. She pitched into the waves, softly, and sank into the cool, soothing depths to finally rest. He didn’t need her anymore. Half a minute later the boat plowed into the soft sand of the beach. The two men stepped out. He followed.

“Still protecting your brother,” John said.

The frustration he had been holding in finally broke free. “Shut up. You don’t know him. Don’t talk about him. Because of you, Mémère is dead. It’s good that she’s dead—because if she knew what you’ve become, it would kill her.”

John inhaled. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

Richard pulled out his sword.

“He’s my responsibility,” George said. “My family and my shame.”

John winced.

Richard held out his blade. George took it. The lean, razor-sharp sword felt so heavy. The hilt was cold. He concentrated, channeling his magic like a current of molten metal from his arm into his fingers, into the sword, and finally letting it stretch across the edge. The blade sparked with white. He’d trained for months to learn how to do it, but now the magic coated the steel as if on its own.

He couldn’t bring himself to raise the sword.

George was trapped between guilt and duty. The indecision hurt, deciding hurt more, and he was so monumentally angry at his father for making him choose. Was he really that weak?

“C’est la différence entre lui et toi.” Richard switched to the language of Louisiana.

This is the difference between you and him.

“If you raise that sword, you’re letting his actions determine yours,” Richard continued in Gaulish. “You’re simply reacting to what he has already done. We are forever linked with those we kill. If you end his life, you will drag his corpse with you for the rest of yours. When your brother and sister look at you, they will see the killer of their father; when you look in the mirror, you will see a murderer. Had he lived with you and abused you or those close to you, ending his life might be cathartic, a sign of rebirth. But this man is a stranger to you. You barely know him. There is no empowerment in his death by your hand. He has no right to govern your life. Let your own actions define who you are.”

He was right. Killing John Drayton simply wasn’t worth it. If he forced himself to do it, he would regret it. It would eat at him, and why should he sentence himself to the same burden he tried to spare Jack?

George swallowed and slowly lowered his sword.

“Can’t do it, huh?” John smiled. “I’m still your father, boy.”

The very fact that he was goading him meant killing him would be a bad idea. “No,” George said. “You’re not. You’re just some swine that slept with my mother and ran off.”

Richard pulled a gun from inside his clothes. It was a firearm from the Broken, a large heavy hunk of metal. He flipped it and offered it to John butt first.

“You’re free to go. Use it to protect yourself.”

What?

John Drayton had killed, tortured, and raped. If set free, he’d sell them out the first chance he got. He’d go on stealing, hurting, and profiting from other people’s misery. It had to end, here and now, so he would never darken his brother’s or Rose’s horizon.

George turned to Richard.

“Trust me,” Richard said. “It’s the right thing.”

John hefted the gun in his hand, taking a couple of steps back. “Loaded.”

“Six bullets,” Richard said.

“More than enough.”

John raised the gun. George stared down the black barrel, as big as a cannon. Everything around him stopped. The world gained a crystal clarity, and George saw everything in minute detail: the individual leaves of the palm behind his father, the bead of sweat on John’s temple, the tiny red veins in his father’s eyes . . .

The sound of the safety being released rocked George like the blow of a giant hammer against his skull. He knew the bullet would hit him between the eyes. He was staring death in the face.

“You’re an idiot,” John said to Richard.

“He’s your son,” Richard said. His voice was calm, so calm.

He should do something, George realized. He should—

“Yeah, about that,” John grimaced. “Sorry, boy. I never thought you were mine either.”

John squeezed the trigger. A bolt of white tore out of the gun and bit deep into John’s chest. He convulsed soundlessly, like a marionette jerking on invisible strings, and fell into the sand.

George felt the moment his body crossed the threshold between life and death and into his domain. It’s done, Mémère. It’s done. He won’t hurt anyone else.

The relief washed over him, replaced instantly by shame. “How?”

“An Owner’s Gift necklace,” Richard said. “I loaded a stone into the chamber instead of a bullet. When he tried to fire, the stone shattered and released its magic.”

“And if he had walked away?”

“I would’ve stopped him and taken the stone out.”

George couldn’t tell if it was a convenient lie for his sake or the truth. The terrible thing was, he didn’t even care. He was simply relieved that John Drayton was a corpse. What does that say about me?

Richard clamped his arm around him. “He died the way he lived. That’s the kind of man he was.”

“I waited for him.” George barely recognized the hoarse, dull sound as his own voice. “I waited for him for years. When Rose was working a crappy job in the Broken, I’d sit on the porch, waiting for her to come home, and pretend I saw him walking up to the house. He would come up with a big smile and tell me, ‘George, come sailing with me. We’ll look for treasure together.’”

His eyes watered. He forced the tears back. “He tried to get me to abandon my own brother. He tried to kill me. I looked into his eyes. They were cold, like a shark’s.” He wanted to cry and scream like a child.

“None of what he did or what he had become is your responsibility,” Richard said. “He was a grown man, and he’s responsible for his own sins. Everything he did in his life led him to this point. I knew he would pull the trigger. It was as inevitable as the sunrise.”

George stared at him. “I should’ve done it. I should’ve ended it . . . him.”

“You feel that way in the heat of the moment because you look at your father and see the legacy of his crimes. It brings you deep shame. You want to wipe it clean and right the wrongs, but killing him wouldn’t undo them,” Richard said.

“My youngest brother betrayed our family and our relatives died because of it. His cousins, his nieces, nephews, children, people who loved him and cared for him. He broke bread with us, he shared in our sorrow and happiness, then he betrayed us. He was a deeply selfish human being. He watched our father being murdered; he was hurt, and he wanted revenge. That was all that mattered to him. I looked into his eyes, when he told me he’d done it deliberately, and it was like looking into the soul of a stranger.”

“What happened to him?” For some reason the answer seemed vitally important.

“We forced him to walk with us into the final battle. I saw him on the battlefield. I thought it was my fault, because he was my brother and he had put the family at risk. But I’ve realized he’d made his own choices. I could’ve killed him, but I chose to walk away. I’ve ended a lot of lives, but I’m relieved I didn’t take his. He wasn’t among the dead when we were done, so he’s still out there somewhere.”

Richard bent to look into George’s eyes. “Your father made his own destiny, and the weight of it crushed him. He was fated to die here, by his own hand. No regrets, George. No guilt, no shame. Leave it here on this beach. If you carry it, it will poison you. Come. We must get back to the ship.”

Richard led him back into the boat. They sped across the harbor back to the ship.

George stared at the water. He hurt, and he cradled that knot of pain in the pit of his stomach and tried to grow a callus over the wound.

RICHARD stepped onto the deck of the ship. Ahead of him George ducked into the cabin. Richard turned and looked at the inferno claiming the island. Orange flames raged, sending plumes of greasy black smoke into the sky. Distant screams echoed, some of fury, some of pain. A ship sank slowly to the left, the lone vessel that had attempted to escape the slaughter. Jason’s cannons had fired a single shot from the fort, and the glancing blow had crippled the stately yacht. The magic-operated pumps had managed to keep it afloat, but they were slowly losing the battle, and now the elegant vessel careened, serving as a warning to anyone else contemplating a quick escape.

This is what hell must look like.

A small flotilla of boats departed from the docks and sped across the water, their magic-fueled motors leaving pale trails of luminescence in their wake. Jason’s crew was coming back.

The door of the cabin swung open behind him. “Richard!”

He turned.

Charlotte marched at him, buoyed by anger, the outrage so plain on her face, she nearly glowed. She had drained all of her reserves on the island. She couldn’t have recovered in the scant fifteen minutes it took them to ride to the beach and back. Worry squirmed through him. If she wasn’t careful, the exertion would kill her.

“Did you let that child kill his father?”

He marveled at her fury.

“Answer me, you heartless bastard!”

This place, this hell on earth, should’ve broken her. Charlotte should’ve given up by now, beaten down by the horrors and fatigue. But she must’ve seen the pain in George, and it propelled her to confront him. She would never compromise herself, Richard realized. She would never become jaded or lose her resolve. No matter how many dead bodies she walked by, it would always bother her. She had the nobility of spirit to which he aspired and which he so sorely lacked. She wasn’t naive or blind; she simply chose to do what was right, no matter the personal cost.

He wanted this woman more than he had wanted anything in his entire world. Life with her would never be easy, but he would be proud of it.

He wanted her so much, it almost hurt.

In his mind, the ship split, she on one end of a chasm, he on the other. Between lay all the things he had done and she had seen him do. They had too much to overcome. It would never happen. When all was said and done, she wouldn’t want a hardened killer with blood on his hands. She would want someone who’d make her forget this hell.

“Richard, don’t just stand there. I deserve an answer!”

“John Drayton took his own life,” he said. “George had no part in his death. He did witness it. It was good for him. It brought things to a conclusion.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her gray eyes bright, almost silver. Maybe there was some chance of something . . . ?

“I’m a heartless bastard,” he told her, wishing he could close the distance between them. “But even I wouldn’t let a child murder his own father. Is that how you see me? Am I a complete monster in your eyes, Charlotte?”

She turned and walked away. He closed his eyes, inhaling the smoke from the funeral pyre that was the Isle of Divine Na. Well, there it was. He had his confirmation.

She would be free of him soon. They had the ledgers. It would all be over in a matter of days.

“Richard!” Charlotte called.

He turned.

She stood by the cabin. “You’re not a monster. You’re the most noble man I’ve ever met. In every sense of the word. I wish . . .”

His pulse sped up.

Jason Parris bounded onto the deck. “Am I interrupting something?”

Charlotte closed her mouth.

Gods damn him. He would strangle that moron and throw his lifeless body overboard.

“Yes.”

Parris grinned. “Well, too bad. We need to haul ass out of here.”

Jason’s crew flooded the ship, lowering the nets to haul up bags of plundered goods.

“If I had fifty extra men, I could own this island.” Jason swept the burning city with his hand. “I’d make it into my own Tortuga.”

A pirate port of the Broken. He’d read about it in books. “Adrianglia would hardly tolerate Tortuga so close to its shores. What are you planning to do when the Adrianglian Navy blockades the island and starts pounding it with carriage-sized magic missiles?”

“Duck and cover?” Jason flashed his teeth. “What happened to your arm, old man? Did the mighty Hunter actually get hurt this time?”

Charlotte’s knees folded, and she slid along the cabin’s wall to the deck.

He shoved Jason out of the way, cleared the distance between them, and dropped to his knees. “Charlotte?”

She looked at him, her eyes clear. “Well, this is embarrassing.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Mortified, but fine. I shouldn’t have marched out here. I’ve overextended myself. I don’t think it’s anything life-threatening, but I’m probably going to lose consciousness. Please don’t leave me here on the deck.”

“I won’t.” He wrapped his right arm around her. She leaned against him, her forehead resting against his cheek. He couldn’t believe he was touching her. “I promise.”

“Look at the two of you,” Jason said above him. “You’re a sorry-looking mess. Maybe after this, you should plan something less tiring. A tea party or a book club or whatever you senior citizens do in your spare time. Look at me—six men dead, the city looted, and I’m good. Look at my crew. Are y’all tired?”

“No!” a dozen people roared.

“See? Fresh as daisies.”

Richard growled low in his throat. One day . . .

Charlotte caressed his cheek. Her lips brushed his, and he forgot where he was or what he was doing.

“Thank you,” she said.

He held still for a full minute before he finally realized that she had drifted off into sleep.

WHEN Charlotte awoke, she was lying on a cushioned seat, under a blanket. Around her, the polished walls of the horseless phaeton glowed in the sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtain. Sealed behind smooth, transparent pseudoresin, the structure of the phaeton consisted of gears and delicate metalwork, with glowing, hair-thin threads of magic running through it all. Faint lights of warm amber-and-green magic slid along the threads once in a while, melting into the metalwork, like man-made will-o’-the-wisps. Drowsy and comfortable on the soft seat, she watched the soothing interplay of magic and metal. It occurred to her that she had no idea how the phaeton actually worked. She had ridden in them a hundred times and never thought to find out.

Someone was watching her. Charlotte turned her head. Across from her, Richard sat in the contoured seat. He still wore the same clothes, smelling of smoke. His hair was a mess. His arm rested in a sling. He was ridiculously handsome, and his dark eyes were warm, almost inviting.

Last night was a blur. She remembered being so tired, waiting for Richard and George to return. George’s story made no sense, and she chased Richard on the deck and demanded to know if he let George kill his own father. Her mind boggled at the idea that he would force the child to live with that kind of guilt. It would scar George in a way nobody could heal.

Richard looked her straight in the eye, standing there against the backdrop of the burning city, like some beautiful demon, and said nothing. Then she raged at him and accused him of being heartless. He had the strangest look in his eyes, then he told her John Drayton killed himself. She believed him. Richard didn’t lie.

And then he’d asked her if she thought he was a monster.

She wanted to tell him then. She wanted to explain the rush of gratitude she felt when he offered her his arm on the bow of the brigantine. She wanted to tell him that she admired him for making a stand and that she wished she could’ve met him before all this happened, before she had thrown her life away.

Then Jason’s crew boarded the ship, and she had nearly fainted like some weak-nerved fool. Her legs refused to support her, and she went down like a cloth doll. Somehow, she had gone the entire thirty-two years of her life without fainting once, and now she’d managed to almost do it twice in a day. It had to be some sort of record. So shameful. Some partner she turned out to be. It’s a wonder she didn’t die of sheer embarrassment.

Richard had come to her rescue. She remembered his scent as he wrapped his arm around her, the smell of sweat and smoke and sandalwood, a rich, smooth, earthy, powerful redolence that took her to places she had no business going. She had said something in her addled state she couldn’t remember.

“Where are the boys?”

“In front,” he said. “They insisted on driving.”

“And the dog?”

“He’s with them. You will have to name him at some point.”

“Where are we?”

“Half an hour from Camarine Manor,” Richard was still watching her with that warm look in his eyes. “We’re almost there.”

“Already?”

“It’s late afternoon,” he said. “We left Kelena at dawn and rode nonstop through the day.”

“Do you still have the ledgers?”

He reached into a bag lying by his feet and pulled out an edge of the small red leather book.

It slowly dawned on her then. The horrors of last night were over, and she could let them fade from her, as if it were all a terrible nightmare. They had their proof. They would take it to the Marshal of the Southern Provinces, and the slave trade would be no more. She’d been too spent and traumatized to recognize it last night, but now she finally understood.

They had won.

She looked at Richard. “We won.”

“We did.” He smiled. It was a genuine, beautiful smile that pulled her as if she were a speck of iron and he a powerful magnet, its lure so sudden and strong, she pressed her back deeper against the carriage seat. She’d kissed him last night before passing out. She was almost sure of it.

“Are you all right, my lady?” he asked.

That “my lady” slid over her soul like soft velvet over skin. “Fine, thank you.”

She waited, but he said nothing more. He made no move toward her. He was probably letting her collect her wits. She thought he wanted her, but maybe she’d read too much into a look. Maybe there was no mutual attraction. Charlotte searched her memory, trying to scrounge up some definitive evidence that he was drawn to her. She could find none. She thought she heard something in his voice or saw something in his eyes, but she barely knew him. They’d been together for a mere two days. She could’ve been mistaken.

She had thrown away everything she was taught and willingly walked into hell, where she had murdered countless people. It filled her with self-loathing. She hated what she’d become, and she wanted reassurance that she still deserved to be loved. It was coloring her judgment. Richard had made it clear where his priorities lay. True, he always addressed her with complete courtesy and tried to protect her from harm, but she was a useful tool. Any man with exposure to the Weird’s customs would afford her that courtesy, because she was a blueblood and a woman.

She had to stop deluding herself. She had let her fantasies carry her away once, and she was now perfectly aware of the monsters and heartbreak that lay in wait on that path. She’d made a fool of herself already. If he had any tact—and Richard had tact in spades—he wouldn’t mention it.

She summoned whatever poise she could muster. “How’s your wound?”

“Better. It’s so kind of you to ask, my lady.”

And why in the world did his “my lady” sound like an endearment to her ears? Charlotte scanned his injury. It was regenerating well, but a budding infection promised to blossom into a serious problem. “I’ll need to heal you when we stop.”

“Why not now?” He touched the curve of the seat next to him.

She blinked. He was sprawled on the seat, tall, handsome, dangerous, and he was smiling. It was a wicked smile, inviting, no, seductive, as if he was promising her that if she sat next to him, he would claim her, and she would enjoy it.

Get a grip. You’re not some schoolgirl. Charlotte forced a shrug and invited him to the seat next to her with a nonchalant wave of her hand. “Why not?”

Richard rose and sat next to her. She caught a hint of the same scent she remembered from last night, a rich, slightly spicy sandalwood mixed with smoke. Gods, this wasn’t any better.

Don’t look at his eyes or his smile, and you’ll be fine. Her gaze paused on the sharp line of his jaw, his lips . . . She wanted to kiss him.

Argh.

She forced herself to concentrate on the injury, which was hidden by his doublet. His arm was out of the sling. “Why did you put your doublet back on?”

“It seemed like a bad idea to travel surrounded by cutthroats with my bum arm on display. Jason’s people are like sharks, you see. A hint of weakness, and they’ll rip you to pieces.”

“Take off your shirt.”

“I’m afraid I may need some help.”

She could’ve sworn there was a hint of humor in his voice. Perhaps he found her attraction amusing. It seemed out of character for him to toy with her, but then, men did strange things when women were involved. Perhaps he was laughing over her discomfort in his head.

She had to stop letting her thoughts run around like wild horses. They were carrying her off to crazy places. He needed help getting the jacket off? Fine. She would assist him. Charlotte stood up and gently helped him pull the doublet off, revealing a long-sleeved dark tunic underneath. She would’ve liked to yank it off of him, just to make her point, but her professional pride wouldn’t permit her to purposefully cause pain to a patient.

His arm was still covered by the sleeve of the tunic. Would she have to peel it off him? Her mind conjured up images of his body beneath the tunic, the tight, strong muscle under the bronzed skin. No. No, that was completely out of the question.

“Do you have a knife?” Charlotte asked.

He pulled a knife out and offered it to her, handle first.

“Perfect.” She took the knife and slit his sleeve, exposing the bandage. She handed the knife back to him. He reached for it. His fingers brushed hers, and every nerve in her stood at full alert. Utterly ridiculous.

She removed the tape and the bandages. The cut hadn’t bled as much as she expected. Richard had a remarkable talent for quick recovery. She touched the gash, letting the current of golden sparks wash over it. Richard held completely still.

“You’re permitted to wince,” she said.

“Only if you promise not to tell anyone.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

She placed her hand over the wound, her fingers touching his carved biceps, and channeled her magic, repairing injured tissue, melding the blood vessels, and purging any hints of infection. She sealed the skin, painfully aware that he was sitting right there, only inches away. She wanted his tunic off. She wanted to touch that bronzed skin and slide her hand up the hard ridges of his stomach to caress his chest.

“All done,” she said.

“Thank you.”

An ugly mess of a burn scar crossed his shoulder a couple of inches above the wound. The edges of the scar were perfectly straight as if someone had heated a rectangle of metal and pressed it against the flesh.

“May I?”

“Of course.”

She touched it. The heated metal had to have been held to the skin for at least a few seconds. “Were you branded?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Barbaric, to inflict this sort of pain on a human being. “Who did this?”

“I did it.”

She looked at him. “You did this to yourself? Why?”

He sighed. “I had a tattoo on my shoulder. I wanted it gone.”

“And you thought disfiguring yourself was the best way to go about it?”

“It seemed fitting at the time.”

“What in the world was on your shoulder that you wanted it gone so badly?”

“My wife’s name,” he said.

“Oh.” She pulled back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve come to terms with it. I was young and very much in love. I did ridiculous things like pick wildflowers and leave them on her balcony, so when she woke up, she would see them first thing in the morning.”

No man had ever brought her flowers. Elvei favored more substantial gifts. It must’ve been so sweet to wake up to a balcony filled with wildflowers. It was at odds with who he was now: a grim swordsman who killed so efficiently, it could’ve been an art.

“I wrote dreadful poetry. After we were married, I’d hide small gifts for her around the house.”

“I haven’t known you that long, but that doesn’t seem like you, Richard. You are . . .”

“Bitter? Fatalistic?”

“Practical.”

He grinned at her. “As I said, I was young and romantic. Or a sappy moron, as my brother put it. Marissa hated the Mire. She hated everything about it. I wanted her more than anything, so I became what I thought she wanted in order to win her. It worked. She married me.”

“She must’ve loved you.” How could you not love him?

Richard sighed. “She decided I was the best she could get under the circumstances. The Mire is sectioned off from the rest of the Edge: impassable swamps on both sides, the State of Louisiana on the border with the Broken, the Dukedom of Louisiana in the Weird on the other. The trek to the Broken is long and dangerous, and a lot of us from the old Mire families can’t pass through the boundary. Too much magic in our blood. On the other hand, the border with the Dukedom is heavily guarded. Louisiana is aware that the Edge exists, and it uses the Mire to dump its exiles, so they don’t want anyone coming back across the boundary. The swamp resources are limited, and the number of people keeps rising as Louisiana shoves more and more of its undesirables across the border.”

“It sounds hellish,” she said honestly.

“It has a certain primeval, savage beauty. In the morning, when the mist rises above the water and the giant alligators sing, the swamps have an almost otherworldly air. My family was . . . better off than some. We were numerous, we owned land, and we had a reputation of retaliating fast and hard.”

She could believe that. A whole clan of swordsmen like him would give anyone pause. “And your wife?”

“She was born in the Mire, a daughter of an exile from the Dukedom of Louisiana and a local woman.” He leaned closer. “You see, our family also had Vernard. He was an exile, a blueblood of the finest bloodline. His entire family had been sent to the Mire with him, and my uncle married his daughter. Vernard took over our education. I was his finest pupil.”

So that was it. Like she, Richard had had the benefit of personal instruction from a blueblood peer of the realm. That’s why his manners and poise were so polished. Living in the Mire must’ve been terrible for Richard. To have the self-awareness and know that there is a better place out there that was out of reach.

“I wasn’t like most men of the Mire, and that appealed to Marissa. She had grown up on her father’s stories of mansions and balls, and I was as close to that as she could find in the swamp. She was very beautiful, and I was like a blind man who suddenly saw the sun.” A mordant smile stretched his lips. “Kaldar almost never stops and thinks about the consequences of his actions. Something is fun or not fun, and my brother’s fun often lands him in interesting places such as jails or castles belonging to California robber barons. Where other people see certain death, my brother sees an opportunity for a hilarious, thrilling adventure. But when I got the tattoo, Kaldar warned me that marrying her was a bad idea.”

“Wow.”

“That should’ve stopped me in my tracks, but it didn’t. I married her. She wanted a clean house free of the swamp’s mud, and I gave it to her. She wanted clothes from the Weird. I bought them when I could find a smuggler.”

“So what went wrong?” It was inappropriate to pry, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Her grandmother died.”

“Was it very traumatic?” Sometimes the death of a family member caused an irreversible shift in one’s life. She was a prime example of that.

“No. Marissa’s grandfather had passed away earlier, and her grandmother left the entirety of their savings to her. It was enough to buy her passage out of the Mire into the Broken, purchase false documents, and start a new life there.”

Charlotte recoiled. “But you couldn’t go.”

Richard nodded. There was a shadow of old pain in his smile and in his eyes. She had an urge to throw her arms around him and kiss him until it went away.

“She waited until I was out in the swamp on a family errand and left. When I came back, there was a note on the kitchen table and a collection of the things I’d given her. Jewelry, books, her wedding ring. She took nothing that would remind me of her or the house. The note told me that I’d been a good husband, but this was her way out of the swamp, and she had to take it.”

She left him? She had left this man? Unbelievable. Charlotte almost shook her head. She would give anything to have Richard bring her flowers.

“Did you go after her?”

“There was no point. She had made it clear she didn’t want me, and I still had some pride. I got drunk. At some point I burned off her name. I recall doing it, but I couldn’t tell you when. I was drunk for a long time.”

“Did you ever find out what happened to her?”

“Yes. Kaldar came across her on one of his excursions to Louisiana. She’s married to a man who owns a store that sells man-made ponds and fountains for people’s yards. She works in the store as well. They have three children, two of their own and a boy from his previous marriage. Kaldar asked me if I wanted him to ruin their little haven. I knew at that moment that despite all my efforts, I was a flawed man because for a few minutes I seriously considered taking him up on it. But I managed to walk away from it.” Richard grimaced. “And now I’ve told you my sob story, and it wasn’t my intention.”

“You have my word that I won’t share it,” she said.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

He clamped his jaws shut, the line of his mouth resolute.

“Richard?”

“I don’t want to seem like a pathetic, moonstruck fool,” he said quietly. “So far, you’ve seen me as a killer, you’ve seen me as a monster, and now I’ve added a doleful sentimentality to it, setting myself up to be pitied or laughed at. I keep missing the mark.”

Her pulse sped up. Charlotte caught her breath. “And what’s the mark?”

“The mark is where I seem capable and confident. A better man than I am.”

He was looking at her again with that intense male need. She couldn’t possibly be imagining it. It was right there. She wondered if he even realized what his stare communicated. No, probably not.

He wanted to seem better for her sake. He wanted her to like him, and he’d told her something he hadn’t meant to share. She wanted to tell him she understood, to share something equally intimate . . .

“I almost murdered my ex-husband.” It just popped out of her. Dawn Mother, why in the world did she say that? Of all the things she could’ve told him, that was the last one on the list.

Richard’s eyes widened.

“I’m such an idiot,” she whispered.

The phaeton came to a stop. She glanced out of the window in reflex. A beautiful manor lay before them, three stories of beige stone walls, arched windows, and a grand cascade of pale stairs rolling onto the green lawn.

George opened the door. “Welcome to Camarine Manor.”

He held out his arm to her. She rested her hand on it and stepped out. Three people waited for them at the top of the stairs. The man was unquestionably a blueblood: tall, wide-shouldered, built for battle. His face was classically beautiful, even more so because he’d chosen to pull back his long, pale blond hair into a low ponytail and the hairstyle accentuated the masculine cut of his jaw.

The woman next to him had to be Rose. She had a perfect figure, not obviously lean, nor voluptuous, but rather fit. Her face was delicate, with fine features and big eyes framed in dense natural eyelashes, for which at a certain point of her life, Charlotte would’ve given her right arm. Her Edge heritage was obvious. It wasn’t her lack of beauty or poise that gave her away, it was her choice of styling. She was off ever so slightly, but to high society, she might as well have hung a sign around her neck that said “Amateur.”

Her gown was probably cut in the latest fashion—the fabric was of good quality, and the workmanship looked flawless—but the pale yellow, an attractive color on its own, wasn’t flattering to her skin. Her hair was overly elaborate for an evening at home, and the style her curls were arranged in was decidedly winter instead of late spring. The entire package seemed more suited to a slightly older woman, one who had earned the right to veer from the latest trend by virtue of her status, accomplishments, or reputation. Rose was still in the age bracket where women were expected to be on the cusp of fashion. She was likely modeling herself after another woman’s example, perhaps the earl’s mother or his much older sister.

The Camarines surely had hired a stylist, but no woman wanted to be consistently told that her taste in clothes was flawed. If Éléonore’s stories of Rose’s character were true, she either got exasperated and fired the stylist, or more likely, consulted him only on special occasions. She didn’t commit any fashion crimes, by any means, but she wouldn’t be held up as an example of what to do either.

On second look, the earl favored a slightly older cut to his clothes as well. He knew, Charlotte realized. He understood that Rose was off by half an inch and adjusted his attire to match. She was so loved. A familiar pain, dulled by time, stabbed at Charlotte. They had that thing she so wanted and was denied. Rose was so very lucky.

A young girl stood on Rose’s left’s side, no more than fifteen. Charlotte looked at her face and had to fight to keep from staring. The girl was exquisitely beautiful. Not just pretty, beautiful, almost shockingly so. Her face, a perfect oval, had the coveted high cheekbones and the small yet full mouth. Her nose suggested a touch of something exotic, its lines straight but slightly unusual for Adrianglia, and her eyes reinforced it. Large, wide, yet lightly elongated at the inner corners, they hinted at some mystery, some uncommon heritage and the promise of a dangerous edge. She wasn’t just stunning, she looked interesting, which was infinitely more important than classic perfection or beauty. She could’ve walked into a ballroom filled with people, and every single one of them would pause for a second look.

That dark haunting beauty seemed familiar, but they hadn’t met before. Charlotte was sure of it.

Richard opened his arms.

The girl dashed down the stairs.

He picked her up and hugged her, and Charlotte realized where she had seen her before: there were echoes of Richard in that beautiful face. Did he have a daughter? No, it couldn’t be—he’d said he was childless.

“Richard,” Declan said. “Good to see you in one piece. Why are the boys with you?”

Rose was looking past them to her brothers. “Did something happen? Why do the two of you look like that?”

George took a deep breath.

“You’ll just draw it out.” Jack pushed forward, past his brother.

Oh no.

“Grandmother is dead. Dad was working for people who killed her. George killed Dad, although he won’t admit it.”

Charlotte was looking straight at Rose, and she saw the precise moment when the other woman’s world broke to pieces.

CHARLOTTE sat in the soft chair in Declan Camarine’s study. Richard rested in the other one. The girl sat at his feet on the floor like a loyal puppy, her pose completely at odds with her clothes or age. They should’ve been introduced, but everyone had more important things to do. Somewhere in the house, Rose was trying to make sense of what happened. Her brothers were with her. Charlotte had tried to offer some consolation, but it was pretty clear that Rose needed her privacy, so she came with Richard instead.

At his desk, Declan closed the red ledger. “The evidence is damning.”

“It shows a direct financial trail,” Richard said.

“That it does.” Declan’s face wore a grim expression. She had expected him to be more celebratory. Perhaps he was shocked by the contents or maybe the raw impact of the tragedy his wife was trying to overcome still stunned him. “It fits perfectly. Brennan’s position with the Department of the Interior would permit him to keep tabs on my office. He oversees internal security. My people are legally bound to inform the Department of the Interior of any operation that requires the transport of more than ten marshals. He knew where we would strike before we had a chance to get there.”

Declan fell silent.

“And, my lord?” Charlotte prompted gently.

He looked at her. “And if it was anyone but Brennan, I would act on it immediately.”

Richard leaned forward, focused. “The numbers don’t lie. Audit his accounts. You’ll see the record of payments made to him.”

“If it was anyone else, my name and position alone would be sufficient to instantly gain access and isolate the suspect from any channels of influence. But in this case, he is the cousin of the king,” Declan said. “His favorite cousin, the man whom the King sees as his younger brother. I know Brennan. He is smart, and he navigates the waters of the Department of the Interior like he owns them. He doesn’t make mistakes.

“If I request an audit based on the existence of this ledger, I would have to throw all of my pull and all that of my father’s and mother’s reputation just to get a foot in the door. The ledger will be reviewed by half a dozen people, none of whom want to pin a target to their own chests. Brennan will know about it almost immediately. Someone will tell him simply for a chance to be invited to the next royal picnic. I’ll be asked how I came into possession of the ledger, a question, like many others, I’ll have to dodge.

“Days will pass, the investigation into the ledger will drag on, until he’ll finally come forward and offer to simply settle this because he has nothing to hide. We will perform the audit and find nothing. The ledger will be denounced as a fake. Apologies will be rendered, throughout which he will appear magnanimous and gracious, while I will be painted as overeager, earnest, and naive at best, and jealous and harboring a deep vendetta against Brennan at worst. My credibility will be shot, forcing me to step down, and with me out of the way, Brennan will be free to rebuild his vile enterprise at his leisure.”

Charlotte sat in stunned silence. The shreds of their victory floated about her, melting into nothing.

“So this is it? It was for nothing?”

“No,” Declan said. “We know who he is now, which means we can more effectively cut him off from access to our antislaver operations. He’s suffered a catastrophic loss from the sacking of the Market. If we consistently dismantle the slave trade, ruining his profits over the course of the next few years, he may decide that continuing his oversight is too expensive . . .”

Tulip’s tortured face flashed before her. “No.”

The two men looked at her.

“No,” she repeated. “Not good enough. A few years? Do you have any idea what I’ve seen? Do you know at what cost those few years will come?”

“Charlotte,” Richard said quietly. The adolescent girl was staring at her, dark eyes alarmed.

She checked herself and saw the dark streams of her magic splayed around her. Her control was beginning to slip. She pulled her shame back into herself.

“You have my deepest respect and admiration for the depth of your sacrifice, my lady.” Declan rose and bowed to her. “I’m merely pointing out the facts.”

“What do you need to end him?” Richard asked.

“A confession,” Declan said. “Preferably in front of a dozen infallible witnesses.”

It would never happen. Something inside her was dying bit by bit. Perhaps it was hope.

“Then we’ll have to obtain it for you.” Richard rose. Declan did, too. She regained her feet.

“You’re welcome to stay at the house,” Declan said.

Richard glanced at her. Charlotte shook her head gently. They needed to be alone with their grief and deal with it as a family. Richard and she were not a part of it, and she wanted to be left to her own despair.

“Thank you. It’s most gracious of you, but I believe it would be best if we moved on,” Richard said. “The less we’re seen together, the better.”

Declan escorted them out of his office.

Outside, dense clouds the color of lead had overtaken the sky. A gust of wind pulled at her hair—a storm was coming. Charlotte realized for the first time that she was still wearing the same clothes she’d worn on the island. A blood splatter stained her pants, a castoff from Richard’s sword. She could smell the stench of smoke on her tunic. She looked like a wreck. It was a wonder they had let her into their home at all.

On the stairs, the girl stared at Richard with a wordless desperation.

He hugged her and kissed her hair gently. “I will be at the Lair.” He handed her a folded piece of paper. “Give this to George. Don’t leave the manor. I may have need of you.”

She nodded.

Richard started down the stairs toward the phaeton, and Charlotte followed. What else could she do?

The doors swung open, and Rose rushed outside. “Wait!”

Charlotte paused.

“How was she before she died?”

“Your grandmother was well,” Charlotte said. “She spoke of you and the boys often. She kept all of your presents. The glasses you’d sent her were the envy of the whole town. Mary Tomkins almost took sick from sheer jealousy.”

A haunted look passed over Rose.

“She was healthy,” Charlotte continued. “I made sure to keep up with her aches. She was respected. Her biggest worry was trying to keep a cuckoo clock in her hair. She knew you and the boys loved her, Lady Camarine. She stayed in the Edge of her own choosing, and a pair of wild horses couldn’t have pulled her out. Your grandmother never saw herself as a victim. It is perhaps presumptuous of me, but I would suggest that you shouldn’t see her that way either. If anything, the blame belongs to the people who killed her—and me, because when she needed help, I wasn’t fast enough.”

Charlotte turned and walked toward the phaeton. She felt spent and empty, scraped completely dry.

“Lady de Ney,” Rose called out.

Charlotte turned again.

Rose bowed. It was a deep, formal, Weird bow. “I don’t blame you. I blame them. Thank you for taking care of my grandmother.”

“You’re welcome,” Charlotte told her. She just wanted to get away.

Richard swung the door of the phaeton open for her, and she climbed in.

“The ride won’t be long,” he promised, and shut the door. She heard him get in the front, in the driver’s seat, where an instrument panel waited. The horseless phaeton took off down the road.

Two years, she reminded herself. That’s how long it took Richard to get to this point. She had only been at this for less than a week. It had been the most difficult week of her life, but it was only a week. Even if it felt like a lifetime.

Rain drenched the phaeton. She looked outside the glass window and saw a gray haze of water. The raindrops bombarded the roof, sliding along the smooth resin walls of the phaeton, as if she were under a waterfall and yet remained completely dry. Charlotte covered her face and cried. It was a wordless, silent sobbing born of pure pressure that squeezed the tears out of her eyes, more a stress relief than true mourning.

The phaeton came to a halt. The door swung open again, and she jumped out into the deluge, grateful that it would wash the signs of her weakness from her face.

Tall trees surrounded a narrow driveway. In front of her, a house crouched in the rain, like a shaggy bear. She could barely make out the dark log walls under the roof green with moss. Lightning flashed above. A moment later, thunder tore through the hum of the rain. Richard grabbed her hand, and they dashed across the driveway to the house. Charlotte ran up the stairs onto the narrow porch, Richard swung the door open, and she ducked inside gratefully.