Steel's Edge

When he was thirty-two, the Hand had attacked the family. In the final battle with Louisiana’s spies, Murid fell. He hadn’t seen her die, but Kaldar had. Richard vividly remembered looking at her savaged body. He remembered his chest hurting and the look on Kaldar’s face, the glassy-eyed gaze of a man whose every emotion had drowned in profound grief. They didn’t talk about it. They stood next to each other at the funeral, stone-faced, because that was the thing to do. After the funeral, they drank together as was proper for a Mire family and went their separate ways within the Mar house.



He’d come up to his room, thinking he would read a book. Instead, he sat in his chair, catatonic, staring into space, until he realized he was crying. Kaldar must’ve mourned, too. Neither of them would ever admit to his grief. They’d never spoken about it.



The woman who had taken care of them, sheltered them, and guided them, filling the shoes of both parents at once, had died. But he couldn’t bring himself to comfort his brother even though he knew both of them desperately needed that comfort.



Now Jack and George had lost a woman who loved them and sheltered them, and they followed the same pattern. Jack’s running out was probably for the best. If George wanted to grieve freely, he could, because Charlotte was a woman, and her presence wouldn’t be a deterrent. And Jack . . .



Another forlorn howl rolled through the tower.



He would talk to Jack when the boy was done. There were things he had to say, things he wished someone had said to him or Kaldar years ago.



Whatever differences he and Kaldar had, they were brothers, Richard reflected. They had dealt with their guilt and pain in the same way. Kaldar channeled it into an insane obsession with destroying the Hand. Even marriage to the woman he clearly loved beyond all reason did nothing to knock his brother off his path. Richard, on the other hand, had chosen to go after slavers. There probably was a hint of insanity in what he did. No, perhaps not insanity. Fanaticism.



“Fanatic.” It was an old word originally meaning “inspired by god,” and its first meaning was to describe a person possessed by a god or a demon. It was a very accurate description, he reflected. He was possessed, not by a demon, but by the need to correct a wrong. He was a true believer, his cause was just, and he had given all of himself to it without regret. But at the core, it was about helplessness. When Sophie had stopped showering, then stopped talking, then ran away when he tried to ask her why, he could do nothing. He had never felt more helpless in his life, not even when his wife, Marissa, walked out on him.



He’d loved Marissa completely, with absolute devotion, and when she’d left him after two years of marriage, his whole world shattered. He had decided it was a good lesson, eventually, once he had crawled out of the deep, dark hole where he’d existed for months. He thought the experience had cured him of the longing for female company just as he’d thought that the road he was on had burned all capacity for emotion out of him. But here was Charlotte, and she stirred something inside him that compelled him to respond. He couldn’t help himself.



If he’d met Charlotte before this started . . . It was an intriguing but fundamentally stupid thought. If he had met her, she wouldn’t have given him a second look. She was a blueblood and a healer, probably highly respected, while he was a Mire rat with no name, no status, no rank, and very modest means of support.



And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about her. That’s how it started, Richard reflected grimly. Thinking about a woman, wondering what it would be like, picturing it. A purely physical attraction he could handle, but he’d seen her in a moment of vulnerability. He knew exactly what it cost her to follow him. She was courageous, in the true sense of the word. Experience and training had given him an edge, and he rarely experienced acute fear when facing an opponent. Most of the time, he didn’t even feel anxiety, as if his soul had developed calluses. Perhaps he simply didn’t have anything to lose.



Charlotte had no combat experience. She hid her fear well, but he was learning to read her. When she raised her chin and squared her shoulders, Charlotte was afraid. She had been alarmed when they met Jason Parris, scared when they faced the thugs, and frightened when the mob chased them. Yet she kept going, overcoming her fear every time. That strength of will was worthy of both his admiration and his respect. Her very humanity made her fascinating and drew him to her. He wanted to know more about her. He wanted to spare her that fear. He wanted to remove whatever was causing her discomfort. Yet there was no way to do it without cutting short her involvement, and he had made a promise to respect her mission.



Jack emerged from the room. He was nude, and his eyes were red.



Richard offered him the clothes. The boy dressed.



Richard rose. “There is no shame in grief. It’s human. You didn’t do anything wrong. It doesn’t make you weak, and you don’t have to hide it.”



Jack looked away.



“You couldn’t have prevented your grandmother’s death. Don’t take any of the guilt or blame on yourself. Blame those who are actually responsible.”



“What happened to the slavers?” Jack asked, his voice hoarse.



“Your grandmother killed some of them. Charlotte killed the rest.”



They went down the stairs side by side.



“I want in,” the boy said.



“In on what?”



“You’re the Hunter. You’re hunting the slavers. I want in.”



“And how would you know that?” If someone had opened their mouth, he would be really put out.



Jack gave a one-shouldered shrug. “We overhead you and Declan talking.”



“Declan’s study is soundproof.”



“Not to reanimated mice,” Jack said. “George wants to be a spy. He listens in on everything, then he tells me.”



Fantastic. Declan and he had taken extra measures, like activating soundproof sigils and meeting during late hours, and two teenage boys could still undermine all of their careful security precautions. How comforting. And he wasn’t feeling like a complete moron, not at all. He was sure Declan wouldn’t feel like a moron either.



“I’m coming with you,” Jack said.



“Absolutely not.”



Jack bared his teeth in a feral grief.



“No,” Richard said. “This isn’t a fun adventure.”



“Kaldar let us—”



“No.” He sank enough finality into his voice to end all arguments.



Jack clamped his mouth shut and walked sullenly next to him. They left the tower and headed toward the city.



This battle wasn’t won, Richard reflected, looking at the stubborn set of the boy’s jaw. And once they got back, George and Jack would tag team him. If worse came to worse, he’d talk Barlo into keeping them under lock and key while he and Charlotte dealt with the ship.



* * *



“GEORGE,” Charlotte murmured.



George remained slumped in her arms, catatonic. She scanned him again. No physical injury. Too much magic, expended too quickly. She had no idea if he was slipping into a permanent coma or just resting, exhausted.



I shouldn’t have told you. She realized she’d spoken the words aloud.



“She was our grandmother,” George said. “We have a right to know.”



Charlotte exhaled. Conscious. Finally.



The boy pushed away from her very gently, got up, and offered her his hand. She took it and stood up.



“Richard values family above all else,” George said. “He would’ve told us if you didn’t.”



“Do you know what he does?” she asked.



George nodded.



“Then you know he will do all he can to get justice for your grandmother, and so will I.”



“She liked you,” George said. “She told us a lot about you. We saw your picture.”



Charlotte swallowed. “Your grandmother was very kind to me.”



“Is that why you’re with him now?” George asked.



“It’s complicated,” Charlotte said. “But yes.”



“We will join you.”



He said it matter-of-factly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a sixteen-year-old to become a killer. No. Not on her watch.



“There is no place for children in what we are about to do. Richard will tell you the same thing.”



“I’m sixteen,” George said. “I’m less than a year away from being an adult. I need this. I need to get my own justice. You know how I feel. You must’ve cared for her. Why would you stop me?”



“Look at me.” She waited until he met her gaze. “No. We will do our part, and the two of you will take care of Rose. You have my word that the slavers will pay for what they’ve done. I’ll fight them until I end them, or they end me. This is my battle, and you will stay out of it.”



“Exactly,” Richard said, opening the door.



Jack slipped into the room.



“Your sister will need support.” Richard stepped inside and shut the door.



“She has Declan,” Jack said.



Richard turned to him, his face suddenly hard. Charlotte fought an urge to step back, and Jack tensed.



“It’s your duty to take care of your family, and Rose and your brother are the only family you have left now. A man doesn’t avoid his responsibilities. Do I make myself clear?”



“Crystal,” George said.



“Tonight, a slaver ship will dock in a secret location,” Richard said. “You will watch us board it, and you will deliver the name of the ship to your brother-in-law. He will trace it. In the event things don’t go as planned, he will at least have that information. That’s as much as I’m willing to let you do.”



Jack opened his mouth.



“Think before you say anything.” Richard’s voice held no mercy. “Because unlike my brother, I have no qualms about hogtying the two of you and paying Barlo to sit on your bodies until we’re out to sea.”



Jack clamped his mouth shut.



“We’ll take it,” George said.

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