Of the three, the modified alligator-mouth man posed the biggest threat. Charlotte felt the magic stir inside her. It yawned, stretched, like a cat rising from a nap, and licked its teeth. Infection wouldn’t be fast enough. She’d have to tear into them and try to cause organ failure.
“The man with the strange teeth is enhanced with illegal magic,” she murmured for Richard’s benefit. “The one with knives has a swollen groin.”
He blinked. “Thank you. I’ll take it under advisement.”
She’d never done a direct unhealing before. Infection, yes, but nothing that caused internal bleeding with the exception of her slip with Elvei. A coppery taste appeared on her tongue. Adrenaline.
The alligator-mouth realized that his toothy display wasn’t having the desired effect. “You’re lost,” he called, his voice deep.
Richard kept walking. She followed him, the dark currents spinning inside her.
“Don’t worry, we’ll show you and your bitch the right direction.”
“So kind of you,” Richard said, and then he moved.
One moment he was next to her, the next he had smashed his hand into the alligator-mouth’s throat. The man jerked back, and Richard twisted him over his arm, driving the full weight of his opponent to the ground. Before the leader landed, Richard hammered a kick to the macer’s knee. The cartilage crunched, the leg bent the wrong way, and the man crumpled. Richard caught the mace, pulled it from the falling man’s hand, and pivoted to the knife fighter. The handle of the mace danced in his hand, sinking solid blows—head, solar plexus, groin—and the knife fighter dropped to the ground, curling into a ball.
Alligator-mouth surged to his feet and lunged at Richard, hands out, jaw gaping. Richard knocked his right arm aside, locked his hand on the man’s wrist, jerking it down, smashed the mace handle against the nerve cluster at the base of the man’s exposed neck, and hit him again just below the jaw.
The big man staggered, as if drunk, waved his arms, fighting desperately to remain upright, then half sat, half fell on the ground, his eyes dazed.
Charlotte closed her mouth.
It happened so fast, she didn’t even help. She had simply stood there. The healer in her cataloged the injuries: one traumatized throat, one tear to the posterior cruciate ligament of the knee—a partial at the very least. A full tear was more likely with impaction of the anterior aspect of the femoral condyle against the anterior aspect of the tibial plateau. Richard had kicked the attacker so hard he knocked the bones of the leg together, bruising the femur and tibia. A full tear would mean a healer like her or a ligament graft, because once that ligament ripped completely, no surgeon could sew it back together. Two concussions—one mild, one severe—one sprained neck, one sprained arm, multiple bruises, and three dignities irreparably damaged. All in less than five seconds. And he hadn’t even unsheathed his sword.
Richard approached her and held out his hand. Shell-shocked, she rested her fingers on his, and he helped her step over the bodies into the narrow alley leading from the courtyard.
Talk, she told herself. Talking makes you appear confident. She couldn’t afford to let him know that he’d shocked her. She had to appear cool and collected because that’s what he needed in a partner. “I thought Jason would better control his territory,” she said. Her voice sounded normal. She’d expected it to shake.
“They were probably his men,” Richard said.
“What do you mean?”
“You humiliated him,” Richard said. “This was the way he showed his displeasure.”
“I suppose you’ll now point out that this is the result of me speaking for myself.” Just try it . . .
“That would be satisfying for me, but not entirely accurate. I’ve visited the city on four occasions since he took control of the Cauldron, and he prepared a lovely surprise for me every time. The hardest was an Erkinian woman. We fought for three full minutes, and I thought she’d kill me.”
They seemed to have a love-hate relationship. Jason admired Richard—she’d read that much in his face and the way he looked at him—and wanted his approval, while at the same time resenting Richard for it. “Jason has father-figure issues, doesn’t he?” she asked.
“Yes.” Richard sighed.
“In that case, it’s good that you’re a human Cuisinart,” she said.
“I’m sorry?”
“A Cuisinart. It’s an appliance from the Broken. You put vegetables into it, push a button, and it chops them into tiny pieces.”
Richard frowned. “Why would you need an appliance to chop vegetables? Wouldn’t it be easier to chop them with a knife?”
“It’s meant to save time,” she explained.
“Does it?”
“Well, cleaning it usually eats up most of the time you save on chopping.”
“So you’re telling me that I’m useless.”
“It’s a neat gadget!”
“And I’m hard to clean, apparently.”
She checked his face. Tiny sparks danced in his eyes. He was pulling her leg. Well. If that’s how it is . . . “Considering last night’s argument, I think that you’re remarkably difficult to clean.”
“There probably is a retort to this that’s not off-color,” he said. “But I can’t think of one.”
They reached the middle of the alley. A street person sat on the filthy pavement, a sad, hunched-over figure swaddled in rags. His hair hung over his face in an oily gray tangle. A bitter stench of rotting fish rose from his clothes. He looked old and tired, his face a mess of grime. The dirt was caked so thick she could barely see his eyes, his pupils milky white. He was suffering from cataracts.
The beggar raised his cup and shook it at Richard.
Richard glanced at the beggar. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes turned darker. Richard bent down and dropped a coin into the cup. “Third tooth,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Two hours. Bring your brother.”
The beggar pulled back his cup, his head drooping lower.
Richard straightened and took her firmly by the elbow. His touch was light, but Charlotte realized she wouldn’t be able to get away. Richard drew her away from the beggar, down the alley.
“Don’t look back,” he murmured. “That was George.”
The urge to turn around was overwhelming. “George Drayton? Éléonore’s George?”
He nodded.
Her heart beat faster. The boys would have to be told what happened to Éléonore. She was their grandmother. They deserved to know. Her throat closed up. What would she say? There was no way to soften the blow. It would be devastating. She was a grown woman, and seeing Éléonore’s body burning had torn a hole in her life that filled with grief, guilt, and anger. They were children who had known Éléonore all of their lives. She was the safe haven of their childhood, the one person besides their sister who loved them no matter what and would never abandon them. She made their world safer, and now that illusion of safety would be ripped away. Charlotte swallowed. She had to find the right words somehow.
It occurred to her that George sat in filth on a street. “Why is George dressed as a beggar? I thought the Camarine family had adopted the boys?”
“He and his brother work for the Mirror.”
They’re spies? Wait a minute. “Richard, George’s only sixteen. Jack should be fourteen.”
He took a second to glance at her. “Yes?”
“Aren’t they too young? They’re barely in their teens.”
“Some children are less childlike than we like to pretend,” he said. “At George’s age, I had killed two people and watched my father’s head explode as he was shot dead in a market. What were you doing at sixteen, Charlotte?”
The long field filled with moaning people surfaced from her memory. The coppery scent of blood, mixed with the toxic stench of warped magic, and the smell of smoke rising from the town a few fields away.
“At sixteen I was healing the victims of the Green Valley Massacre.”
“And George is being inconspicuous to—”