A raw, pain-filled sound came from upstairs. It wasn’t a feline snarl or any other sound one would expect a lynx to make. Halfway between a howl and a cry, gut-wrenching and brutal, it vibrated through the air. If Richard had hackles, they would’ve risen in response.
Richard sat down. There was no need to go in. The boy required privacy.
Another cry followed, wordless and filled with grief and guilt.
Richard leaned his back against the wall. Jack and he, they were both men, and men had unspoken rules.
Many years had passed since his father died, and for many of these years his aunt Murid had taken care of him and Kaldar. He was almost an adult when she took him in, but he remembered how much it hurt. He felt abandoned, terrified, guilty for not being there, but the only emotion the rules allowed him to display was anger, and so he raged like a lunatic. Aunt Murid handled his pointless fury with the same expertise she’d handled Kaldar’s obsessive stealing. Both of them had gone out of their way to do dumb shit just to remind themselves they were alive. But even in their darkest moments, both of them knew they were loved. They had a home. It wasn’t the same as the one before, but they were grateful for it.
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.