“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.
“Smart move. Do I have your word?”
George’s face showed no doubt. “Yes.”
“Wait for me outside.”
The children left.
“What are you doing?” Charlotte peered at him. “Why involve them at all?”
“Because their grandmother is dead, and they feel helpless and angry. Letting them have a token part in this revenge will ease that anger. Otherwise, their grief will drive them into doing something rash, and neither of us will have an opportunity to save them from the consequences.”
It was obviously a mistake. “How are you planning to keep them from getting on that ship?”
Richard smiled. “George gave me his word. Honor is important to him.”
How can a smart man be such an idiot? “Richard, did you feel how much magic that boy expended? If he cared about his grandmother that much, some faint notion of manly honor isn’t going to stop him from getting his revenge.”
“My lady, we agreed you wouldn’t question me.”
“My lord, this will end in disaster.”
He smiled, a narrow sardonic smile. “Then you’ll get to tell me, ‘I told you so.’”
Like arguing with a brick wall. Charlotte opened the door and walked out.
She had to remember why she was doing this: she sacrificed and killed so nobody else would suffer the way these children were suffering now. She would deal with Richard, and she would get on that ship. When she was done, the slavers would be little more than a scary story.
SEVEN
NIGHT came far too quickly, Charlotte reflected, patting the muzzle of her horse. She stood under an oak. The wolf-dog sat by her feet and showed his teeth to anyone who came too close. In front of her, about forty people assembled in the clearing. The moon hid behind the ragged clouds, and what little illumination they had came from the tall torches thrust along the edge of the clearing.
About half of Jason’s people, the “slavers,” wore an assortment of leather and carried weapons. The other half, mostly women in filthy clothes, busily tied knives and cudgels under their skirts and shirts. A few had on the Broken’s jeans, others wore the Weird’s dresses. Here and there clothes were being strategically ripped. A young woman walked around the gathering with a bucket of blood and a paintbrush, and smeared the red liquid on random bodies.
Richard was somewhere out there, getting ready. George and Jack had concealed themselves at a good observation point, ready to play their role in the mission. She and Richard had dropped the Draytons off half a mile away, with Richard giving them strict directions to stay out of sight, to which both teens informed them that it wasn’t their first time.
“Beautiful,” Jason said next to her.
The dog growled low. She petted the big black head.
She hadn’t heard Jason walk up. He wore a monk’s cowl. Stripes of white paint crossed his nose and cheeks, while a horizontal black stripe darkened the skin around his eyes. He looked terrifying.
“Shouldn’t you be joining them?” He nodded at the slaves.
“I suppose I should.” She walked over and took her place between two “slave” women. The redhead with the bucket of blood stopped by her and casually painted some blood on her neck.
“Whose blood is it?” Charlotte asked.
The redhead shrugged. “No clue. Got it at the butcher shop.” She moved on.
At least it wasn’t human.
“You got a knife?” a slender, filthy girl asked her. There was something familiar about her . . . Miko.
“I don’t need one, thank you.”
“Take a knife.” Miko offered her a curved, wicked-looking blade. “It might save your life.”
“What about you?”
The girl grinned at her. “I have several.”
Charlotte took the blade, slid it into the waistband of her trousers, and pulled her tunic over it. She looked up and saw a ghost striding through the crowd toward her. Wide-shouldered, wearing a padded leather jacket, his hair in a ponytail, an eye patch covering his left eye, leading a black horse. His name was Crow, and she’d killed him. She had watched him die in that clearing with the rest of the slaver crew.
Her heart hammered. She took a step back.
Crow kept coming.
That was fine. She would kill him again. The dark tendrils slipped out of her.
“Charlotte?” the one-eyed slaver said in Richard’s voice.
She had always prided herself on excellent control of her magic. Between the moment her magic slithered out to kill him and the next instant, her brain made the connection, and she withdrew her power, aborting his murder in midstrike.
“Yes?” she asked, sounding as normal as she could.