Steel's Edge (29 page)

She turned to look at him. “I'm barren, Richard. Irreversibly. I will never have a child. There is no cure.”

“I'm sorry,” he said.

She hesitated. “Does it matter to you? I can never give you a child.”

She was thinking of staying with him. Don't read too much into it, he warned himself. They came from completely different worlds. She was a blueblood, and he was a fraud, with hardly anything to his name.

“There are sixteen adults in my family, all that remains of over fifty, and almost twenty children, most of them with one dead parent or both,” he told her. “I have many children to take care of. My worth isn't tied to having one specifically my own.”

Charlotte sighed and caressed his cheek. Her finger traced his lips. “Funny, had you asked me that before I'd married Elvei, I would've told you the same thing. But somehow the quest to have a child became the most important thing in my life. I felt deficient. Almost as if I were somehow not female if I couldn't conceive. Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I realized that Elvei required a child so he could inherit the family estate. He was in competition with his younger brother, and he was trying to race to the finish line and produce a bouncing baby to claim his land, house, and leadership of the family with it.”

“He sounds like an idiot.”
Who the hell would care about the lands and house when he had her?

Charlotte gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I was very naive. And my blinders were firmly in place. Elvei was always attentive. He came with me on some of my procedures. This journey toward getting a child was something we took together. It was a quest we had in common, and I thought it would bring us closer. Really, we were both at fault. He should've made his position clear before the wedding, and I shouldn't have mistaken his courtesy and attention for love. I think it took a toll on him as well. He'd grown obsessive. We had to have sex in a specific position because someone had told him it was most likely to result in conception. He'd help me chart my ovulation. It was a kind of insanity that took over both of us. Looking back at it, all of that seems . . . creepy.”

Richard stared at her, speechless. Her husband was an ass. He wanted to find him and skin him alive. Saying it out loud, however, probably wasn't the best strategy.

“In the end, when all options were exhausted, I came to him with the news. I had expected him to hug me and tell me it would all be fine and that he loved me anyway. He presented me with an annulment.”

Charlotte laughed bitterly. “My world had collapsed. I wanted to hurt him, and I almost did. I came this close.” She held her index finger and thumb a hair apart.

“What stopped you?” he asked.

“It was wrong,” she said simply. “I was a healer. I was meant to heal people, not to hurt them because they crushed my heart.”

And that's why she would always be the ray of light in his darkness. He had to hold on to her. He couldn't let her go. He had to not screw this up.

Charlotte closed her eyes. “We, the healers, have two sides to our power: one prolongs life, the other cuts it short. We're conditioned to use only one. It's repeated so often, you have it chiseled in your mind by the time you reach your teens: do no harm. Healing is hard work. You feel the magic leaving you. But doing harm is easy. You feel powerful and strong. It's almost euphoric. You don't realize how much magic you've spent until it's gone, and you collapse dramatically and make a complete fool of yourself.”

“You may swoon as you wish. I'll always be there to catch you.”

She laughed.

He grinned.

Charlotte turned on her side and looked at him. “Two things can happen when a healer stops being a healer. One, they drain themselves of all of their magic and die. And two . . .”

She hesitated.

“Two?” Richard prompted.

“They become a walking plague. They spend their magic, realize they require more, and began to feed on those around them, converting other lives into fuel for further killing. They cease to become human. The first time I killed, when I infected Voshak and his slavers, I wasn't sure I had enough power to kill them all. So I fed on them. You have no idea how wonderful it felt.”

Her voice shook.

“You're terrified of it,” he guessed. Alarm wailed in the back of his head. He was certain he read an article describing something very similar a few years back. The book claimed it was a death sentence to the magic user.

“Yes. Since then I haven't done it. Once you start, the temptation to keep going is too strong. In the bookkeeper's mansion, when I was near my limit, I felt you. I could sense your life force. It made me hungry.” She touched his face. “Are you scared?”

“No.” He wasn't afraid of her; he was afraid for her.

She cleared her throat. Her voice was quiet. “Some people think they are better than others at what they do. I don't think, I know. I'm the most powerful healer of my generation. I wouldn't become a plaguebringer, I would unleash a pandemic on this world. I'd become a living death. I would rather spend all of my magic and die than kill thousands of people.”

She closed her eyes. “I shouldn't have ever done it. You have to understand, back at the clearing I saw you in the cage, battered and bruised, and they were lounging about as if they were on some picnic. It made me so angry. Draining them seemed like the only way, and I did it. I knew the risks, I just didn't realize how strong the pull of the magic is.”

“You were in shock,” he told her. “Trust me, I was there. I saw your face.”

“It's not an excuse. A lot of healers disappear after a few years. I always thought it was because they burn out. Maybe they don't. Maybe they succumb instead and have to be put down like rabid dogs.”

“Stop,” he said. “Don't do this to yourself. You won't be put down. I won't let anyone touch you.”

“Richard, if I ever lose myself, you have to stop me.” Her lips touched his, warm and pliant, and he savored her taste. “I know it's a lot to ask, but promise me.”

Something inside him went dead and cold at the thought. “I'll take care of it.”

He would do it because she asked him. At the very least, he would try. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him, wishing he could protect her from everything, wishing he could keep her safe. Men, creatures, beasts, he could end them. But how could one fight magic? He couldn't cut it, he couldn't kill it, and if it took Charlotte from him, there was nothing he could do about it.

She hugged him, sliding next to him. “Some twisted romance we have going here.”

He forced a smile. “I don't know. It could be worse.”

“How?”

“We're still fighting our war. We could simply give up.”

“We can't give up,” she said. “If we did that, everything we have done until now would be for nothing.”

“Does it pull on you? Your magic?”

“It's almost as if it has a life of its own. I picture it as a dark beast or a nest of snakes. Sometimes it sleeps, like now, perfectly content. And then I use it, and the beast awakens and scratches from the inside, trying to claw its way out.”

“I wish you had told me sooner.” He squeezed her closer and kissed her lips. She tasted so sweet. “I shouldn't have asked you to kill the crew. I shouldn't have let you get off that ship, period.”

“You don't get to tell me what I should or shouldn't do.” She smiled.

“Yes, I do. You promised to obey me.”

She rolled over and climbed on him, her face full of mischief. “And if I disobey you, mighty Sir Richard, what shall you do?”

“I have no idea. I suppose I'll growl in a ferocious, manly way.” He put his arms behind his head. Her hair spilled over her left breast. Her right was bare, a perfect, glorious breast tipped by a small dark nipple, almost pink against her soft, pale skin.

She was so beautiful. He was amazed she let him touch her. That he had her here with him was some sort of miracle of the universe.

“You're ogling my breasts.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Of course.”

She leaned over him, her locks falling around them like a shimmering curtain. Her nipples brushed his chest, cool peaks against the heat of his body. He smelled the delicate scent of citrus from her damp locks.

“Are you afraid loving me will make you weaker, Richard?” she whispered.

“No.” She had no idea how much he wanted her. If someone right now offered him a guarantee that she would stay with him in exchange for walking away from his mission, he wasn't sure what his answer would be.
You've fallen too hard and too fast, fool.

No, loving her didn't make him weaker. It made him desperate.

“You're mine,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her. “I have no intentions of letting you go.”

She smiled, a wicked sexy smile.

“I mean it,” he told her. “You can't escape.”

The logical side of him warned that a hope of a future together would only hinder them. It would make them hesitate. It would cause them to avoid danger and abandon caution for each other's sake. They were able to do what they had to do precisely because each of them had nothing to lose. But that wasn't true anymore. He shut down the logic. It didn't help.

“Maybe I don't want to escape.” She caught his bottom lip between his teeth, pulled gently, and let go. Her eyes were luminescent. “My deadly noble swordsman.”

He was so hard, it was making him crazy.

“I want to have you again,” she whispered. “Can I have you again?”

He rolled her over on her back and pinned her down. She widened her eyes. “Oooh, I'm trapped. What will happen to me?”

He bent down, relishing the softness of her body under him. “Let me show you . . .”

ELEVEN

CHARLOTTE
swept the cabin floor, chasing the dust and tiny particles of ash into a neat pile. It had been three days since they had arrived at the cabin. Richard called it his Lair, but even lairs could stand a sweeping. Three days of nothing but conversation, savory meals, and sex. Unrestrained, amazing sex. She smiled to herself.

A delicious aroma of frying meat floated up from the kitchen, accompanied by the sizzle of food in a hot pan. She wasn't sure what Richard was cooking for breakfast, but whatever it was, it smelled divine. He liked to cook, she'd discovered.

A faint hissing announced a phaeton arriving. They had been waiting for it.

“We come in peace,” a male voice announced from the outside. “Don't shoot us.”

Richard leaned away from the stove. “It's my brother.”

“I'll let him in,” she said.

Charlotte unlatched the door and swung it open. A man in his early thirties stood on the porch, carrying a very thick leather file. The resemblance was definitely there: similar hair, except Richard combed his and Kaldar left it in a disorganized mess; similar faces, both handsome with contoured jawlines and pronounced cheekbones; similar height. And yet they were different. Richard's features had nobility and pride, while Kaldar was handsome in a roguish way, with a wild glint to his eyes and a charming grin. She had a feeling he smiled frequently and lied easily, while each of Richard's rare smiles was a gift.

Kaldar blinked. “Who are you?”

“I'm Charlotte,” she told him.

“A pleasure. Say, Charlotte, have you seen Richard? A brooding fellow about as tall as me, but much uglier and incapable of humor?”

“Uglier?”

“Well, perhaps not uglier per se, but definitely more melancholy. His trouble is that he thinks too much. It keeps him from enjoying life. Have you seen him?”

“He's inside cooking.”

“Cooking? He hates to cook.”

Kaldar stepped over the threshold and ducked left. A knife sprouted from the doorframe where his head had been a moment ago. Kaldar flicked his fingers at the blade. “See? Incapable of humor.”

“What are you talking about?” Richard raised his eyebrows. “I thought the look on your face was bloody hilarious.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”

A young man followed Kaldar through the door. An impeccably tailored jacket hugged his fit, slim frame, and he moved with the casual elegance so many bluebloods strived to achieve through dancing lessons. He walked with supple grace but a certain surety, not a dancer, but rather a swordsman. His blond hair, cut long, which usually indicated a mage, accentuated the precise cut of his features, still touched with boyish softness. He turned to her. Familiar blue eyes looked at her from a face that was already arresting and in a few years would be devastating.

“George?” she gasped.

“Good morning, my lady.” He took the broom from her. “I'll finish this.”

She tried to reconcile the filthy urchin with the flawless blueblood prince and failed. The pieces simply didn't fit together.

“Terrible, isn't it?” Kaldar shook his head in mock resignation. “Look at the caliber of the competition I have to deal with. You know, women under twenty-five don't even notice me anymore when I tow him around.”

George rolled his eyes.

“You're married,” Richard reminded him.

“I was complaining in a purely hypothetical sense.” Kaldar turned to Richard. “What are you cooking? Did you make enough for everybody?”

“You won't be left unfed, don't worry.” Richard jerked the pan up in a sharp motion. A pancake flew in the air and flipped back into the pan.

“The least you can do is feed me. I brought your information.” Kaldar shook the file. “My wife stole it for you from our illustrious spy agency, and we spent the whole night copying it by hand, then taking it back to the Mirror . . .”

“He has an imager at his house,” George said. “It took him less than half an hour to copy everything.”

“Traitor child.” Kaldar dropped the file on the counter. “A gift for you, my ever-so-serious elder sibling.” He made an elaborate flourish with his hand, and a piece of paper popped into his fingers out of thin air. Richard put the wooden spoon down and opened the paper. His face showed nothing. He looked at it for a long moment and passed it to her.

It was Richard's image captured with an imager and printed on paper with the word
HUNTER
printed at the top. The shot had caught him in a moment of battle. He'd just swung his sword, and the body in front of him was still falling. Blood spatter stained his skin. His hair flared, moving from the momentum of his turn. His face looked serene.

“Where did you get this?” Richard asked.

“While I was procuring your information, I happened to be by Rodera. She's a hell of a city, and I made an excursion into her gutters and ruffled through her skirts. The slavers are passing this around. You are busted. How many times have I told you to wear a mask? Why don't you ever listen to me?”

Half an hour later, when they finished the omelet Richard made, Kaldar had made at least ten jokes, told them a funny story about his wife, and made fun of Louisiana's ambassador. She understood why Richard got a slightly tense look on his face when he mentioned his brother. They were polar opposites. Kaldar, being the life of the party, had no urge to explore the virtues of dignity and restraint, while Richard had no desire to entertain others with his wit or draw attention to himself.

“I suppose we should start,” Kaldar said.

George dragged a large freestanding corkboard into view.

Mirth drained from Kaldar's face. “Now then.”

He opened the leather file and began pinning images to the board, five in all. Charlotte felt a pang of regret. She still saw Tulip in her dreams, but now, when she awoke, Richard held her, and the feeling of lying next to him was indescribable. He never said it, but the way he looked at her, the way he listened, the way they gave pleasure to each other made her feel loved, and deep inside her, a pathetic little hope had reared its head. She hated herself for that hope. It chipped at her resolve and at his. This path demanded sacrifices. They both knew it. They had both agreed to accept it. But each moment she had him to herself felt like a gift. Now that hope was dying, and its death throes brought her at once relief and a sickening fear.

“Lord Casside.”

Kaldar pointed to the first image. A dark-haired man with a strong profile stared back at them.

“Minor nobility, of the lesser-known branch of the Dweller family. An only son and a self-made man. About five years ago, he quietly began to liquidate his assets and invest all of his money into Blackwolf Imports and Exports.”

“Blackwolf?” Richard grimaced.

“Not really an imaginative guy.” Kaldar tapped the picture. “You were right, by the way. Height, weight, skin and eye color. Everything is consistent. If it wasn't for the nose and the chin, he could be part of the family.”

“What family?” Charlotte asked.

“Our family,” Richard said. “I'll explain in a minute.”

“Then we have Earl Maedoc.”

Kaldar tapped the second picture. On it, an older man glowered, his features harsh, his stare direct. His gray hair was shorn close to his scalp, and his hooded eyes looked unfriendly.

“Veteran of the Adrianglian Army, decorated, praised, respected. He oversees recruiting efforts. He also supplies new muscle to the slavers.”

“Being in charge of the recruiting allows him to weed out those unsuitable to military service,” George said. “Those with a penchant for sadism, for example. He steers them toward the slavers.”

“Lady Ermine.”

Kaldar touched the next image. A woman in her late twenties. Delicate bone structure, coils of caramel hair, narrow eyes but a rare, highly prized color: a translucent light green.

“Another investor. Lady Ermine also takes a special interest in female slaves. She selects several each season and trains them to increase their value.”

“How do you know this?” Richard asked.

“The Mirror has a list in her file, which she had forgotten in her room at one of the state functions. It details purchases of personal items, including slinky garments and various inappropriate but entertaining things for seven women with different garment sizes and detailed prescriptions for Midwife's Bane . . .”

Those bastards.

“. . . which is apparently . . .”

“Used as a means of birth control.” Charlotte ground out, furious. “If the dose is large enough, it can cause damage to the lining of the uterus, rendering a woman infertile.” They were robbing the slave women of their fertility to prevent inconvenient offspring. She was infertile, and she understood the full enormity of their loss. She would crush that Ermine woman like a maggot under her shoe.

“What she said,” Kaldar said. “The names on the list had the flair of the Broken. There was a Britney, which doesn't occur here that often, but there was also a Christina, which is a completely Broken name.”

Good point.

“Why?” George asked.

“Because it's derived from the word ‘Christian,'” Charlotte said. “In the Broken, Jesus Christ was viewed as the son of God, and his followers are Christians. In the Weird, it was John the Nazarite, whose followers are called the Nazaratians. In the Weird, a Christina would be named Johanna.”

Kaldar shrugged. “It's clear that at least some women on that list came from the Edge, if not from the Broken itself. There's no logical reason for Angelia to have made that list, and when a covert Mirror operative posing as a servant attempted to return it, Lady Ermine claimed she had never seen it before. The Mirror put it into her file as an oddity. Now that we know she's connected to the slave trade, it makes much more sense.”

Richard was staring at an image of an urbane, groomed blond man with sharp features and an overly elaborate haircut. There was a focused, predatory edge to his glare. “What about him?”

“Baron Oleg Rene.” Kaldar crossed his arms. His face had gained an unexpected vicious edge. “You wouldn't believe who he's related to. You see the family resemblance?”

“Spider.” Richard spat the word like it was poison.

“A distant cousin. How about that?”

The two men glared at that picture, the hate on their faces so similar, they looked like twins.

“The same Spider who killed Sophie's mother?” Charlotte asked.

Kaldar nodded. “Rene is Spider's younger half sister's son, the Adrianglian branch of the family. Because of this inconvenient connection, he's been blacklisted from military service, the Department of the Interior, and the Diplomatic Corps.”

“What does he do?” George asked.

“Arts, sports, and entertainment,” Kaldar said. “He travels around the country working as a glorified event planner. Organizes festivals, tourneys, and so on. The Department of the Interior has no issue with it as long as somebody else provides his security. He's very good at it, apparently.”

“So he can move around the country pretty much at random,” Richard said.

Kaldar nodded. “I'm thinking they use him as a buyer / scout / trouble fixer.”

He turned to the last photograph. On it a man in his middle forties looked at the world with hazel eyes. He was handsome, with a masculine beauty that was just a shade too rugged to be perfect, and that slight roughness only added to his appeal. His expression was dignified but free of pretense. An engaging smile played on his lips and in his eyes, proclaiming loudly that this man was worthy of loyalty because he was good and would do the right thing. Its power was so pronounced, Charlotte felt compelled to smile back.

“Viscount Robert Brennan,” Kaldar said. “The main head of this twisted hydra.”

He sat down. “How do you want to go about it?”

“We need a confession,” Richard said. “Or at the very least, an admission of guilt.”

“Brennan is a tough nut to crack.” Kaldar's face turned grim. “It's not just that he's a cousin of the king. He's also popular. Blueblood ladies think he's darling, and men think he's a man's man. He's athletic, charming, funny, and they all love him. You'll be fighting against the tide of public opinion.”

“Then we'll need to turn it against him,” Richard said.

“How the hell are you going to do that?”

“Why can't we simply remove him from the equation?” George asked.

“Because if we kill him, the organization wouldn't die,” Richard told him. “Think of a monarchy. One king dies, another takes his place, but the institution survives.”

“Richard is right.” Charlotte rose.

The two men and a boy immediately stood up.

“Why did you get up?” she asked George.

“You're a woman,” George answered.

“Yes, but what is the reason?”

“I don't know.”

“You rose because hundreds of years ago, when a woman entered a room full of men, she wasn't exactly safe. Especially if she was beautiful or had holdings. Our magic is just as deadly, but physically, an average male is stronger than an average woman, so when a woman entered the room, men who knew her stood up to indicate that they would shield her from danger. The three of you just declared yourself my protectors.”

They looked at her.

“A modern woman is hardly in danger of a direct assault,” Charlotte said. “So why do men still get up?”

George frowned.

Charlotte smiled at Kaldar. “You know, don't you?”

“We get up because women like it.” Kaldar clapped George on the shoulder. “You don't want to look like an unmannered bumpkin in front of a girl. And if you get up and she notices you, she might sit by you.”

“Exactly. There is no law that says men should rise, but you still do because women enjoy this show of attention. It's so ingrained in your nature that when we first met, Richard refused to sit down until I did, even though he was half-dead at the time.”