Steel's Edge (6 page)

His temperature and blood pressure dropped again.

She pushed more magic into the injured tissues, trying to pull the body out of shock. It fought her, but she anchored it to life with her magic and refused to let go. He would stay with her. He wasn't going anywhere. Death wanted him, but Charlotte had claimed him, and he was hers. She couldn't create new life, but she could fight for the existing one with everything she had. Death would just have to do without.

His heart fluttered like an injured bird. He was in danger of cardiac arrest. She wrapped her magic around his heart, cradling it with one loop of the current while feverishly mending the tears in his flesh with the other. Each heartbeat resonated through her.

Pulse.

Stay with me.

Pulse.

Stay with me, stranger.

The lesions in the liver closed. The blood pressure stabilized. Finally. Charlotte knitted together the injured muscle and accelerated blood production.

I have you. You won't die today.

The man's breathing steadied. She encouraged circulation and held him, watching the internal temperature creep up. She was burning through what meager fat reserves he had to generate blood cells. There wasn't much—he was practically all muscle and skin.

The internal temperature approached normal levels. The heart pulsed, strong and steady.

She held on to him for a little while longer just to make sure he was past the danger point. He had a powerful, healthy body. He would recover.

Charlotte disengaged, slowly, a little at a time, and sat back. Her head swam. Blood stained her hands. Her nose itched, and she rubbed the back of her wrist against it, dazed and disconnected from reality.

The man lay next to her, his pulse even. She gulped the air. She was out of breath as if she had run some sort of crazy sprint. The familiar post-healing fatigue anchored her in place. Her muscles ached. The weariness would let go in a minute. During her time at the College, a difficult emergency healing like this was usually followed by a daylong bed rest for the healer, but she was no longer healing someone every day. She wasn't near her limit.

She'd beaten Death again. The relief flooded her. That's one life that didn't have to end. One man who would survive to see his family. She had made it happen, and seeing his chest rise in an even rhythm made her deeply happy.

His hair was very dark, a glossy, almost bluish black. It fanned around his head, framing his face. He was no longer pale. He probably never was as pale as she perceived. Years of practice attuned her senses to react to specific signs of distress in her patients, and sometimes her magic distorted her vision to produce the diagnosis faster. The man's skin had a pronounced bronze tint, both from a naturally darker tone and sun exposure. His face was precisely sculpted, with a square jaw, a strong chin, and a nose that must've been perfectly shaped at some point but now was too wide at the bridge, the result of an old injury, most likely. Short, dark stubble dusted his jawline. His mouth was neither too wide nor too narrow, his lips soft, his forehead high. His body was in superb shape, but the gathering of faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes betrayed his age. He was at least as old as she, probably a few years older, mid to late thirties. His skin and clothes were stained with mud and blood, his hair was a mess, and yet there was something undeniably elegant about him.

What a handsome man.

The man's eyelashes trembled. Charlotte leaned over, alarm pulsing through her. Her magic sparked. He should've been out. His body needed every resource to heal.

The man opened his eyes. He looked at her, their faces mere inches apart. His eyes were dark and intelligent, and that intelligence changed his entire face, catapulting him from handsome to irresistible. “Sophie,” he said.

He was delirious. “It's over now,” she told him. “Rest.”

His eyes focused on her. “Beautiful,” he whispered.

She blinked.

“I know that voice.” Éléonore climbed into the truck. “Richard!
Mon dieu, que s'est-il passé?
”

Richard tried to rise. His pulse sped up to dangerous levels.

“No!” Charlotte struggled to hold him down. He strained under her. He was strong like a horse. Her magic still spiraled around him, wrapping him in a cocoon of sparks, straining to heal the damage as he moved. Without knowing it, he was leaning on her healing power like a crutch. “I have to put him under. He can't move, or he'll rip everything open.”

“Who did this to you?” Éléonore asked. “Richard?”

Richard pushed against Charlotte, lifting her deadweight. She felt the newly mended tissue tearing. His hold on her magic faltered. She felt him slip.

Richard's eyes closed, and he crashed back into the truck bed. Charlotte leaned over him. Out cold.

Éléonore turned to the boy. “Kenny, help us get him into the house.”

Kenny grunted. Magic snapped, accreting around him. He reached over, picked Richard up like a toddler, and carried him inside. Charlotte dropped the ward stone back in place, and the four of them followed him.

“Where to?”

“Guest bedroom on the right.” Charlotte pushed the door open.

Kenny deposited Richard on the spare bed and turned around. “I've got to get to mom's house.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Éléonore said. “Say hello to your mother for me.”

Kenny nodded and went out.

Charlotte knelt by the bed. Richard's pulse was still even. Good. “How do you know him?”

Éléonore sighed. “I've met him before. His first cousin married my grandson-in-law's adopted cousin. We're family.”

Family, right. “Is he a blueblood?”

“No. He lives in the Weird now, but he's an Edger like us, from the Mire. When I first saw him, I thought the same thing—some sort of noble house. But no, he's an Edger.”

“Who is Sophie?” A wife? Perhaps, a sister?

Éléonore shrugged. “I don't know, dear. But whoever she is, she must be very important to him. I can tell you that Richard is a skilled swordsman. He was teaching my grandsons how to fight the last time I was in the Weird. Whoever ran him through is likely dead.”

Charlotte let her magic slide over Richard's body. A skilled swordsman. She could believe that—his spare body was strong but supple, honed by constant exercise. His blood pressure was still too low. In time, his body would replenish the blood he lost, but it would take a while, and she didn't want to gamble.

He had called her beautiful.

She knew she was a reasonably attractive woman, and he had been delirious, so it shouldn't have mattered, but for some reason it did. She had stayed away from romantic relationships in the Edge—one Elvei was enough—and she had almost forgotten she was a woman. A single word from a complete stranger touched off something feminine inside her. She felt unreasonably pleased when she remembered his saying it, as if he'd given her a gift she really wanted but didn't expect. He would never know it, but she was grateful for it.

Charlotte rose and got her cell phone.

“Who are you calling?” Éléonore asked.

“Luke. Richard will need a blood transfusion, the sooner the better.”

“Should we leave?” Daisy asked.

Éléonore held her finger to her lips.

“Yes?” Luke answered.

She put him on speaker. Holding the phone to her ear was really awkward. “It's Charlotte. I need A+.” It had taken her a few weeks to learn the Broken's medical terminology, but with the help of books, she had eventually prevailed. She'd identified Richard's blood type when her magic slid through his veins.

The EMT fell silent. “I can get you two bags. Five hundred.”

Two pints. It would have to do. “I'll take it.”

“Meet me at the end of the road in twenty.” Luke hung up.

“Five hundred dollars?” Daisy's eyes were the size of saucers.

“Highway robbery,” Éléonore said.

“He's the only source of blood for Edgers, unless we do a person-to-person transfusion.” Charlotte shrugged. “It's just money.” She could always make more.

“Do you want us to leave?” Daisy asked again.

“I have to meet him and get the blood, but if you don't mind waiting, I can work on Tulip when I come back.” She was tired, but she couldn't very well send Tulip out with one cheek clear and the other pockmarked with acne.

Daisy pursed her lips. Tulip pulled on her sleeve. The older sister sighed. “We'll wait.”

“Please make yourself welcome,” Charlotte said. “There is tea and snacks in the fridge. I'll be back in half an hour or so.”

The girls went into the kitchen.

“Thank you for doing this for him,” Éléonore said.

“It will help him heal. Like you said, he's family.” Charlotte smiled and pulled a medical dictionary off the shelf. In the hollowed-out space inside lay her cash reserve. She plucked the stack of twenties and counted out five hundred. “Will you keep an eye on him?”

“Of course. Charlotte, take a gun.”

“It's just down the road.”

Éléonore shook her head. “You never know. I don't have a good feeling about this. Take a gun just in case.”

Charlotte took a rifle from the wall, chambered a round, and hugged Éléonore.

“I'll be back.”

“Of course.”

Charlotte went outside, crossed the lawn, and got into the truck. The truck had belonged to Rose, and she had finally learned to drive it last year. It lacked the elegance of the Adrianglian phaetons, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

She turned the key. The engine started. There was something about Richard's face that called to her. She wasn't sure if it was the handsome masculine lines or the fiery intensity in his eyes. Or maybe it was because he thought she was beautiful. Whatever it was, she had become invested in his survival. She wanted to see him open his eyes again and hear him speak. Most of all, she wanted him to safely recover.

Five hundred was a small price to pay for that.

TWO

ÉLÉONORE
checked Richard's pulse. It was even. Charlotte was a miracle worker, and the poor girl had no idea. Most people in her place would be rolling around in money. None was more desperate than a mother with a sick child or a husband with a dying wife. They'd give you their last dollar. But Charlotte healed them all for a pittance and acted like she was nothing special.

They had done something to her in the Weird. She was like a bird who'd had her wings broken once, and wasn't willing to take the risk and try flying again. She fought against wealth and recognition on purpose, as if she was hiding. She never said from who or why. Éléonore sighed. Well, she, for one, was content to let her have a safe corner of the Edge to hide in.

A knock made her turn. Daisy and Tulip stood in the doorway.

“I've got a call from work,” Daisy said. “They want me to come in. Is it okay if I bring Tulip by tonight instead? Do you think Charlotte would mind?”

“I don't think she would. Go on. Work's more important.” Éléonore smiled.

“Thank you,” Daisy said.

“Thank you,” Tulip echoed.

She was such a sweet, shy girl. “Don't worry. Charlotte will clear your face right up.”

“Do we need you to move the stones?” Daisy asked.

That's what living in the Broken does to you,
Éléonore thought. Daisy had no clue how basic magic worked and wanted nothing to do with it. “No, the stones only prevent someone from coming in. Once you're in, you can move them or just step over them to go out.”

“Thank you!” Daisy said again. The girls went out. Éléonore heard the screen door slam shut.

She checked the time. Charlotte had been gone for twenty minutes. She couldn't cross the boundary into the Broken. Her magic was too strong, so she would likely just wait at the end of the road, before the boundary, until Luke came through and delivered the blood.

A hint of anxiety squirmed through her, an unpleasant premonition that left unease in its wake. She couldn't tell if it was her magic warning her or if she'd become paranoid in her old age. It was terrible to get old. But then the alternative wasn't much better. Besides, Charlotte would sit in the truck with the doors locked. She had a rifle, what little good it would do her. Not that the girl wouldn't defend herself, but she didn't have that steel-hard core Éléonore's granddaughter did. Rose's resolve carried her through life's rough waters. Charlotte had weathered some storms, but she lacked that primal viciousness of a born Edger. That's what made her so special, and that's why she liked her so much, Éléonore reflected. She too hadn't been born in East Laporte. Charlotte's presence reminded her of a different time and a gentler place.

Éléonore brushed Richard's hair from his face. “Who is Sophie, Richard?”

He didn't answer. It could've been anyone, a wife, a lover, a sister. Éléonore knew very little about him. She'd only met him once, but he'd made an impression. It was the way he carried himself with quiet dignity. His brother was all flash, charm, and jokes, but Richard had that sardonic, sharp wit. He didn't speak much, but occasionally he said clever things with a completely straight face . . .

“Mrs. Drayton!” The scream rang out, high-pitched and vibrating with sheer terror. Tulip.

Éléonore ran to the door. Tulip stood at the wards, her face skewed by fear into a distorted mask. “Mrs. Drayton! They have Daisy!”

Éléonore hurried across the lawn. Move faster, legs. “Who? Who has Daisy?”

“Men.” Tulip waved her arms. “With guns and horses.”

A long, ululating howl rolled through the Edge. The tiny hairs on the back of Éléonore's neck stood up. She grabbed a stone and pulled Tulip into the protective circle. “Inside, now!”

Tulip ran for the door. Éléonore replaced the stone and hurried after her, across the grass, onto the porch steps.

The sound of hoofbeats made her spin. A rider came down the road. His head was shaved. He wore black leather, and as he rode, the sun glinted off the long chain shackles hanging from his saddle.

Slavers.

The realization lashed her like a whip. Éléonore dashed across the porch into the house, shut the door, and locked it.

Tulips stared at her with huge eyes. “What's going on?”

“Shhh!” Éléonore moved to the window and peeked through the gap in the curtain. The rider paused by the house, turned his horse, and tried to ride up to the porch. The ward stones shivered. The horse backed away, nearly throwing its rider. He glared at the house, stuck his fingers in his mouth, and whistled.

More riders followed, joining the first. They wore dark clothes, and their faces were grim. Some bore tattoos, some were painted up, some wore human bones in their hair. Half a dozen wolfripper dogs, big, savage-looking creatures, flanked the horses. A man on the left, scarred, with the face of a bruiser and long blond hair pulled back into a braid rode up and dumped a body onto the ground. Daisy.
Mon dieu.
She was pale as a sheet.

The men surrounded the lawn. One, two, three . . . Sixteen that she could see.

Éléonore's heart sank. There would be no mercy.

“What happened?” she whispered.

“We were walking down the road to the car. Daisy was looking in her purse for the keys. That blond guy rode out and kicked her. He just kicked her right in the face!” Tulip's voice squeaked. “She fell and yelled at me to run, so I ran—”

The scarred blond man pulled Daisy forward.

“Hush now,” Éléonore whispered.

“Do it,” he barked.

Daisy reached for the nearest stone with a shaking hand. Her cheek was bleeding. She touched the stone and tried to lift it. Magic pulsed. Daisy yelped, jerking her hand back. The slaver sank a kick into her stomach. Daisy screamed and curled into a ball. Tulip cried out, and Éléonore clamped her hand over the girl's mouth.

The leader's voice carried over, harsh and grating. “We don't want you. We don't care about you. We want the man you're hiding inside. Daisy here says she can't open the ward, and given as she tried, I'm inclined to believe her. It's up to you, then. Give me what I want, and I'll go away. It's that simple.”

Sixteen men. Far too many. One or two, even four, she could deal with. She'd let them in and curse them, but sixteen was just too many. Thoughts skittered around in Éléonore's head. She had to get help.

“Do you have a phone?” she whispered.

Tulip pulled a cell phone out of her pocket.

“Call Charlotte,” Éléonore whispered. “Two-two-seven twenty-one thirty.”

Tulips dialed the number with shaking fingers and thrust the phone at her.

“This is Charlotte,” Charlotte said, her voice calm.

“Where are you?” Éléonore whispered.

“At the end of the road. Luke was running late, and I just got the blood.”

“Don't come back to the house!”

“Why? Éléonore, what's wrong?”

“I need you to go down to the Rooneys'. Take the second fork left, then go to the end of the road. Tell Malcolm Rooney there are slavers at our house. There are sixteen of them, and they want Richard. Tell him he owes me, and that he's got a pretty daughter and he doesn't want them showing up at his house next. If he knows what's good for him, he'll get the militia together and run them out of the Edge. Go, Charlotte. Go now.”

The phone beeped, and she thrust it back at Tulip.

“All you have to do is walk down and move one of these ward stones.” The slaver called out. Éléonore looked through the gap. He had pulled a knife out. The large curved blade caught the sunlight. “You know how this goes,” he called out. “I'm a peaceful man. Don't make me do this.”

*   *   *

CHARLOTTE
took a turn at breakneck speed. Slavers? It made no sense. Slavery had been outlawed in both Adrianglia and the Broken for centuries. But the fear in Éléonore's voice was vivid and real.

She had to get to the Rooneys'. East Laporte had no police force, but when something threatened the entire town, the Edgers sometimes came together into a militia to meet it.

Trees flashed by her. Come on, she willed. Go faster, truck. Go faster.

*   *   *

“LISTEN
to me.” Éléonore grasped Tulip's bony shoulders. “They will hurt Daisy now. There's nothing we can do about it. The ward keeps me from using magic on them, and if we try to shoot them, they'll kill her.”

“She's my sister!” Tulip whispered back. “If we give the guy to them—”

“They'll murder us all. They're lying, dear heart. They're lying, bad, awful bastards. We have to wait until help comes.” Éléonore hugged her, wrapping her arms around the girl's bony shoulders. “No matter what you hear, no matter what you see, you can't go out there. We have to wait it out.”

“Hold her,” the slaver said.

Daisy whimpered.

Éléonore clamped Tulip to her. “Don't listen. Cover your ears.”

“Last chance. Move the stone, and everyone walks away from this.”

Éléonore held her breath.

“Fine,” the slaver said.

Daisy shrieked, a high-pitched sound suffused with pain.

Éléonore chanced a look at the window. The blond slaver was holding something pale and bloody between his index finger and his thumb. Daisy writhed in the hands of two other men.

“That was an ear,” the slaver announced. “Next we'll do fingers.”

*   *   *

“WE
have to go.” Charlotte stared at Malcolm Rooney, towering over her by eight inches.

Around them, the Rooney house was a flurry of activity: short, plump Helen Rooney dialed one number after the other on her cell, going down the list of contacts, while their two teenage sons stockpiled weapons on the porch. As soon as she'd arrived, their oldest son and daughter had left to carry the message down to the neighbors, and now armed men milled about at the house.

“Now you listen to me,” the big man leaned closer. “They're safe behind the wards, and Éléonore is a tough old lady. She can handle herself. Sixteen men is a lot of firepower. We sure as hell aren't going to ride out there unprepared, or we might as well just slit our own throats and be done with it.”

“They're alone in the house!” She saw a dozen men ready to go.

“It will be fine,” Malcolm said.

She looked into his eyes and knew arguing was useless. He would do this at his own pace or not at all.

“Another hour, and we'll be good to go.”

“An hour?” He was out of his mind. You could get the entire town up and moving in thirty minutes.

“It will be fine,” Helen Rooney said, the phone still to her ear. “It just takes time to get everyone together, that's all. Everything will be okay.”

The sickening, nagging feeling in the pit of Charlotte's stomach said otherwise.

Malcolm pulled a shotgun off the wall. “You're lucky East Laporte is a different place now than it was six years ago. Back then, you would've gotten no help, but now people will come together.”

He turned his massive back to her. She realized what was happening: the Edgers were delaying on purpose. Nobody wanted to confront sixteen armed men, so they were dragging their feet, hoping things would resolve themselves.

Charlotte took a deep breath and let go of her persona as an unassuming Edge healer. She raised her head, sinking the icy, unmistakable tone of command into her words. “Mr. Rooney.”

He turned, surprise stamped on his face. He had expected the Charlotte who lived down the road. Instead, he got Baroness Charlotte de Ney, the Healer of Ganer. She stood before him, the full power of her magic in her eyes, her power radiating from her. The house was suddenly silent.

“Your wife is developing osteoporosis, you have an enlarged prostate, and your youngest son doesn't have ADHD, as your wife told me; he has hyperthyroidism. If you want any of these problems to be treated in the future, you will stop patting my shoulder and telling me not to worry my pretty little head about it. You will get this mob together now and follow me out there, or so help me gods, I will make your life hell. You think those aches and pains you feel now are bad. After I get through with you, you will be a broken man. Move.”

*   *   *

TULIP
went rigid in her arms. “Don't look,” Éléonore whispered.

Daisy flailed, throwing all of her weight. “No! No, no, no . . .”

The slavers dragged her to the ground and pinned her hand to the edge of the sidewalk.

Knife flashed. Daisy screamed, a wordless, sharp shriek of pain.

“Left pinkie,” the slaver announced. “You planning on getting married? Because I'm about to take the ring finger.”

Tulip jerked, trying to get out of Éléonore's arms.

“Stop!” Éléonore tried to hold on, but the girl bucked like a wild beast, suddenly too strong to hold. Éléonore gripped her, holding on, Tulip's panicked kicking pushing them against a window.

A shot rang out. Glass shattered and something bit Éléonore in the shoulder, right into the bone. Her fingers slipped, suddenly weak. Tulip shoved her back and scrambled toward the door.

“No!” Éléonore screamed.

Tulip burst out of the door and onto the lawn.

Éléonore jerked the door open. “Stop, Tulip!”

A hot, piercing pain struck Éléonore in the chest, pitching her back. She lost her balance and fell onto the porch, half-hidden by the wooden rail. Suddenly it was so hard to breathe. The air turned bitter. They had shot her, she realized. She began pulling power to herself. The magic came slow, like cold molasses.

At the ward stones, Tulip turned and was looking at her with wide, panicked eyes.

“Tulip, is it?” the scarred slaver said. “Don't look at her. Look here. Is this your friend? Sister maybe, no? Sister, then.”