Steel's Edge te-4 Page 18

  Richard turned and climbed the ladder up to the deck. She followed. The ship sliced through the blue-green waters and the salty breeze, barely skimming the surface of the ocean, its grandiose sails spread wide. The dense barrier of magic fog surrounded it on all sides except for the prow, where the curtain parted. Orange and blue lights winked through the gap—their destination.

  Sailors moved along the deck. Some sat, some talked quietly. Richard pulled her against the cabin and braced her with his big body, hiding her from the rest of the crew. She rested her hands on his leather-encased body, feeling the comforting strength of his muscular shoulders. It felt so intimate standing like this. It was almost an embrace. She knew she was reading too much into it, but she needed an embrace so badly.

  Something brushed against her. She glanced down. The wolfripper hound leaned against her legs.

  “How fast do you need them to die?” she whispered. She was so angry, and they were scum who ferried slaves and fed children to sharks. She would extinguish their lives.

  “At the speed we’re going, we’ll dock in fifteen minutes. They’re about to light the colors,” he said. “The port is likely armed with cannons. They will send a challenge signal. We must send the proper reply, or they’ll consider us hostile. Once the reply is accepted, they’re yours. Kill them as quickly and quietly as you can.”

  “Challenge!” someone called out.

  Richard leaned over to glance at the bow of the ship. She did, too.

  A pale green flare shot upward from the port. Charlotte held her breath, waiting.

  “If it’s green again, they grant us safe passage,” Richard whispered in her ear, his breath a hot cloud.

  “Light the colors,” a deep voice bellowed from the deck above them. “One two, two two, one three!”

  Magic dashed up the masts. Arcane symbols ignited on the surface of the sails, one each in those on the middle mast and the third in the sails of the center mast on the left side.

  A second green flare blossomed in the night sky.

  The deep voice barked a string of nautical nonsense. The crew sped about the ship, spinning wheels, adjusting metal levers in the control consoles by the masts. The sails shrunk. The segmented masts began to straighten slowly.

  “Now,” Richard said.

  The monstrous magic in her chest stirred, waking. She listened to it, sorting through the plagues she carried within, until she found one that felt right.

  A sailor brushed by them. “Hey, Crow, who have you got there?”

  Charlotte reached out above Richard’s shoulder and gently caressed the man’s weathered face. Her magic rose from her in narrow dark streams, like the tentacles of an octopus, and bit into him. He barely noticed. His skin fractured under her fingertips, sloughing off in tiny white scales of epithelium glistening with magic, and the breeze carried them on, down to the rest of the crew. The man stared at her, seemingly mesmerized but really just dying very quickly. The skin of his face turned to powder, as if he’d dipped his head into a bucket of silvery flour.

  Her magic wrapped around him, draining his reserves, and withdrew. The wind stirred the powder that used to be the top layers of his skin, blowing it off. The tiny particles caught on his eyelashes. He sighed and crumpled down softly.

  Richard turned, still shielding her, to look over his shoulder. The sailors began to fall one by one, silent, soft, each releasing a cloud of scaly powder as they sank unmoving to the deck.

  They were bad people who deserved their deaths, yet she felt a crushing sadness at their passing all the same. She buried it away, deep inside, wrapping it in the layers of her anger and resolve. There would be time for self-pity later.

  Richard had the strangest expression on his face. Not quite shock, not quite panic, but an odd mix of awe and astonishment, as if he couldn’t believe what he saw.

  At the far end of the ship, Jason Parris turned, his eyes wide, as the sailors around him folded like deflated balloons. The dog raised his muzzle to the moon and howled, his lonely cry floating above the waves like a mourning wail.

  Above them something thumped quietly. A man tumbled from the upper deck, his face ashen with powder. Richard lunged at him, trying to catch the body to keep it from making a loud thud. But a gust of wind beat him to it—four feet from the deck the body broke into a cloud of particles. They slid harmlessly from Richard’s skin and melted into the breeze.

  He turned to her. “What is it?”

  “White leprosy,” she said. It was a terrible disease. She had fought it before, she knew all its little habits and quirks, and she had twisted them with her magic just enough to turn it into her silent assassin. He would think twice about letting her touch him now. Something inside her contracted at that thought.

  “Jack,” Richard said, his voice low. “Tell them the ship is ours.”

  “He can’t hear you,” she told him.

  “Jack has good ears,” Richard reminded her.

  Sure enough, Jason’s crew poured out of the cargo hold and spread across the deck, people taking up positions where the sailors once stood. People kicked the fallen bodies overboard. The corpses broke in the wind.

  Someone gasped. She saw panic in some faces.

  “Tell Silver Death thank you for the pretty ship,” Jason said to them. “And stop gaping. We still need to bring this baby to port.”

  There was no escape. Death was now a part of her name.

  George and Jack emerged from the crowd.

  “I need you to guard your father,” Richard said. “There are things he knows that we need. If you can’t help yourself, tell me now.”

  “I’ll do it,” George said. “Jack will need a few moments to vent.”

  “I’m counting on you, George. This is your only second chance. If I come back and he’s dead, you and I are done. Do not harm your father.”

  The boy reached behind his neck and pulled a long, slender blade from inside his clothes. “Understood. I’ll keep him in perfect health.”

  Richard rapped his hands on the door of the cabin.

  “What is it?” Drayton called.

  “There’s a problem,” Richard replied in his normal voice.

  The door swung open, revealing Drayton with a rifle in his hands. He saw Jason’s people and jerked the gun up.

  Magic pulsed from George, dark and potent. A woman charged out of the crowd and grabbed the gun. Charlotte saw her face and nearly gagged. Lynda, her slit throat a red ribbon across her neck, her face still splattered with the spray of her own blood.

  Drayton yanked the gun, but she hung on, blocking the barrels with her stomach. The slaver captain pulled the trigger. The muffled shot popped, like a dry firecracker, blowing small chunks of flesh from Lynda’s back. The undead woman jerked the rifle out of Drayton’s hand and broke it in half like a toothpick.

  Drayton stumbled back.

  Lynda dropped the broken rifle at George’s feet. “Maaaster,” she whispered, her voice a sibilant mess. Her neck leaked tiny droplets of blood. She stared at George in complete adoration, like a loyal hound gazed at her owner. “I love you, master.”

  Behind her, Jack snarled like some nightmarish monster.

  George’s face showed no mercy. “Hello, Father.” He took a step forward, pushing the bigger man into the cabin. “Let’s visit.”

  Lynda ducked in after him. The door swung shut.

  Oh, George . . .

  “To the bow,” Richard said, resting his fingers lightly on her arm.

  She followed him to the front of the ship and came to stand by one of the control consoles, all bronze and copper gears encased in glass and enveloped by magic.

  Her magic sang within her, the monster satiated but not fully satisfied. The more she fed it, the more sustenance it wanted. It wound and curled around her in dark currents, almost as if it were an entity of its own, and it loved her, like a loyal pet, existing to serve her and bring her comfort. All those endless hours of cautionary lectures she’d heard within
the walls of the College were right. Destruction was seductive and self-rewarding, while healing was an arduous chore.

  She had taken a chance this time. Instead of siphoning off their lives to fuel her magic, she simply killed them, feeding the disease with her own power. Stealing other lives to feed her magic had felt too good. If she tasted it again, there was a chance she wouldn’t stop, and she didn’t want to risk it. Strangely, even though she had relied only on her own reserves, she didn’t feel that drained. Killing was easier than the last time—and the next time it would be easier still. She was on a slippery slope. She had to fight to keep from sliding down.

  One of Jason’s men came to stand by them, saw Charlotte still wrapped in magic, and halted in midstep, maintaining his distance. He looked at her, looked at the console, shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably . . .

  “Would you like me to move?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he exhaled.

  Charlotte took two steps to the right, away from the console and toward two other men near Jason, both looking like they crushed skulls for their living. The cutthroats shied from her, backing up. Jason held his ground, but his face locked into a hard, impersonal mask. He was deeply afraid and determined not to show it.

  She felt utterly alone. So that’s what it was like to be a pariah.

  “My lady.” Richard’s fingers touched her arm.

  She almost jumped.

  He offered her his arm. “May I?”

  Charlotte rested her fingers on his forearm and stood next to him, painfully aware that their legs were almost touching and the streams of her magic wound about him. She dared to glance at him. His face was relaxed. He looked back at her and smiled, as if they had stopped during a stroll in a park to admire some flowers. It made her feel human.

  Why, why didn’t she take Éléonore up on the invitation to visit her family? Had she met Richard a year ago, things might have been so different. He was the kind of man she had always wanted to meet. Strong, honorable, and kind. He is also a killer, an annoying voice whispered in her mind. Well, so was she.

  Too late now. They were on a ship sailing to deliver death. Romantic fantasies would get her nowhere. She’d given up that luxury.

  Charlotte looked straight ahead. A large island loomed in the distance. Two ports hugged its coast. On the right, handsome piers of cut stone thrust into the ocean, flanked by graceful yachts and private boats. Picturesque palms spread their fanned leaves and wide roads, lit with blue and yellow lanterns, ran deeper inland, toward pastel-colored houses in shades of turquoise, white, yellow, and pink. To the left, rougher piers offered refuge to tugboats and barges, leading to a seedy boardwalk and hostile, dark streets. Farther to the left, a naval fort of gray stone stabbed the ocean, overseeing both ports.

  “Where the hell are we?” someone asked.

  Richard swore, a quiet, savage sound under his breath, and caught himself. “My apologies.”

  “What is this place?” Charlotte asked.

  “The Isle of Divine Na,” he said. “It’s an independent barony—the Baron of Na purchased it from Adrianglia when the continent was being colonized. The entire place is one big luxury resort, full of tourists in the late summer and fall. See, the luxury port is in the north, and the commercial port, where we’re heading, is to the south. We’re barely three hours from Kelena. I’ve looked at this island as a possibility for the Market but dismissed it because I thought it would be too risky to run a slave operation on an island full of vacationers. It was here all this time under my nose, and I missed it.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, old man.” Jason grinned, patting Richard’s shoulder. “Happens to everyone.”

  Richard glared back at him, his composure slipping, and for a second she thought he’d rip Jason’s arm off and beat him with it.

  She leaned closer to Richard, and murmured, “If you decide to throw him to the ground, I promise to kick him. Vigorously.”

  “Thank you,” Richard said. “I may take you up on it.” He sounded sincere.

  A green flare went up at the dock to the left.

  “They want us to dock,” one of the older men said to Jason.

  “Then dock us. Gently. We’ll need this ship in one piece to get the hell out of here.”

  The man barked some orders. The ship slowed, approaching the dock in a graceful arc.

  “One fort,” Jason murmured, his face thoughtful.

  “It has five long-range, flash-load cannons,” Richard said.

  The slaves formed up in two lines on the deck. Jack moved to the front.

  “Who the fuck put the kid on point?” Jason took a step toward the lines.

  “Leave him where he is,” Richard said. “He sat in the hold for two hours, holding himself in check. He needs to vent, and none of us needs to be in front of him.”

  The crime lord looked at Richard. “He’s a kid.”

  “He’s a changeling,” Richard answered. “You’ve never seen one fight. Give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  The faint hum of the cloaking device stopped abruptly. The fog dispersed. Charlotte hugged her shoulders, feeling suddenly exposed.

  A metal chain clanged—they’d dropped the anchor. The ship slowed further, approaching the dock carefully, almost gently.

  “Once we disembark and take the fort, take her out a few hundred yards,” Jason said to one of his men. “I don’t want to strip this island and come back to a sunken ship.”

  Three dockhands waited on the wooden pier. Behind them, a crew of slavers waited, no doubt ready to receive the merchandise. Some of the slavers were female. Women were no less capable of cruelty than men.

  Lines flew from the ship to the pier. The dockhands secured them.

  “Lower the gangplank,” Jason said.

  Two men cranked a large wheel. A metal ramp slid from the ship’s side toward the dock.

  The moment it touched the stone, Jack started down the gangplank. The women followed him in two lines, still keeping their hands bound.

  “You’re eager for the slave pens, sweetheart?” one of the slaver women asked.

  Jack swayed. A psychotic grin stretched his lips. His face jerked, his expression feral.

  A tall slaver stepped forward. “Come her—”

  Jack spun, leaping so fast, Charlotte barely saw the knife in his hand slice through the slaver’s neck. Jack landed, catching the man’s severed head by the hair, and hurled it at the slavers.

  “Holy shit,” Jason said.

  Her mind reeled at the amount of force it must’ve taken to slice through the muscle and bone of a thick human neck with a knife.

  The slavers froze, shocked, and Jack ripped into them like a pike into a school of minnows. Blood sprayed, people screamed in pain. The slaves abandoned their fake shackles and charged down to join the slaughter. The dog shot down the gangplank and into the thick of the fighting. She tried to keep up with Jack, but he darted in and out of the bloodbath. She caught a flash of his face—he was smiling.

  In two minutes, it was all over. Eight bodies lay on the ground. Jack shook himself and dashed down the dark street, melting into the gloom. The dog chased him. The women started moving after the two of them.

  “Stop!” Jason roared.

  The pretend slaves halted.

  “Fall in! Find your squad captain. Now.”

  The criminals separated with almost military discipline, forming four groups.

  “Squad one, slave pens,” Jason barked. “Let everyone out, set it on fire, kill whoever comes to put it out. The slaves will run wild, let them. Don’t follow them. Squad two, hit the barracks and burn that shit to the ground. Kill as many as you can. Squad three, with me. I want these cannons, and I want them yesterday. Once we have the fort, a double green flare will go up. Squad four, hold the line here. Cut this port off from the city. Everyone, you see a red flare, we abort, and you get the hell out. Blue flare, haul ass to where it came from. Don’t loot until I give the all clear. You stop to stu
ff your pockets before I tell you to, and I’ll kill you myself. You get me?”

  The criminals howled in agreement.

  “Go!” Jason yanked a large sword from under his cloak. “Good luck, old man. Try not to get in my way.”

  He strode down the gangplank, his monk’s habit flaring.

  The criminals dispersed.

  Richard held out a ragged gray cloak to her. “I’m wearing a disguise, but you aren’t. Someone might recognize you.”

  It was unlikely, but there was no need to tempt fate. She put on the cloak, hiding her face in its deep hood, and adjusted her bag of first-aid supplies under the folds.

  Richard unsheathed his sword. The slight curve of the long, slender blade caught the light from the lanterns.

  “Our turn,” Richard said. “We must find the bookkeeper. Stay close to me.”

  * * *

  RICHARD marched down the gangplank, keenly aware of Charlotte following him. The Broken was forever closed to him, but its books were not, and he’d read extensively about the Broken’s military traditions. As a Marine, Jason was trained in the art of small wars. His particular branch of the military evolved to respond to an enemy employing asymmetric warfare, the tactic that involved striking against the vulnerabilities of the opponent rather than seeking to eliminate the bulk of its force. Jason would take a page out of that playbook: he would deliver brutal precision strikes against the vital points of the island, he would drown the island city in chaos and confusion, demoralizing the enemy and severing communication, then he would eliminate the fractured opposition. He would be ruthless and impossible to rein in, but he couldn’t blockade the entire island.

  They had to hurry, before the bookkeeper caught on and attempted his escape. They needed his information.

  He veered left, following the cobbled streets at a rapid walk. He would’ve liked to run, but Charlotte’s face had turned chalk pale after she’d eliminated the crew, and the color still hadn’t returned. He didn’t want to push her.

  What she had done to the crew of the Intrepid Drayton shocked him to the core of his being. There was a kind of terrible beauty to her magic, and when he stood in the epicenter of her silent storm, a feeling of otherworldly awe claimed him, as if he became part of a mystical event that couldn’t be explained, only experienced. It was a peculiar, mesmerizing serenity with a touch of fear, the kind he sometimes felt when walking alone through the towering woods of Adrianglia or staring at the rough ocean and its sky, pregnant with a storm. He had encountered something greater than the limits of his ordinary life, and he was both alarmed and drawn to it.