The pain, sadness, shock, and guilt churned inside her. She couldn’t contain it. She had to do something.
The slavers thought they could stomp out people, and they would keep going, killing, burning, and hurting children. They would crush other lives just as they had crushed her little comfortable world. Even now they rode away, unpunished, carrying off the man she had healed, and she didn’t even know why any of this had happened. They would hurt him, torture him, and likely kill him.
Somebody had to make a stand. If none of the Edgers would step up, she would have to be that somebody. There was nobody else.
Charlotte reached deep inside herself, into the darkness, carefully hidden and locked away, and found a single crimson spark. She forged a tentative connection. Need flooded her, the magic so hungry, so desperate to break out, and feed, and kill. Fear shot through her. She almost recoiled. If she let it loose, there would be no turning back. She’d worked so hard to bind this part of herself. She had almost succeeded.
Charlotte looked at Tulip’s face, at the wet streaks of tears stained with ash.
“Tulip!”
The girl looked up.
Charlotte held on to the spark. “I can’t bring Daisy back to life, sweetheart. But I can make sure that they don’t hurt another girl the way they hurt you. I’ll make them pay. I promise you, they won’t take anyone else’s sister away.”
Tulip’s face quivered, and she sobbed.
“Charlotte?” Malcolm asked.
Charlotte took a deep breath and blew on the spark.
“Are you listening to me?”
The crimson and darkness exploded inside her, twisting into a hungry, furious inferno.
She looked at him, and her face must’ve been terrible, because Malcolm Rooney took a step back. Charlotte turned and strode across the grass to her truck.
“If you go, you’re going alone!” Malcolm yelled.
She kept walking, her magic raging inside her.
“It won’t bring Éléonore back! They’ll just murder you. Charlotte? Charlotte!”
She got into her truck and started the engine. The fire inside her burst out, winding about her in tendrils of deep, angry red.
These bastards would never hurt anyone again. She would make sure of it.
THREE
WHEN a man found himself in difficult circumstances, it always paid to assess the situation. Especially if he woke up and found he couldn’t move.
Richard opened his eyes.
Let’s see. First, he was in a cage, a fact made painfully apparent by the pattern of steel bars imposed on the riders, silhouetted against an old forest. Second, his hands were tied behind his back. Third, a heavy chain shackled his legs to the steel ring in the bottom of the cage. Fourth, a thicker chain secured the cage to the cart, making several loops, as if the weight of the cage wedged into the cart’s hold wasn’t enough to hold it in place. Ergo, he was captured by the slavers, and they were afraid that he would sprout wings and take off with the three-hundred-pound cage around him.
He couldn’t remember how he got into the cage. At some point he must’ve been beaten—his face ached and was likely bruised. He tasted mud on his lips, probably from someone’s boot. Also, judging from a less than pleasant odor, someone had taken the time to urinate on his chest. Slavers, a charming breed, always happy to treat their guests to their fabled hospitality.
The wound in his side didn’t hurt at all, and despite all of his expectations, he was still alive.
How in the world was he still breathing? He had taken enough wounds to recognize the stab to his liver was life-threatening even if he had been magically transported to a surgeon’s table the moment after he had received it. Instead, he’d made it fatal by running for hours.
He recalled falling by some road. There was something in between that and the cage, something murky. For some reason, he had a feeling it involved Éléonore, Rose’s grandmother, whom he’d met once. Another memory surfaced, a woman with gray eyes and blond hair. Her face was a blur, but he remembered her eyes under the sweep of dark blond eyebrows, intense and beautiful—his foggy memory made them luminescent—and the concern he read in their depth arrested him. Nobody had looked at him like that for years. It was such a beautiful memory that he was half-sure it was a product of his hallucinating brain yearning for something radiant in his grim, blood-drenched life.
Except that someone had healed him because his injury was gone. Stab wounds didn’t just vanish on their own. It gave his muddy recollection of the woman with gray eyes some credence, but healing magic was exceedingly rare and highly prized. Finding someone in the Edge with it was extremely unlikely. The Edge was the hellish place you went when neither the Weird nor the Broken would have you. A healer with talent like that would’ve been treasured in the Weird.
This was getting him nowhere. He had no plausible explanation why he was alive, so he’d have to set it aside for the time being. His more immediate problem was the cage and a crew of slavers guarding it.
There was no way to tell how long he’d been unconscious, but it was unlikely he’d been out for too long. They were traveling through the Weird’s woods, and the magic flowed full force. The forest crowded them in, the massive tree trunks, fed by magic and nourished by rich Adrianglian soil, rose to improbable heights. Against that backdrop, the riders on the barely visible trail seemed insignificant and small. The horses moved at a slow walk, hampered by the wagon carrying him.
Richard cataloged the familiar faces. A few were new, but he knew about half of them, prime examples of scum floating in the gutter of humanity. His memory served up their names, their brief biographies, and their weaknesses. He’d studied them the way others studied books. Some came from families, some were born psychotic, and others were just greedy and stupid. Most carried rifles and blades, their gear worn and none too clean. He didn’t see any wolf-dogs and didn’t hear any either. Where had all of the hounds gone?