Rage boiled inside him. Richard pictured cutting Voshak into pieces. “No.”
“I bet you don’t have any friends, Hunter. Did we kill them all, or are you just an asshole?”
Magic brushed against him, a subtle, delicate current. Richard forced himself to sit completely still. The magic touched him again, nipping gently on his body, draining him. He focused and felt other currents sliding to wind around the slavers. He followed their source back to the woman. Their stares connected.
Her face was so placid, but her eyes burned. The woman looked away. The magic current slid away from him to find another victim.
His magic sensitivity was off the charts—one of the benefits of being born into an old Edger family—but he had no idea what she was planning. Whatever it was, she could use a distraction, and he was the man for the job.
“Let’s talk about your friends,” he said, leaning back as casually as his restraints would allow. “Jeremy Legs. Chad Gully. Black Nil. Isabel Savage. The Striker Brothers. Angelo Cross. Germaine Coutard. Carmen Sharp. Tempest Wolf. Julius Maganti.”
Voshak’s face skewed with rage.
The mysterious magic currents weaved back and forth among the slavers. Anger and fear stamped their faces, but he couldn’t see any adverse effects. The brush of the current that had slid by him was too light to cause any real harm. Maybe she needed more time.
Richard kept going, hammering each name in.
“Ambrose Club. Orville Fang. Raoul Baudet. My personal favorite, Jackal Tuline. Where are your friends, Voshak? Or rather, I meant to say ‘your cronies,’ since a lowlife like you doesn’t have friends. My mistake.”
The woman stared into the flames. Perhaps her magic wasn’t working.
Inwardly, Richard swore. He took a risk and provoked the slavers. They glared at him like a pack of mongrel dogs. If he kept aggravating them, he’d be in real danger of getting shot. He had to get out of this damn cage before they killed him and her, and he didn’t have any idea how to do it.
Richard feigned indifference and shrugged. “Do you want me to keep going? Would you like to know what each of them looked like when they died?”
“What the hell did we do to you?” Voshak snarled. “Did we rape your wife, did we take your children, what? What the hell is it?”
“You trade in human lives, which makes you an aberration. Your kind shouldn’t exist. You’re a wrong, and I decided to correct it. Or perhaps I’m just bored, and you’re stupid and easy to kill.”
Voshak swore.
The magic was getting thicker. She was still working on it, whatever it was. He needed to create some strife. As long as they fought among themselves, they wouldn’t pay attention to other, subtler changes. He picked a familiar face. Daryl Long, bad-tempered, neurotic, and jumpy. Perfect.
“Daryl?”
The dark-haired, lanky slaver startled.
“Two weeks ago, I killed your brother.”
Daryl recoiled.
“Every time I end one of you, I hope for some backbone, but your brother didn’t die like a man. Before I cut his head off, he offered to set you up for me if I let him go. I killed him anyway because there was nothing I needed from him. You see, I know everything already, Daryl. I know about the old man. I know about the barn. I know what the two of you did to him before you slit his throat, and I know why you had to set the fire to the place.”
Daryl’s meager control snapped. He lunged at the cage. “I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you!”
Crow swung the butt of his rifle and slammed it into Daryl’s face. The blow knocked him backward. The slaver crashed to the ground, blood drenching his face.
“Nobody touches that bastard!” Voshak thundered. “The orders are he goes to the Market, and we’ll deliver him there even if I have to blow your brains out.”
Nobody said anything.
“We got him.” Voshak pointed to the cage. “He’s chained up! All he can do is talk. Let him yap. You touch him, I kill you. Anybody have anything to add?”
On the left, Pavel, the one who’d started the fire, coughed.
Voshak spun to him.
The man next to Pavel coughed, too.
Pavel coughed again, harder.
“Do the two of you think this is funny—” The end of the word dissolved into a wet hack. Voshak strained. “What the hell?”
Across the clearing, another slaver coughed, then another and another.
“All of you, stop it,” Voshak barked. “I said stop!”
The coughs died.
Pavel strained, obviously trying to contain his hacking.
Voshak pointed his finger at him. “Don’t you do it.”
Pavel clenched up, gagged, holding it in . . . The cough exploded out of him in a gush of red. Blood burst from his nose and the corners of his mouth. The slaver dropped to all fours, retching. A clump of something wet, soft, and bloody fell out of his mouth.
Voshak grabbed his gun.
Across from Pavel, at the other side of the fire, another man collapsed, coughing and bleeding. People gripped their weapons, looking around.
“What the hell is going on?” Voshak roared. His voice caught, he sneezed and stared at his hand, covered with red mist and tiny chunks of flesh.
The slavers fell, as if cut down at once by an invisible sickle. Voshak spun, looking left, right, his eyes wild.
“The woman,” Crow croaked, dropping to his knees. “The woman!”
Voshak whirled to her. She still sat on the log.
“You bitch!” The blond slaver lunged at her and fell back, staggering under another fit of coughing.
Crow struggled upright, raising his rifle.
A familiar wolfripper hound burst from the bushes and rammed Crow. A rifle shot popped, going wide into the sky. The dog bit into the slaver. Crow screamed once, writhing on the ground, and fell silent.
A stream of translucent darkness flickering with red sparks spiraled around the woman. An identical stream twisted in the opposite direction, winding about her body. She turned slowly to look at Voshak, hacking his lungs out on the ground.