John licked his lips. “What have I ever done to you that you hate me so much?”
“The crew you were supposed to be meeting by Kelena was chasing me,” Richard said. “I’m the Hunter.”
John drew back.
“I ended up at your mother’s house,” Richard said. “We’re distantly related by marriage, and she recognized me and tried to help me.”
“Grandmother is dead,” Jack said. “The slavers burned our house. You killed grandma, Dad.”
John’s hands shook. He swallowed. “I wasn’t there.”
Oh no, you don’t get to weasel your way out of this one. “Not directly, but you made it possible,” George said. “You contributed.”
John dragged his hand over his face and through his hair.
Richard took a piece of paper off the desk, wrote something on it, and pushed it across the desk to John. “Five names. What do you know?”
John looked at the list. His voice lost all emotion. “They’re called the Council. That’s where the real money goes. Maedoc is the muscle; he supplies the slavers. Casside is the main investor. I don’t know what the other two do. Brennan runs the whole show. That’s all I’ve got. I’m low on the ladder. If you expect me to testify, I won’t. I’ll never make it. Brennan will have my throat slit before I ever get a word out, and even if I did, it’s all rumors. I never met any of them. We never talked. I follow the schedule, pick up slaves, bring them here, and get paid. That’s the end of it.”
“I’m done with him.” Richard turned to him. “He’s yours.”
Finally. He rose.
“George,” Charlotte said softly.
He turned to her.
“Think about what you’re about to do. He is your father. Think about the cost.” She glanced past him. “Think about the guilt.”
It dawned on him: Jack. Jack always wanted their father to return. When they were small, he used to sit in a tree, watching the road, waiting for him to come back. In elementary school, in the Broken, Jack would fight anyone who dared to say anything bad about their dad, and he would beat them bloody. George had no problem with his hands being bloody, and neither did Jack in the heat of the moment, but he might regret it later. Jack tended to brood, and sometimes his brooding took him to dark places. He was only fourteen.
John Drayton had to die. He had to pay the price for the inhumanities he helped commit, but George couldn’t let John’s death ruin his brother. The scumbag wasn’t worth a single minute of Jack’s self-loathing.
“You’re right,” George said. “It’s not worth it. We’ll get a boat, take him to the mainland, and have him put away. You’ll be in prison for so long, you’ll forget what the sun looks like.”
“Do what the boy says,” Richard said.
John rose. “Right.” He reached out to ruffle Jack’s hair. Jack pulled back, avoiding the touch.
John dropped his hand. “Right.”
They went out, Richard first, then John, and George, with Lynda in tow. Jack was the last.
Outside, the stench of smoke assaulted George’s nostrils. The island town burned, the orange glow of its fire reflecting in the waters of the harbor. A cleansing fire, George decided. And a warning. Richard had unleashed Jason Parris on the island like a tornado. The news of the Market’s burning would carry, and soon every slaver along the Eastern seaboard would know he wasn’t invincible and his paycheck wasn’t safe. It was a brilliant move. Richard was a born tactician. George would have to remember that.
The cabin door swung open behind him. Jack emerged.
Richard stepped closer to him. “I need you to watch Charlotte for me. She overspent herself.”
“Why me?” Jack asked.
“Because Jason’s crew is full of bad men, and she’s alone and vulnerable.”
Jack glanced first at Richard, then at George. He wasn’t quite buying it.
“Can you just do one thing without arguing?” George tossed his hair back. “Just do it.”
“You do it.”
“You owe me for the canal.”
Jack growled something under his breath.
“Don’t worry,” Richard said. “I haven’t forgotten.”
Forgotten what?
Jack shrugged and went into the cabin.
“Into the boat.” Richard pointed to a small barge waiting by the side of the vessel. They must’ve used it to come aboard.
They got into the barge, Richard at the nose, then John Drayton. George sent Lynda in next, added insurance. Everyone sat. George took a seat at the stern, passed his hand over the motor, starting the magic chain reaction, and the boat sped across the harbor to the shore. Midway through it, George let go of Lynda. She pitched into the waves, softly, and sank into the cool, soothing depths to finally rest. He didn’t need her anymore. Half a minute later the boat plowed into the soft sand of the beach. The two men stepped out. He followed.
“Still protecting your brother,” John said.
The frustration he had been holding in finally broke free. “Shut up. You don’t know him. Don’t talk about him. Because of you, Mémère is dead. It’s good that she’s dead—because if she knew what you’ve become, it would kill her.”
John inhaled. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
Richard pulled out his sword.
“He’s my responsibility,” George said. “My family and my shame.”
John winced.
Richard held out his blade. George took it. The lean, razor-sharp sword felt so heavy. The hilt was cold. He concentrated, channeling his magic like a current of molten metal from his arm into his fingers, into the sword, and finally letting it stretch across the edge. The blade sparked with white. He’d trained for months to learn how to do it, but now the magic coated the steel as if on its own.
He couldn’t bring himself to raise the sword.
George was trapped between guilt and duty. The indecision hurt, deciding hurt more, and he was so monumentally angry at his father for making him choose. Was he really that weak?
“C’est la différence entre lui et toi.” Richard switched to the language of Louisiana.