This is the difference between you and him.
“If you raise that sword, you’re letting his actions determine yours,” Richard continued in Gaulish. “You’re simply reacting to what he has already done. We are forever linked with those we kill. If you end his life, you will drag his corpse with you for the rest of yours. When your brother and sister look at you, they will see the killer of their father; when you look in the mirror, you will see a murderer. Had he lived with you and abused you or those close to you, ending his life might be cathartic, a sign of rebirth. But this man is a stranger to you. You barely know him. There is no empowerment in his death by your hand. He has no right to govern your life. Let your own actions define who you are.”
He was right. Killing John Drayton simply wasn’t worth it. If he forced himself to do it, he would regret it. It would eat at him, and why should he sentence himself to the same burden he tried to spare Jack?
George swallowed and slowly lowered his sword.
“Can’t do it, huh?” John smiled. “I’m still your father, boy.”
The very fact that he was goading him meant killing him would be a bad idea. “No,” George said. “You’re not. You’re just some swine that slept with my mother and ran off.”
Richard pulled a gun from inside his clothes. It was a firearm from the Broken, a large heavy hunk of metal. He flipped it and offered it to John butt first.
“You’re free to go. Use it to protect yourself.”
What?
John Drayton had killed, tortured, and raped. If set free, he’d sell them out the first chance he got. He’d go on stealing, hurting, and profiting from other people’s misery. It had to end, here and now, so he would never darken his brother’s or Rose’s horizon.
George turned to Richard.
“Trust me,” Richard said. “It’s the right thing.”
John hefted the gun in his hand, taking a couple of steps back. “Loaded.”
“Six bullets,” Richard said.
“More than enough.”
John raised the gun. George stared down the black barrel, as big as a cannon. Everything around him stopped. The world gained a crystal clarity, and George saw everything in minute detail: the individual leaves of the palm behind his father, the bead of sweat on John’s temple, the tiny red veins in his father’s eyes . . .
The sound of the safety being released rocked George like the blow of a giant hammer against his skull. He knew the bullet would hit him between the eyes. He was staring death in the face.
“You’re an idiot,” John said to Richard.
“He’s your son,” Richard said. His voice was calm, so calm.
He should do something, George realized. He should—
“Yeah, about that,” John grimaced. “Sorry, boy. I never thought you were mine either.”
John squeezed the trigger. A bolt of white tore out of the gun and bit deep into John’s chest. He convulsed soundlessly, like a marionette jerking on invisible strings, and fell into the sand.
George felt the moment his body crossed the threshold between life and death and into his domain. It’s done, Mémère. It’s done. He won’t hurt anyone else.
The relief washed over him, replaced instantly by shame. “How?”
“An Owner’s Gift necklace,” Richard said. “I loaded a stone into the chamber instead of a bullet. When he tried to fire, the stone shattered and released its magic.”
“And if he had walked away?”
“I would’ve stopped him and taken the stone out.”
George couldn’t tell if it was a convenient lie for his sake or the truth. The terrible thing was, he didn’t even care. He was simply relieved that John Drayton was a corpse. What does that say about me?
Richard clamped his arm around him. “He died the way he lived. That’s the kind of man he was.”
“I waited for him.” George barely recognized the hoarse, dull sound as his own voice. “I waited for him for years. When Rose was working a crappy job in the Broken, I’d sit on the porch, waiting for her to come home, and pretend I saw him walking up to the house. He would come up with a big smile and tell me, ‘George, come sailing with me. We’ll look for treasure together.’”
His eyes watered. He forced the tears back. “He tried to get me to abandon my own brother. He tried to kill me. I looked into his eyes. They were cold, like a shark’s.” He wanted to cry and scream like a child.
“None of what he did or what he had become is your responsibility,” Richard said. “He was a grown man, and he’s responsible for his own sins. Everything he did in his life led him to this point. I knew he would pull the trigger. It was as inevitable as the sunrise.”
George stared at him. “I should’ve done it. I should’ve ended it . . . him.”
“You feel that way in the heat of the moment because you look at your father and see the legacy of his crimes. It brings you deep shame. You want to wipe it clean and right the wrongs, but killing him wouldn’t undo them,” Richard said.
“My youngest brother betrayed our family and our relatives died because of it. His cousins, his nieces, nephews, children, people who loved him and cared for him. He broke bread with us, he shared in our sorrow and happiness, then he betrayed us. He was a deeply selfish human being. He watched our father being murdered; he was hurt, and he wanted revenge. That was all that mattered to him. I looked into his eyes, when he told me he’d done it deliberately, and it was like looking into the soul of a stranger.”
“What happened to him?” For some reason the answer seemed vitally important.