Steel's Edge

Richard raised his arms, pulling on the shirt. The muscles flexed under his skin, bulging on his broad shoulders. She watched, mesmerized. Last night, when she had crawled into a strange bed, feeling half-dead, it occurred to her that she was in the house of a criminal, deep in the worst part of the city. If Jason Parris wanted to murder them, he could at any time and with complete impunity. Nobody even knew where they were. Her fear had spiraled, threatening to explode into a panic attack. Then Richard had sat down with his back against the door last night, and her anxiety had faded. Somehow she was completely sure that nothing would make it past him to harm her. It was selfish, but she closed her eyes knowing he wouldn’t move till morning, and she slept well.

No woman could mistake the way he had looked at her last night when she had stepped out of the shower. She had looked at him too, through the curtain of her eyelashes, when he emerged, his skin clean, his hair damp. She looked at him even though she knew she shouldn’t have. He embodied strength, and she felt weak, despite knowing otherwise. Further, she had survived terrible things, and she was tempted to remind herself that she still lived in the most primal of ways. She wouldn’t do it to him, however. First, it was simply not done, not in this fashion and not after a mere two days of knowing each other. Second, Richard made it plain that his effectiveness depended on having no attachments. He would resent her.

Neither of them were in their right mind. People who had nothing to lose often did crazy things, and she had to listen to the voice of reason.

He turned.

She’d remembered that he was handsome, but his face caught her by surprise. His intelligent, intense eyes took her measure, and she had to fight not to stammer.

“Good morning,” Richard said.

She called upon her years of training, and when she spoke, her voice was completely even. “Good morning.”

“Jason’s people brought us new clothes,” he said, pointing to a stack of clothing in the chair. “They’re old and probably not quite as nice as what you’re used to, but we mustn’t attract attention. In the Cauldron, new clothes are likely to get us killed, and we probably want to avoid that, if at all possible.”

He should’ve slept a lot longer, considering his injury. “How long have you been up?”

“Not that long.”

“Come here, please.”

He approached the bed. Charlotte sat up, holding the sheet over her chest, raised her hand and touched his neck with her fingers. His skin felt hot under her fingertips. An excited flutter dashed through her. She smelled the light scent of soap emanating from his hair and skin, a hint of spice and citrus.

Really now. She was thirty-two years old. She could hold her libido in check. Charlotte focused. Her magic slipped out of her fingers and sank into his skin. The wound had almost completely healed. His temperature was normal. Mild dehydration, slightly elevated pulse. In fact, it rose in the brief seconds she touched him. Of course, she told herself. He’d seen her butcher sixteen people. Naturally, he would be alarmed when she touched him. Charlotte dropped her hand.

“Clean bill of health,” she said.

“Glad to hear it.”

He was looking at her. The daylight streaming through the gap in the curtains painted a light gold stripe across his face, tinting his skin gold and bringing a rich russet tint in his irises. He was handsome, his body was strong and fit, and the danger he radiated just enhanced his pull. When Charlotte looked at him, really looked at him as she did now, he was striking.

And she had no business looking at him. Both of them were on a mission, and it left no room for softness or attraction.

“We never talked about the plan,” she said.

“It’s simple,” he said. “We impersonate slavers and their catch, board the ship, and ride it to the Market. Once we near the port, you may have to eliminate the crew. It will have to be done quickly and silently, so as not to alarm those on land.”

“Can Jason’s people operate the ship?” she asked.

“He assures me that they can. Whatever his other faults are, Jason is efficient and competent. This is a port city, and there are many former sailors in his crew. We’ll dock and let Jason and his cutthroats do what they do best. Meanwhile, you and I will go and find the bookkeeper. We must eliminate the people at the top of the slaver’s food chain, and for that we will need the bookkeeper alive. Once we know the identity of his superiors, we’ll go from there.”

She would have to kill again. She knew what she had signed up for when she demanded to come with him. Now wasn’t the time to get squeamish. “It’s a sound plan,” she said. “How large a crew do you expect me to kill?”

“The ship they will be using is likely fast, maneuverable, and unremarkable. I’m betting on a brigantine or albatross, which means fifteen to twenty people at most. Will it be an issue?”

That was a complicated question. “No. No issue,” she told him.

Richard stood up. “I’ll wait outside the door for you.”

He took his sword and stepped out.

In that moment, when she found that red spark inside, she had known exactly what the consequences would be. Her life as a healer was over. Her life as an abomination would be brutal and devoid of sympathy or warmth, but probably short. It would be worth it, she told herself. If no other child ever had to cry the way Tulip had because the slavers had taken someone from her, it would be worth it.

* * *

THE corpse lay on a table, a large male about ten years older than Jason but with a similar skin tone. The flesh on the corpse’s cheek bore the same pattern as the scar on Jason’s face.

The corpse looked fresh. Was it a rival, a long-standing enemy? Or more likely, some man off the street who happened to resemble Jason Parris. Charlotte exhaled quietly. She had walked into this world on her own. She would deal with it.

Richard leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. The crime lord sat next to the corpse in a chair. Miko leaned against the wall as well, as if mirroring Richard, one leg bent, her foot propping her up. She was a strange girl, quiet, her narrow face calm, but there was this odd hint of unpredictability about her, as if she was just waiting for the right moment to stab someone.

The disfigurement on the corpse’s face looked red and fresh. The marks on Jason’s face were more than a year old.

“How will you age the burn?” Charlotte asked.

“We have a necromancer,” Jason said. “She will age it. Is there anything you need to heal me?”

She shook her head.

The aftereffects of fatigue were still there, pooling in her bones, but she’d recovered much faster than she had expected. If she had healed sixteen people yesterday, she would be in bed, unable to move. But now, she felt . . . refreshed. Relieved, as if some heavy physical burden had been lifted off her shoulders. The irony.

Healing is a noble sacrifice, Lady Augustine’s voice instructed from her memories. Harming is a selfish perversion.

The burden wasn’t truly gone, Charlotte reflected. She had simply traded the pressure created by the imbalance in her magic for the weight of murder on her mind.

“So this healing, is it a special talent?” Jason asked.

“Yes.”

“Some magic can be taught.”

Charlotte nodded. “Yes. Flashing can be taught and improved through practice, even for someone from the Broken, assuming they have any magic at all. Healing can be made more efficient, but you must be born with the talent.”

Jason was looking at Richard. “Your sword thing is a flash, isn’t it?”

Richard nodded.

Jason looked at her. “I’ve seen a lot of strange magic shit here but never what he does. I asked him to teach me, but he won’t.”

“You do enough harm as it is,” Richard said.

Jason grinned. “Aww, you hurt me, old man.”

Richard raised his eyes to the heavens. “I’ve unleashed you on this poor unsuspecting city. I simply feel sorry for the cutthroats of Kelena. If I teach you to flash, there will be none of them left.”

“I don’t need flash for that.” Jason touched his scar. “Let’s get on with it.”

Charlotte took a chair and set it in the beam of light spilling through the high window near the ceiling. “Sit, please.”

He sat down. Charlotte stepped closer, turning his face with her fingertips to better view the scar in the light. A second-degree burn, extending into the reticular dermis, the deep layer of skin that cushioned the body against stress. She’d healed worse.

She raised her hand and let the golden sparks of her magic sink into his skin. He held completely still, his unnerving gray eyes steady.

The damage was extensive. She sank into the task of repairing the tissue destruction. When a body sustained an injury, specialized cells, which the Broken doctors called “fibroblasts” and the College healers called “suture cells,” sprang to the rescue. They moved into the wound and began secreting collagen, traveling within the clot until finally they anchored and closed the gash. The moment this anchoring took place was determined by many factors, and when the process went on too long, it led to the buildup of fibrous tissue and sometimes, if the scars formed on organs, fibrosis, which could be fatal.

The scar itself was comprised of the same collagen fibers as the regular skin, but instead of crisscrossing, these fibers aligned in the same direction. She had to soften the stiff tissue of the scar and then painstakingly shift the collagen fibers within the skin to approximate its normal basket-weave pattern. It was slow, methodical work. Facial scars required precision—the symmetry of the face was at stake. The room, Richard, Jason, all of them faded. Only the injured tissue remained, and she focused on realigning it.

As if through a wall, she heard muffled voices.

“You’re getting your scar healed, and you’ve procured a body double,” Richard said. “Why the sudden need to appear dead?”

“The Mirror is taking an interest in me,” her patient answered.

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