Steel's Edge (14 page)

“Would you like me to remove it?” she asked.

Parris raised his eyebrows. “You can do that?”

“Yes.” The skin was the easiest of all body tissues to heal.

Parris pondered the idea for a moment. “Thanks, but I think I'll keep it. It's part of me now.”

Miko leaned over to him and whispered something, her face urgent.

Jason frowned. “Yes, but you'd have to make it look old.”

Miko whispered again.

Parris considered it. “If she heals me and I get all profits from sacking the Market, you have a deal.”

“Before she does anything, she needs rest and food,” Richard said.

They were talking about her as if she weren't even in the room.

Parris stared at him. “Do I look like a Holiday Inn to you?”

“Eight hours of uninterrupted rest behind a solid door, a fresh change of clothes, food, and clean water to wash up,” Richard said. “Those are our conditions.”

Parris sighed. “Fine. But if my face isn't fixed by noon, you'll be resting six feet under for a lot longer than eight hours.”

*   *   *

CHARLOTTE
followed Richard and a woman armed with a sword up the stairs. They walked into another narrow hallway, and the woman stopped by a door and swung it open. Richard stepped inside, and Charlotte and the dog followed him into a small suite. Perfectly clean, with pale, almost golden wooden paneling on the walls and large windows framed by green curtains, the room could've belonged to any of the nicer hotels. A large bed dominated the floor, its linens and bedspread an inviting light yellow. Two stacks of clothes lay on the bed. To the right, another door opened to a small bathroom.

A single bed in a single room. Jason was assuming they were a couple.

The dog flopped on the rug and sniffed at the floor. Richard shut the door, locked it, and lowered a heavy wooden bar in place, securing the door as if it were an entrance to an old castle.

His skin had turned sallow. Grime stained his face. An abominable stench rose from his clothes. He had to be squeezing the last drops of energy from his exhausted body to remain upright.

“I don't mind waiting for the bathroom,” she said.

He bowed his head slightly. “Neither do I.”

She crossed her arms.

“You agreed to follow my orders,” he said.

“The order of our bathing has nothing to do with our mission.”

“Charlotte,” he said, his voice tired. “I'm not going to shower before you.”

The sound of her name coming from him startled her. Something about the way he said it touched off the same feminine flutter she had felt when he called her beautiful. It was the strangest feeling, a mix of anxiety, surprise, and pleasure, soaked in excitement. But nothing about this made sense. She was covered in blood and dirt. Not only that, he had recently watched her kill people, then go through their pockets. Romance had to be the last thing on his mind and should have been the last on hers.

“Richard,” she said, her voice firm. “You smell awful. Please have mercy on my nose.”

“You deserve the first turn at the bathroom. Offering to fix his face was a stroke of genius.”

“Thank you, but I'm perfectly happy waiting.”

Richard stared at her. They were at an impasse.

“While I have your attention,” Charlotte said, “I'd appreciate it if in the future when you come up with a plan that makes a hardened criminal pause, you could at least give me the gist of it ahead of time. In broad strokes. While I don't have your expertise in dealing with the criminal underground, I'm a woman of reasonable intelligence, and I react badly when surprised. I understand that you're used to being the lone swordsman, but I promise you that I can be an asset at the planning stage and can assist you better if I know where you're going. Use me as your, what's the Broken expression? Sounding door?”

“Sounding board,” he said, his voice dry.

“Exactly.”

Richard's face had a most curious expression. Two parts exasperation, one part shock, and three parts politeness so ingrained in him that it was keeping the rest of his emotions in check. “Will there be anything else, my lady?”

“Yes. It would bring me great pleasure if, when both of us are present during a conversation, you could occasionally acknowledge my presence and allow me to speak for myself instead of referring to me in the third person.”

Richard locked his jaw. She waited patiently to see if he would explode.

“The next time we have to talk to a violent psychopath, I'll strive to keep that in mind,” he said.

The next time you don't, I won't stand there quietly.
“Thank you for indulging me.”

“My pleasure.”

He bowed his head, managing to put enough exasperation into that bow to fuel a small ship for a voyage across the ocean. Very well. She curtsied. The effort of bending her legs nearly took her off her feet.

They straightened.

“We still have the question of the bathroom,” she said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver doubloon. “Heads or tails.”

“Heads.” She took the coin from his palm. “And I will do the tossing.”

“You don't trust me.”

“You told me not to trust anyone. Besides, I'm not the one with a brother who magically wins bets.”

She flipped the coin and slapped it onto the back of her wrist.

“Tails.” Richard smiled. “I win. The bathroom is all yours, my lady.”

Accusing him of cheating wasn't just illogical, it was silly. Charlotte took her stack of clothes and walked into the bathroom. The dog followed her.

“No,” she said firmly, and shut the door. A disappointed whine answered her.

Inside an Adrianglian-style drencher shower waited for her: a wide showerhead positioned directly above, over her head. Charlotte turned the handle and warm water cascaded down in a welcome waterfall. Charlotte stripped and stepped under the flow.

The water splashed over her in a cleansing stream. Her legs buckled a little. Her muscles ached all over, and the shower did nothing to wash the encroaching drowsiness from her. Charlotte washed her hair with detached thoroughness. It felt like someone else was driving her body. If she didn't hurry, she would collapse before she reached the bed. She washed all the dirt off, wrapped a towel over her hair, dried herself with the larger towel, and picked up the first garment from the stack of clothes.

*   *   *

RICHARD
heard a muffled word from the bathroom. His body was giving out from fatigue, and the bathroom door was relatively thick, but he was absolutely sure that Charlotte de Ney had just called someone a prick.

Considering her latest stand, he shouldn't really be surprised. Their partnership was less than a day old, and he had already received a dressing-down.
Your own damn fault,
he congratulated himself.
You took her with you.

The dog rose from his spot by the bathroom door, trotted over, and flopped by him with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. Big shaggy paws rose in the air, and he was presented with a canine chest.

“Really?”

The dog looked at him. Fine. Richard reached over and rubbed the fur. He couldn't possibly smell any worse. The wolfripper dogs weren't trained to kill humans, only to find them and keep them put. The slavers didn't wish to unduly damage their merchandise. Aside from their size and their teeth, the wolfrippers were just dogs, and this shaggy idiot seemed starved for affection.

Richard scratched the dog's belly. He wasn't sure why he hadn't thought to tell her what he was planning. It was simply force of habit. He had been on his own for too long. Being chewed out for it, like he was a child who had committed a lapse in manners, however, wasn't in his plans. She would have to get over it. Nor would he be obeying her orders. In fact, he would address it the moment she came out of the bathroom, to prevent future misunderstandings.

The door opened slowly.

“It appears our host has a sense of humor,” Charlotte said, and stepped out.

Her hair fell down over her back in a combed wet wave. She wore a flowing robe of pale pink that ended a few inches above her knees. The robe was completely, decadently sheer. He could see every curve of her body, from the elegant neck to the swell of her breasts, barely obscured by the folds of the fabric, to the supple bend of her waist and widening of her hips . . .

He was staring. All of his years as an adult male had vanished, wiped away as if they never existed, and he was a teenage boy again, awkward and dumbstruck. He gaped at her, unable to glance away, unable to make a sound, unable to do anything but stare.

He wanted her. She was an erotic dream.

This wasn't real, he decided. He was still in a cage or lying by the road dying, and his feverish brain had conjured up a beautiful fantasy to taunt him one last time before he passed on into the afterlife.

A pale pink blush spread over Charlotte's cheeks.

Look away, you fool.

Richard closed his mouth and forced himself to turn to the bed and pick up his own stack of clothes. “It appears you're right. Jason does have a sense of humor. Let's hope I don't come out in a leather loincloth.”

He headed to the bathroom, forcing himself to look anywhere but at Charlotte as she crossed the room and climbed under the covers.

In the shower, he leaned against the wall, bracing himself with both arms, and let the water splash onto the back of his head and over his back, massaging his tired muscles. Richard closed his eyes and saw Charlotte in his mind.
Get a grip. You're the man she sprung from a cage, covered in filth, piss, and blood.
She took pity on him and healed him. She had no idea that it was more kindness than he had seen from a woman in years. For her it was merely common charity.

She was a beautiful, refined woman. A man would have to be dead not to respond to her. He had come so close to death, and now his body was rejoicing in the fact he'd survived. Acting on it was out of the question. She trusted him, and he wouldn't break that trust. Even if she opened that door, which she would not, Charlotte had just suffered an emotional catastrophe. Only a lowlife would take advantage of that, and he wouldn't be the mistake she regretted first thing in the morning.

Richard shut his mind off, soaped up the sponge, and scrubbed himself until he could detect no odors other then the crisp, spicy scent of soap. The shower was almost more effort than he could take. As he stood under the water, he briefly considered simply sitting down on the floor and not getting up. But he was pretty sure she would come looking for him, and being found naked slumped on the shower floor would be truly disastrous.

Jason had left that outfit on purpose. The man was smart and perceptive. He would've read their body language, deduced that they were traveling together but weren't intimate, and taken this opportunity to taunt him. If Richard was keeping score, this one would go to Jason Parris, but he wasn't interested in side battles.

His clothes turned out to be plain Weird attire: simple dark gray underwear, a tunic, and brown cotton pants. It would do until he could acquire new ones. He exited the bathroom. Charlotte lay on her side, hidden under a sheet. Her eyes were half-closed, and he wasn't sure if she was asleep or watching him through the curtain of her soft eyelashes.

Richard took his sword from where he'd left it, by the door, and sank down against the door, crossing his legs, his blade resting against his shoulder. Generations of his ancestors had slept just like this, and some of them had woken up with their blades in their attackers. If Jason had a moment of insanity and decided to disrupt their rest, he would join them.

“Richard,” Charlotte said.

“Yes?”

“Are you worried we may not survive the night?”

There was no point in lying. “I prefer to be cautious.”

“Would you like a blanket and a pillow?”

He would've liked to join her in bed.
And what would you do if you did? You're so tired, you can't see straight.
“No, thank you. I'm used to sleeping like this. It gives me comfort.”

She stirred on the bed. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For guarding the door, and for taking me with you.”

There were many questions he wanted to ask her. He wanted to know where she was from, why she had run away to the Edge, and how her ex-husband had hurt her, but the fatigue smothered him. Richard closed his eyes and surrendered to sleep.

FIVE

WHEN
Charlotte awoke, sunlight was spilling through the windows into the room, the delicate and pale radiance of the late morning coloring the light yellow bedding a faint peach.

Richard stood by the door, with his bare back to her. He'd changed into dark trousers and was holding a white shirt. Muscle corded his back, hard and powerful, bulging under bronzed skin, as if he had absorbed the sun's warmth and now was suffused with it. He was built like a predator, lean, strong, fast, and perfectly balanced. Frightening in his potential for violence yet irresistibly compelling. She wanted to run her hand up his back, tracing the contours of the muscle underneath. It was a completely sensual desire, a physical need free of rational thought. He was so different from her, so very masculine, and she wanted to reach for him.

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.

“What did you do?”

“Many things, none of them good, but none of them concern the spooks either. They're watching me, and I don't like it.”

“I warned you, Jason,” Richard said.

“Don't lecture me, old man.”

“You're expanding too fast and killing too many. Violence attracts attention.”

Jason sighed. “In case you failed to notice, I've been doing pretty well.”

“The Five Gangs are frothing at the mouth trying to put you on the bottom of the ocean, Rook has placed a bounty on your head, and now the Mirror's agents are watching your house. Your definition of ‘well' is troubling at best.” He suddenly smiled and affected a slight accent. “‘I do not think that word means what you think it means.'”

He was obviously quoting something he and Jason seemed to know that she did not.

Jason grinned. “Ha, she ain't a princess, and you wish you were that good a swordsman.” He turned to Charlotte. “How do you stand him?”

“He sleeps by the door with his sword to keep me safe,” she told him. “Don't move.”

Finally satisfied, she withdrew her magic and took a step back.

He looked good. It was one of her finer restorations. Relief washed over Charlotte. She could still heal. She had lost none of her skill or power. She hadn't realized until now that she'd been afraid taking lives might come at the cost of the primary purpose of her magic. She knew it didn't preclude her from healing; she just wasn't sure if her control or precision had been compromised.

The post-healing fatigue wrapped around her, making her dizzy. Jason touched his face. The scar had aged him, but now she could see his face more clearly, and Charlotte realized he was still a young man.

Miko stepped up and offered him a mirror. Jason looked at himself. His eyes widened.

“Magic hands,” he said. “That's a very valuable talent. Almost makes a man regret that he doesn't own it.”

“Touch her and lose your fingers,” Richard said, his voice casual.

Jason looked at her. “Come work for me. I'll take better care of you.”

“No.”

“See, the problem with Richard is, he doesn't know how to treat a woman. You have to take care of women properly. A woman is like a horse.”

Dawn Mother, not one of those. “How so?”

“When you want to tame a horse, you offer her an apple. She has to get used to your scent and your delicious apples before she'll let you put the bridle on her. Soon, if you ignore her, she'll follow you waiting for a handout. If you keep bringing her treats, eventually she'll let you ride her.”

Mhm.

Richard was leaning against the table like a dark shadow, his pose relaxed, his lips smiling, but his eyes watched Jason with complete focus. Like a wolf sighting his prey, she realized.

Jason smiled, displaying even white teeth. At her position on the wall, Miko rolled her eyes.

“All I'm saying is I have plenty of apples,” the crime lord said. “You should give it some thought. You'd like my apples.”