“The border barons always need fodder for construction and armies. Mine owners use slave labor. The magic users who tangle with outlawed applications of magic theory buy subjects for their experiments. And others, well, when you see a rich man with a young, beautiful woman on his arm, would it occur to you to ask if she was free?”
“That’s barbaric.”
Richard’s eyes turned hard. “You would be surprised how many ‘servants’ come from the Market.”
He was right. It would never have occurred to her to ask anyone if their attendants were slaves. She simply assumed they weren’t.
“The slavers feed their own legends,” he said. “They dress in black, they arm themselves with wolfripper dogs, they ride dark horses. They appear from nowhere in the middle of the night, reap their human harvest, burn the settlements to the ground, and vanish like ghosts.”
“Like a night terror,” she said.
Richard nodded. “They want to be the stuff of nightmares because fighting one’s fear is always harder than fighting another man. They see themselves as outside the law, as wolves who prey on sheep. Most of them didn’t amount to much, and they cling to their illusions of grandeur both because they have nothing else and because they find cruelty empowering. So if you wish an honest answer, here it is. They killed Éléonore and Daisy, and burned your house because that’s what they do. It wasn’t personal or planned. They didn’t give it a second thought. They simply did it because that’s the way they do business. Other people’s lives matter to them not at all. They’re slavers.”
His words only fueled her rage. “And you?”
“I hunt the slavers. I’ve killed dozens over the past months. They think themselves wolves, so they call me Hunter. They’re not fond of me.”
“I can see that.”
“I made a mistake, and they finally caught me. They were taking me to the Market for a public execution.”
That explained things. The slavers had beaten him not to hurt him—he was unconscious—but to make him less frightening. They were terrified of him. If they were the night terrors, he was their legendary killer, and when you kill a legend, you must make it as public as possible, or it might not take.
“Are there more of them?” she asked.
“Many more.” Richard grimaced. “No matter how many I kill, there are always more.”
Many more. That meant many more dead Daisies and Éléonores, many more Tulips, weeping over bodies. Many people like her, left with a gaping hole ripped in their lives, not sure how to pick up the pieces and move on. Her magic seethed within her. Her body was nearing exhaustion, but she wanted to scream in outrage. Why did this go on? Who allowed this to keep happening? Did they think nobody could stop them? Because she could, and she had, and she would do it again. It wasn’t finished. She wasn’t finished.
“Tell me more,” Charlotte said.
He shook his head. “Not through the bars of the cage.”
She leaned back. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to let you out. I don’t know what you might do.”
His eyes met hers. “My lady, I assure you, I’m not a danger to you.”
“Says the Hunter of wolves.”
“You view me as dangerous, but you allow a slaver dog with bloody teeth to lay by your feet.”
“I’ve known the dog longer than you.”
He grinned at her. “‘Can two people ever truly know each other through the bars of the human cage?’”
Charlotte blinked. He’d quoted the
“I can simply walk away and leave you in the cage,” she said.
“I don’t think you will,” Richard said.
“What makes you so sure?”
“You healed me,” he said. “I remember your eyes. You wouldn’t sentence a man to slow death.”
He’d called her bluff. Leaving him to starve to death was beyond her now, no matter how dangerous he was. “If I open this cage, you’ll answer my questions.”
“As honestly as is in my power.”
“Before I let you out, typhus, malaria, red death, Ebola, tuberculosis . . . Do you have any preference? I have others, as well.”
“Where?” Richard asked.
“I carry dormant samples of them within my body. To cure a disease, you must first understand it, and sometimes a deliberate infection is necessary for vaccination. If you attempt to attack me, I will end you, Richard. Look around you if you have any doubts.”
“I’ll strive to keep it from slipping my mind.”
Charlotte rose. The white-haired slaver was the leader. He would likely have the key. She crouched by his body—it smelled awful—and searched his clothes, briskly turning out his pockets. Money, bullets . . . “No key.”
“Thank you, but we don’t have to have one,” Richard said. “I only need a knife and free hands.”
She pulled a blade from the sheath on the slaver’s waist, reached between the bars, and sawed through the tough cord binding his wrists. The rope snapped. He rolled his shoulders and held out his hand.
She might regret this, but she couldn’t just leave him in the cage. Charlotte put the blade into his hand. Richard flipped it. She felt magic flow toward the blade. It drained from his body onto the metal, stretching in a thin glowing line of pale white along the edge.
Richard sliced at the chain wrapped around his feet.
The metal fell apart.
She’d seen concentrated flash sever a body before but never metal. Not like this.
He struck at the chain securing the cage’s door, and it crashed to the ground. Richard pushed the door open, slid out, and swayed, catching himself on the wagon. She hadn’t realized how tall he was, almost six inches taller than she. Charlotte waited for him to sit down, but he remained standing. It was an obvious strain.
Then the light dawned on her. She sat back on the bags, and Richard sank to the ground as well, leaning against the wagon wheel. Ridiculous. Richard might not have been a blueblood, but he behaved like one, and the ingrained manners of the Weird wouldn’t permit him to take a seat if she was standing.
“You had questions?” he asked.
“Tell me about your involvement with the slavers,” she said.
“Are you familiar with the Marshall of the Southern provinces?” Richard asked.
“Earl Declan Camarine? Rose’s husband,” Charlotte said. “Éléonore spoke of him quite often. I never met him in person, but I do know of the family.”
“The Office of the Marshall of the Southern Provinces has fought slavery for years,” Richard said. “Unsuccessfully. The slavers have an elaborate organization, and the slaver crews like this one are just the lowest rung of it. The slavers employ shippers, accountants, brokers, and guards. The list goes on. In the last decade, the Marshall of the Southern Provinces has led several operations against the slavers and failed. Somehow, they knew exactly when and where he would strike.”
“Someone is protecting them,” Charlotte guessed.
“Someone highly placed and well connected, with access to the inner workings of the Ministry of State. A little over a year ago, Declan invited me in for a conversation. Declan needed someone on the outside, a man who could act without the constraints of his office. He asked me if I would be that man, and I agreed.”
“Why?”
Richard paused. His eyes grew darker. “My family is from the Edge. I have my own motivations to want the slavers dead. Suffice it to say that my reasons are highly compelling.”
There was trauma there, she could sense it. Some great injustice had been done to Richard. She wanted to know what drove him, but his eyes told her that was the one question he wouldn’t answer. And Sophie, whoever she was, had to be a part of it.
“I spent eight months collecting information and gathering people I could trust and another four pursuing the
