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?
“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.”
