“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 Prisoner’s Ballad, a work that was considered to be one of the pinnacles of Adrianglian literature. She was sitting on some dirty bags in the middle of a clearing filled with corpses, and a man who, by his own admission, was a serial killer just quoted a philosophical masterpiece to her. This had to be some sort of surreal absurd dream.
“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 slavers. I studied them, then I killed them. I slaughtered them in the open against overwhelming odds. I killed them in their sleep. I destroyed their camps. Four slaver captains are dead by my hand. It made no difference. They simply recruit more thugs. I knew I had to climb up their food chain and sever the head of the organization. And for that, I needed to find their Market, where the kidnapped are sold. During my latest raid, I obtained a map. It’s the record of where the slaver ships are landing, but the map is in code, and I couldn’t break the cipher. I needed the key.”
“Is that how you ended up in the cage?”
“I bargained with a man and fell into a trap,” Richard said. “It was a miscalculation, and I won’t repeat it. They chased me, and I ran. I knew the Edge was my best chance. Unfortunately, I was too delirious to know where I was going or to deliver a warning when I got there.”
He leaned forward and bowed his head. It was a bow that would’ve been a credit to any blueblood lord. “I’m sorry I brought this on you. I will make them pay. It’s all I can offer you.”
He was about to end this conversation and leave, taking her chance to matter with him. No. No, she wouldn’t stand for it. The wounds inside her were too raw, the memory of the fire too fresh. “Not all,” Charlotte said. “I’m coming with you.”