Jack motioned at George. “Bring it.”
George lunged forward, swinging his arm. Jack moved to block. Midway through the punch, George twisted, picking up speed, jumped, and kicked his brother in the chest. Jack flew out the door and into the gym.
Nicely done!
Charlotte gasped.
George strode to the door with a determined look on his face.
“George!” Charlotte called.
He turned on his toes, produced an elegant bow, said, “Excuse me, my lady. This won’t take long,” and walked out.
Charlotte looked at Richard. “Why are you just standing there?”
“They’re young men. It’s quite normal,” he told her, and held the door open for her. “It’s better they resolve it now and be done with it.”
She sighed, stood up, and went out into the gym.
The two boys danced across the floor, launching a flurry of kicks and punches, blocking, spinning, jumping. The other activity stopped, and the fighters watched them. Jack clearly had superior strength and speed, but George had studied harder. His movements had the surety born from many hours spent training, while Jack fought on instinct. His instinct was rarely wrong, Richard reflected, as George slid across the floor after taking a powerful kick. But it was no substitute for practice. Still, since William, his cousin’s changeling husband, had taken over Jack’s hand-to-hand education, the boy showed a marked improvement.
George rolled to his feet, lunged, getting inside his brother’s guard, and locked his hands on Jack’s arm. Northern three-point flip, Richard diagnosed. Jack tried to counter with the Lower Sud drop—William’s influence—but the three-point was nearly impossible to stop, and George had gotten a good hold. Trip, turn, flip. Jack flew through the air, and George slammed him onto the ground. Jack’s back slapped the floor.
Ugh. Richard grimaced in sympathy. That had to hurt.
George landed on him and locked his arm into a bar. The fighters cheered.
Next to him, Charlotte winced again. Watching it from the healer’s point of view was probably more trying. He decided to reassure her. “They’re actually quite careful with each other. For example, this takedown was designed to incapacitate the opponent. A quarter turn to the right, and Jack would’ve landed on his neck.”
She gave him an unreadable look.
He felt compelled to explain. “George could’ve broken Jack’s spine . . .”
She raised her hand. “Richard, stop trying to make me feel better. You’re making it worse.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” George said, putting pressure on Jack’s arm. “You’re done.”
“I’m just resting,” Jack told him through clenched teeth.
“You’re done,” George said.
They were at an impasse. Jack wouldn’t admit defeat, and George, despite all his anger, wouldn’t dislocate his brother’s arm. He took a step forward to break them up, but Charlotte beat him to it.
She walked across the gym and crouched by the two teens. “That’s enough, George.” She gently put one hand on his fingers, gripping his brother’s arm. “I have something very important to tell both of you, and it won’t wait.”
“Is it good news?” Jack ground out.
Profound sadness reflected on Charlotte’s face. “No. It isn’t.”
George released Jack’s arm. The boys rolled to their feet.
“Come,” she said, linking one arm with George, the other with Jack, and led them both back into the room.
SIX
“MY name is Charlotte.” Dear Goddess, there were no right words. Charlotte took a deep breath. “Your grandmother might have mentioned me.”
“You rent our house,” Jack said.
“Yes.” She nodded.
George leaned forward. “Something happened to Grandmother.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” she answered anyway. “I’m a healer. Richard was injured and running away from slavers. He’d reached East Laporte and lost consciousness. Someone found him and brought him to me so I could mend his wounds.” She swallowed. “Your grandmother and I were very close. She was always kind to me. She was my friend.”
The words stuck in her throat. She forced them out, each sound cutting her from the inside. “She was with me when Kenny brought Richard to us. There was also another young woman and her sister with us at the time.”
Her chest felt heavy. An ache set in, rolling around her heart like a ball of lead. Both George and Jack were looking at her, and she couldn’t look away. Her voice sounded strange to her.
“I healed Richard. He had lost a lot of blood, so I left to buy some. While I was gone . . .”
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
“The slavers burned the house and murdered one of the young women and your grandmother,” Richard said. “Éléonore is dead.”
She saw the precise moment when the meaning of the words sank into George. He took a small step back. His face jerked, and his shoulders slumped forward, as if he had been stabbed and wanted to curl into a ball to protect the wound.
“No,” Jack said. “There are ward stones around the house. There are f**king rocks around the house! Nobody can get in.”
George’s eyes blazed with white. The glow built, spilling like tears of lightning onto his cheeks. He chanted something savage under his breath. She felt the magic swell around him. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose. So much power. So much power. It built on itself, like an avalanche.
“Stop!” she called. “George, no . . .”
The magic crested and broke. White light shot out of his eyes and mouth, shining from within him out of his every pore, setting his skin aglow. Éléonore had told her the boy was a necromancer. She’d said nothing about this.
His feet left the ground. He hung suspended a foot in the empty air. His magic smashed into Charlotte like a blast wave. She gasped and saw him through the lens of her own power. He glowed like a radiant beacon of light, his magic focused into a beam, searching the darkness.
His ghostly voice echoed through her mind.
“Mémère. Mémère, it’s me. Answer me. Please answer. Please, Mémère.”
The desperation in his words flooded her. The tears heated her eyes. He was reaching far, past the edge of the Weird, past the boundary. It was impossible, but he was doing it.
“Please, Mémère. I love you so much. Please answer.”