“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?
“C’est la différence entre lui et toi.” Richard switched to the language of Louisiana.
This is the difference between you and him.
“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.”
John squeezed the trigger. A bolt of white tore out of the gun and bit deep into John’s chest. He convulsed soundlessly, like a marionette jerking on invisible strings, and fell into the sand.
George felt the moment his body crossed the threshold between life and death and into his domain. It’s done, Mémère. It’s done. He won’t hurt anyone else.
The relief washed over him, replaced instantly by shame. “How?”
“An Owner’s Gift necklace,” Richard said. “I loaded a stone into the chamber instead of a bullet. When he tried to fire, the stone shattered and released its magic.”
“And if he had walked away?”
“I would’ve stopped him and taken the stone out.”
George couldn’t tell if it was a convenient lie for his sake or the truth. The terrible thing was, he didn’t even care. He was simply relieved that John Drayton was a corpse. What does that say about me?
Richard clamped his arm around him. “He died the way he lived. That’s the kind of man he was.”
“I waited for him.” George barely recognized the hoarse, dull sound as his own voice. “I waited for him for years. When Rose was working a crappy job in the Broken, I’d sit on the porch, waiting for her to come home, and pretend I saw him walking up to the house. He would come up with a big smile and tell me, ‘George, come sailing with me. We’ll look for treasure together.’”
His eyes watered. He forced the tears back. “He tried to get me to abandon my own brother. He tried to kill me. I looked into his eyes. They were cold, like a shark’s.” He wanted to cry and scream like a child.