George grabbed his shoulder. “Hold it in. Not until we’re on board and know exactly what’s going on.”

Jack ducked his head, hiding the changeling glow of his eyes, and sucked in the air through his nose.

They would have only one shot at this. The boats had to be close enough for Richard to be unable to do anything about their presence but far enough away that the sailors wouldn’t see any commotion.

George took a deep breath.

The leading boat rolled over the surf, its crew distracted.

Now.

George lunged forward, and Jack followed. They dashed into the line of slaves and thrust themselves behind Charlotte.

“What the devil are you doing?” Richard growled under his breath.

He didn’t even turn. The man must have eyes in the back of his head.

“Changing the plan.” George ripped off a piece of his shirt and twisted it around Jack’s hands into a makeshift tie.

“Go back,” Charlotte hissed.

Richard dismounted and walked toward George, pulling a pair of handcuffs off his belt. They stood face-to-face, Richard glaring down from the height of an extra four inches. It was a furious glare suffused with so much menace, it could end a riot. George stared straight into it. Today, he had the will to match it.

“You gave me your word,” Richard ground out.

George took a step forward, his voice barely above a whisper, meant for Richard alone. “The vessel’s name is Intrepid Drayton. Before Earl Camarine adopted me, my last name was Drayton. There is a painting of that ship in my dead grandmother’s house.”

He took the cuffs out of Richard’s hands and slipped them onto his own wrists with a click. “It’s my father’s ship. Either the slavers killed my father and took his vessel, or he’s working for them, and he’s responsible for his own mother’s death. I need to know which it is. If you stand in my way, I will move you, Richard.”

* * *

FOR a moment Richard stood there, glowering, then he checked the cuffs on George’s wrists. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

He turned around and strode to the front, next to Jason.

George exhaled. To Richard, family was everything. He understood blood debts and the right to exact justice for one’s family, but it had been a gamble.

His father couldn’t work for the slavers. Even he couldn’t have sunk that low. Even Rose, who bordered on hating the man, always said that he was never mean or violent. Opportunistic, unwise, and selfish, yes. Could he be selfish enough to work for the slavers? George was thinking in circles. He had to get a grip.

The boats landed, their flat bottoms scraping the sand with a soft sibilance. An older man stepped out first, followed by four other sailors. Tall and broad-shouldered, he walked like a sailor, lurching slightly with each step, planting his feet firmly on the ground.

George peered at him, noting every detail. Gray eyes, dishwater-blond hair, cut short, older face, once probably handsome, but puffy from lack of sleep and likely too much alcohol, graying stubble on the cheeks . . . Was it him? He strained, trying to remember, but in his memory his father’s face was a vague blur. He used to remember. He used to know what his dad looked like, but the years had passed, and now the memories were lost.

“Crow,” the man said. “Where’s Voshak?”

“Hunter got him,” Richard answered, his voice a ragged growl. “Shot him on the edge of Veresk as we were riding out.”

“And Ceyren?”

“Got him, too. Arrow to the eye. A fucked-up thing to see.”

The man sighed. “That’s what he usually does. Somebody should take care of that fucker. He’s cutting into our profits.”

“Someone will take him down,” Richard-Crow hacked and spat in the sand. “Ain’t gonna be me, I tell you that.”

“I hear you.” The man looked past Richard at the slaves. “You did well for yourself.”

“Did all right,” Richard-Crow agreed.

Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe the slavers had killed him and someone else captained the ship. It would be far better if their father was dead than profiting from the murder of his own mother. Say your name, George willed silently.

“I take it you’ll be coming on board instead of Voshak,” the man said.

“Me and everyone you see here,” Richard-Crow growled.

The man raised his eyebrows.

Richard stepped forward, leaning in as if ready to punch. “I’ve been on a crew for four years. First, they gave the crew to Bes. Then, when his old lady killed him, they gave it to Carter. After Carter got his dumb ass shot, I went to them and told them to give me a crew. They said I ain’t got leadership potential. They gave it to Voshak instead. Well, their damn leadership potential is rotting in the woods. This is my crew, and I’m taking my wolves in to let them see that.”

The sailor raised his hand. “Okay, okay. I got it, spitting wonder. I don’t get involved in politics. I just ferry the merchandise. You want a ride to the island, you got it. Load them up.”

“Move them,” Richard snarled.

A whip snapped above George’s head. The slavers started forward, toward the boats. He was being herded like human cattle.

George moved, following Charlotte. He was hot and cold at the same time, every cell of his body keyed up, as if the core of his body were boiling. Sweat drenched his hairline.

The sailor’s gaze snagged on Charlotte. “Nice. I was always a sucker for a blonde with a good rack.”

George shut his eyes for the tiniest moment, trying to recall what little memories remained from his childhood. Was Mother blond? He strained, searching through the vague recollections . . . His eyes snapped open. She was blond. He was sure of it.

It didn’t mean anything. Many men liked blond women.

The sailor was looking directly at him. “Good-looking boys. Aren’t they too old for the Market? They like their kids younger.”

George’s stomach churned with acid. Next to him, Jack clenched his fists. A drop of blood slid between his fingers onto the pale scrap of fabric tied around his hands.

Hold it in, George prayed.

“Special order,” Richard said.

The sailor grimaced. “Never understood that myself.”

“As long as they pay me.” Richard spat again.

George climbed into the boat, Jack at his heels, and stared at the sailor on the beach. Say your damn name.

The sailor grinned. “Hello, my lords and ladies. My name is John Drayton. I’ll be your captain this evening.”

A hot, invisible knife stabbed George straight in the pit of his stomach. The world gained a red tint. Logic told him it was the capillaries in his eyes expanding in reaction to his increased blood flow, but that logic spoke from some distant place in his brain, and he shut it off. Grandmother was dead, and the scumbag who was her son and his father made his money from playing captain to her murderers. John Drayton trafficked in slaves. He had abandoned his children, so he could get rich off of other people’s misery. He might as well have killed his own mother with his own hands. He was responsible.

“Welcome aboard Intrepid Drayton for your island cruise. You’ll notice bluefin sharks following our ship. If you make any trouble, we’ll tie a line around your neck and toss you overboard. The bluefins like a little chase before their dinner. You behave, and they’ll go hungry. Personally, I hope you don’t—I enjoy a little spectacle. Brightens up a boring voyage.”

He had to kill his father, to bring him to justice. It was the only right thing to do.

A soothing current of magic prickled his skin. His heartbeat slowed.

“Sit by me, George,” Charlotte called, her voice like a rush of cold water onto his scalding anger. “Please.”

He forced himself to turn around. She sat in the bottom of the barge, her hand resting on Jack’s forearm. His brother’s head was down, the mass of brown hair hanging over his face. A hoarse, strained sound, a muted, controlled snarl, emanated from Jack with every breath. His brother was teetering on the verge of losing his human form.

They still had a job to do. They had to get to the island. His vengeance would have to wait. His legs felt wooden. He couldn’t make himself move.

A hard wooden baton smashed in the back of his knees. George crashed down.

“Sit the fuck down,” one of Jason’s slavers said.

“I see we have the first candidate for the shark feeding,” his father called. “One more, boy, and I’ll personally shove you off my deck.”

George forced himself to sit next to Charlotte. She was watching the rest of the slaves board, her face calm.

“There will be a time later,” she said, her quiet voice laced with menace. “We won’t have to wait long.”

EIGHT

CHARLOTTE closed her eyes and listened to the waves splash against the hull. Two hours ago, they had been loaded inside the hold of the ship, slaves first, then the slavers. John Drayton was a careful man who locked up his passengers, willing and unwilling. Richard and Jason were the only two men who had remained above on deck.

George and Jack sat on the floor near the bulkhead. Jack’s shoulders, rigid with tension, slumped forward. He hasn’t said a word since they boarded, but she had seen his eyes. A violent, furious thing stared at her through his irises. Something savage lived inside Jack, and he was using all of his power to hold it at bay. She wanted to tell him she knew exactly how he felt, but her instincts warned her that any stray word could tip the balance in that thing’s favor. She had treated changelings before, or rather she’d treated the changeling soldiers, the hardened, barely human killers who had come out of the crucible of the Adrianglian changeling academy. If Jack lost control now, in the hold, none of them would survive it.

George knew it, too. He sat next to his brother, hovering protectively over him. His eyes were clear with determination, his face sharpened with grief and anger. He felt betrayed, and he wanted revenge, and she didn’t blame him one bit.

Anger filled her too, and she held on to it, letting herself steep in it, solidifying her resolve. John Drayton, Éléonore’s long-lost son. Not so lost anymore. She pictured his smug smile. “Good-looking kids.” They are your children, you heartless bastard. It wasn’t enough their grandmother is dead, now you’re indirectly responsible for her murder. She wished she could strangle the swine, but he was upstairs. This one life she would’ve taken with pleasure. She glanced at the boys again. Yes, with pleasure.