“But you’re a warrior.”
“No, boy, I am no warrior, because I choose not to be. I kill those who need it, or those who deserve it. I kill those I choose, not those others tell me to. People pay me to kill, Raif. Pay me to do what I was born to do. But don’t you realize that I know that I lost my soul because of it?”
Raif said nothing, his voice lost in sobs he tried to hold in. Cade clasped the boy to him for a moment, then let go.
“I will teach you to fight, to protect yourself, nothing more. You needn’t see this ever again. I will give you the chance to be free of hell forever.” This was the moment: kill the boy now and he would be free. He would find that warm safe world that Cade’s mother now danced in. Free him. Free him, his mind chanted.
But Cade could not. It wasn’t the risk of being wrong about Raif; he knew the boy was good. It was something else. A chance. Give the boy a chance to lead a life Cade could never have had. The life Targ dreamed of, but his curse kept him from. It was a hard thing to live in hell and dream of heroes.
“Ah, the gentle sounds of lovers’ passion,” a voice said. Raif leaped and drew his blade but Cade showed no alarm. He walked over to Amuuth and bent down on one knee.
“So,” he said, “starting to come out of it?” He rifled through the other’s clothes.
Amuuth glared up at him.
“What did you do to me?”
“Thomneft,” Cade answered. “Paralyzes you for about ten minutes.” Cade withdrew a knife from the other’s clothes. The blade was double- edged and sharp. The handle was abnormally thick, allowing the gang leader to wield the weapon with his crippled fingers. Cade picked up the chair and lifted Amuuth onto it. He moved across the table to stand by Raif.