Steel's Edge Read Online Free PDF

again, but it didn’t feel like home. The magic was stronger, and she’d probably live longer, but here in the Edge, in a space between the Weird with all its magic and the Broken with none of it, was her true place. She was a Drayton and an Edger, through and through. She understood this small town; she knew all of her neighbors, their kids, and their grandkids. And she had power, too. A certain respect. When she threatened to curse someone, people stood up and listened. In the Weird, she’d just be a stone around Rose’s neck.
    It is inevitable, she reassured herself. Children leave the nest. Everything is as it should be.
    A truck rumbled past the yard, Sandra Wicks at the wheel, her bleached-blond hair a teased mess.
    â€œHussy,” Melanie said under her breath.
    â€œYep.”
    Sandra waved at them through the window. Both witches smiled and waved back.
    â€œSo did you hear about her ‘friend’ near Macon?” Éléonore asked.
    â€œMhm. The moment her husband leaves, she hightails it through the boundary into the Broken. It’s a wonder her magic still works, as much time as she spends there. Someone ought to clue Michael in.”
    â€œStay out of it,” Éléonore told her. “It’s none of your business.”
    Melanie grimaced. “When I was her age . . .”
    â€œWhen you were her age, they thought wearing a camisole instead of a corset was risqué.”
    Melanie pursed her lips. “I’ll have you know, I wore a slip.”
    â€œWell, aren’t you a rebel.”
    â€œIt was made of rayon, too.”
    A woman stumbled around the bend of the road. She walked unsteadily, swaying as she put one foot in front of the other, her blond hair rolled up on her head, her face smudged with dirt.
    â€œWho the hell is that?” Melanie set her glass down.
    Between the two of them, they knew the entire population of East Laporte, and Éléonore was dead sure she’d never seen this woman before. Woolen clothes, Weird cut. Anybody from the Broken would be in jeans or khakis, shoes with heels or sneakers. She wore boots, and she was walking funny.
    The woman swayed and fell down on the side of road.
    Ã‰léonore rose.
    â€œDon’t,” Melanie hissed. “You don’t know what she is.”
    â€œHalf-dead, that’s what she is.”
    â€œI have a bad feeling about this.”
    â€œYou have a bad feeling about everything.”
    Ã‰léonore stepped off her porch and hurried down the road.
    â€œYou’ll be the death of me,” Melanie muttered, and followed her. The woman slowly turned and sat up. She was tall, but thin, not naturally either. Starved, Éléonore realized. Not a teenager, a woman, around thirty or so. Still a girl by Éléonore’s standards.
    â€œAre you all right, dear?” Éléonore called.
    The woman looked at her. Yes, definitely from the Weird and from means, too: the face was pretty and unlined, no doubt well taken care of at some point, but now haggard, sharpened by the lack of food, and stained with dirt.
    â€œI’ve been shot,” she said, her voice quiet.
    Mon Dieu.
“Where?”
    â€œRight thigh. It’s a flesh wound. Please.” The woman looked at her, and Éléonore read desperation in her gray eyes. “I just want some water.”
    â€œÃ‰léonore, don’t you dare take her into your house.”
    Rose was many miles away, and this girl in the dirt didn’t look anything like her, but somehow there were shadows of her granddaughter in the stranger’s face. Éléonore grasped the girl’s hands. “Try to get up.”
    â€œThis will end in tears,” Melanie grabbed the girl’s other arm. “Come on. Lean on me.”
    The woman pushed herself upright and gasped, a small, painful sound. For a tall girl, she weighed near nothing. They got her up the steps, one tiny step at a time,