The Shadow Reader

by Sandy Williams

  Sethan’s lips thin. I don’t think he likes me much more than Lena does. I’m surprised he’s letting Aren have his way instead of his sister, who still wants me dead. But then, from what Kelia’s told me, Sethan and Aren are practically brothers.

  Speaking of Sethan’s family, Lena’s voice carries across the clearing. I miss what she says, but she’s striding toward us carrying a cloth sack. An unfamiliar fae trails behind her, his face drawn and ragged.

  Sethan stands, but I don’t move from my perch straddling the picnic bench, not until Lena overturns the sack and a severed head thumps onto the table.

  I leap away. My boots slip on the rock bed and I crash down on my ass. The stench hits me a second later. My stomach lurches, but I can’t take my eyes off its eyes. The head rests on its left ear. The right eye is open, but the silver iris and gray pupil are nearly invisible beneath a white film. I can’t see the iris and pupil in the left eye because of the stake jammed into the socket. A part of my brain registers the fact that the metal also spikes through a bloodstained note. The other part of my brain registers nothing.

  Aren pulls me to my feet. I don’t know where he came from. I hear his voice, but can’t make myself understand his words. He’s not talking to me anyway. He’s speaking in Fae to Lena and the man who followed her.

  I make myself focus on them, on Aren actually, hoping his face can block out the image of the thing on the table.

  He glances at me. “Is the Court not as benevolent as you thought?” he asks.

  My gut tightens. I’ve heard of the rebellion sending heads with messages, but I’ve never seen it before. When fae die, they disappear in a flash of light and their soul-shadows—white mists visible only to humans with the Sight—dissolve into the air. Kyol calls it “going into the ether,” which I guess is their equivalent to going to heaven. Severing a fae’s head prevents that, though, and it’s considered exceptionally malicious.

  “You do it, too,” I say quietly.

  Lena snorts. “So of course that makes it okay for them to do.”

  No. It doesn’t make it okay. A trace of doubt snakes through my confidence. What if I’m wrong about the Court? What if I’ve spent ten years reading shadows for the wrong people?

  Lena rips the note from the spike and shoves it in front of my face. “This is a threat. The Court wants you back. If we don’t give you to them, they’re going to begin random raids on cities and encampments until they find you. They’ll kill or capture anyone who puts up resistance, even if they have no connection to us.” She slaps the bloodstained paper down onto the picnic table. “We should send you back to them dead. That’s what the king would do.”

  She strides away before I can say a word. Not that I know what I would have said. I can’t defend this. It makes me sick, but it doesn’t fit with what I know of the Court. Kyol goes out of his way to capture the rebels, even when it would be easier to kill them. The swordsmen he trains are the same. I’ve never seen them do something cruel or ruthless.

  But I don’t monitor them constantly. Uncertainty churns through my stomach.

  “You’re pale,” Aren says at my side. His voice is soft, maybe even concerned.

  “I’m just . . . I just need to sleep.”

  I hate the way he nods, like he’s assessed my condition and determined sleep is exactly what I need in order to think clearly.

  Before I head toward the inn, I force myself to look again at the note. I can’t read the words, but I’m certain it’s not Kyol’s script.

  My next breath comes a little easier. This is just one instance of cruelty committed by one of the king’s supporters. If Kyol finds out about it, he’ll punish the fae responsible.

  I glance at Aren as I pass by. Immediately, I jerk my gaze to the ground. I think I caught a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. It was so brief I almost missed it, but I’m sure something was there.

  A new wave of uneasiness runs through me.

  He wouldn’t . . . ? No. Surely not even Aren would do this to one of his own fae. He wouldn’t commit this crime just to plant a seed of doubt in my mind.

  Then again, how do I know the head belongs to a rebel?

  EIGHT

  A CACOPHONY OF gunfire jars me from sleep. I bolt upright and blink the room into focus.

  Wait. Gunfire? The fae don’t use guns.

  A single mason jar bathes the floor in a dim light. I must have been dreaming. For a moment, I don’t hear anything except the distant rumble of thunder.

  Pow-pow-pow.

  What the hell? That’s definitely gunfire.

  I whip off my thin blanket and lurch out of bed. Shouts ring out from within the inn. The hallway comes alive with creaks and groans as fae rush past my closed door. There’s too much noise for me to understand the rebels’ words, but I don’t need to. The shooters have to be human.

  Bullets splatter against the outside wall—somewhere below me, I think—and I swear the inn shudders like it’s in pain. I hurry to the boarded-up window and pound on the planks.

  “Help! There’s a human up here!” I scream. Ridiculous words in any normal situation, but the people outside have to be able to see the fae to shoot at them. They’ll understand. They’ll help me. “Hello!”

  Another volley of gunfire drowns out my plea and the inn quakes again. I crane my neck to stare at the ceiling, fairly certain it’ll come crashing down if the humans keep up this barrage. I’ve never suffered from claustrophobia before, but the air filling my room tastes stale and the walls press in too close.

  I abandon the window to pound my fist against the door. “Let me out!”

  No one answers.

  My heartbeat races in time with the stuttering of gunfire. I’m blind up here. I have no idea what’s going on outside, how many humans there are, or why they’re here. I’d like to believe they’ve come to rescue me, but they’re pelting this building with so many bullets they can’t possibly be aiming to get me out alive. They don’t know I’m here.

  Damn it, I will not die like this.

  I grab my jeans, pull them on under the satin slip Kelia gave me to sleep in, and then stuff my feet inside my boots, not wasting time putting on socks. I hurry to the door. It takes four awkward, half-balanced kicks to break off the doorknob, but the damn thing still doesn’t open.

  I’m about to pound on the door again when it flies open. A dagger-wielding fae bursts inside, rushing past me. He uses his blade at the boarded-up window to pry up the lengths of wood, one by one. While he works, two more fae sprint inside carrying crossbows and quivers of arrows.

  Crossbows and arrows against guns? I don’t wait around to see how effective they are. I escape into the hallway and run for the stairs. It’s not until I reach the second-floor balcony that I stop to question where I’m going. Maybe it’s safer to hide and let the humans come to me? Their gunfire is relentless now, almost as if they’re attempting to mow down the inn with their bullets. The muted thunks of the fae’s crossbows are much more disciplined in comparison. If the inn doesn’t fall, the humans could run out of ammo before they kill all the rebels and . . . Is that smoke?

  I peer over the rail to the floor below. A gray cloud of something smears the air. It doesn’t smell like anything’s burning. It smells . . . metallic? I don’t think it’s poisonous, but I’m torn on what to do now. Hide out up here or go downstairs? I try to picture myself cowering in a dark corner somewhere and realize I’d go insane not knowing what’s happening. I’ll go down. I can always run back up if it’s necessary.

  I quick-trot down the stairs and am halfway to the bottom floor when someone shouts. I glimpse a pair of humans in camo at the inn’s front door, see their guns firing, spraying bullets across the greeting room in a line that begins to arc up toward me. Instinctively, I cover my head with my arms and dive. But I’m on the stairs; it’s not level here. I tumble. Flowered wallpaper twirls around and around before I slam into the L-shaped banister at the bottom of the steps.

  When I�
�m able to focus again, my eyes lock on an arrowpierced head staring at me from the other side of the rail. The crossbow bolt goes straight through the human’s blood-filled mouth, pinning his skull to the wall behind him. The memory of the fae’s severed head superimposes itself over the human’s. I close my eyes, trying to block out both images.

  Someone wrenches me to my feet. I’d cry out a protest if the sharp twinge of pain in my lower back didn’t drive the air from my lungs. Black spots murk my vision as I’m dragged away from the inn’s front door. I’m thrown to the ground before I can suck in a breath.

  Freaking hell, I hurt. The pain radiates up my spine and into my neck. Nauseous, I force myself to my hands and knees and wait as my stomach tries to empty itself. A few dry heaves, but nothing comes up, and after another minute, the pain ebbs, becomes more manageable. I settle onto my haunches and try to get my bearings.

  I’m sitting on the kitchen floor. Naito and Kelia are crouched down by the cabinets, too. They’re both smeared with the soot in the air. She’s wearing a very thin, baby blue nightie but Naito has on nothing but a pair of jeans. Long, red scratch marks curve over his shoulders and down his chest. They’re clearly not the result of this attack. Kelia’s cheeks are flushed and the edarratae scurrying over her flesh quiver with pent-up energy.

  “Who’s outside?” I ask them, though my gaze is drawn to the window in the breakfast nook where Lena and another fae crouch, bolts nocked and ready in their crossbows. A few boxes, a couple of swords, and an extra crossbow are lined up against the wall beside them. My backpack and some other bags are thrown there as well.

  “My father,” Naito responds. The acid in his voice could corrode iron.

  “Vigilantes,” Kelia clarifies. “Humans who kill fae.”

  My frown triggers a headache behind my eyes. Humans who kill fae? “Why?”

  “Because they hate,” Naito all but snarls.

  “They have the Sight?” I press. Kelia nods. “Are any of them shadow-readers?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Naito says. “They can’t follow fae into the Realm without a fae to take them through a gate.”

  Kelia lays her hand on his shoulder. “The vigilantes won’t touch us.”

  Something in her voice tells me that “us” is really a “me.” The vigilantes won’t touch her, or so she’s trying to assure Naito. Sounds like there’s an interesting story there. Could it be?

  I turn my attention back to Naito. “You used to be one of them.”

  The tension in his clenched jaw indicates I’m right. I sniff. How Romeo and Juliet of them.

  I glance in the direction of the front door. The humans seem to be concentrating their fire on the upper floors. Whether that’s because the fae up there are drawing their fire or because a few humans invaded the ground floor, I don’t know, but that’s not what’s worrying me. The humans have slowed their attack. The spluttering of gunfire is more intermittent now. They’re taking their time to aim. What if they are running out of ammunition? If they have to retreat, will they return? I don’t want to miss this opportunity to escape, but if I make a mad dash out the door, will the fae upstairs take a shot at me?

  “Don’t think about it,” Naito says, reading my mind. “The vigilantes will kill you just for being here.”

  I throw him a quick glare. “I’m not with the rest of you.”

  “They won’t care. You work for the Court. A fae is a fae to them.”

  “Then I won’t broadcast my job,” I snap. It’s been a week since Aren healed my arm, and this is the first, possibly the last, chance I might have to escape.

  “Listen to him, McKenzie,” Kelia says. “These people are the worst of humankind. They’ll kill you on sight.”

  I stifle the “whatever” I want to snap out when a flash pulls my attention back toward Lena. Out of arrows, the fae beside her has set his crossbow aside. He rises to his knees now, holding a handful of flames.

  “No fire,” Lena orders in their language. After a brief hesitation, the fae makes a fist, extinguishing his small blaze. Almost all fae have the ability to create and manipulate fire, but having enough skill and power to throw it—as I assume this fae was about to do—is impressive. I wish Lena hadn’t stopped him, though. A forest fire would undoubtedly draw more humans here. Normal humans. I won’t admit it, but Naito and Kelia’s claims about the vigilantes make me nervous.

  I can’t stay here, though.

  I rise into a low crouch, prepared to sprint for the front door, when another niggling thought causes me to hesitate. Something’s not right here, something aside from the vigilantes and the fae. I’m not sure what it is until I glance again toward the breakfast nook. Lena’s staring back at me, her face pinched.

  “Go ahead and run,” she says. “We need a diversion.”

  They’re fae. They shouldn’t need a diversion.

  “Why isn’t anyone fissuring?” I ask.

  “We can’t fissure,” she says as if I’m the densest person she’s ever met.

  “You can’t fiss . . .” My voice trails off. I survey the kitchen, the countertops and floor, then my jeans and my palms. It’s not soot in the air; it’s silver dust. Everything’s coated in it.

  Shit. The rebels are totally screwed. These humans are brilliant. Not only are they keeping the fae from escaping, they’re severely limiting their ability to fight as well. The fae rely on their fissures to avoid and initiate attacks. They’re crippled without use of that magic.

  Their problem, not mine. I’m getting out of here.

  I don’t want to get a crossbow bolt in my back, so I wait until Lena takes aim outside the window before I make a dash for the kitchen’s exit. I don’t get far. A mass of intertwined arms and legs barrels past me. I spin around as Aren and a human crash against the counter. Both men grapple and curse, but Aren’s stronger, more agile. He wraps his arms around the struggling human and body-slams him to the linoleum.

  Something skates across the floor. A gun. Naito grabs it on his way to help Aren; then, together, they wrestle the human across the kitchen and heave him into a chair.

  “How did you find us?” Aren demands, inches from his captive’s face. I think the man’s one of the two humans who charged inside when I tumbled down the stairs, but I didn’t get a good enough look to be sure. Besides, he’s been roughed up so badly he’s barely able to sit upright. His nose looks broken, his mouth and chin are covered in blood, and his cheek is so swollen he can’t open his left eye.

  Aren’s face looks better, but he’s hurt, too. Blood runs down his back and chest from a bullet wound in his upper left shoulder. He’s not wearing a shirt. I’m pretty sure the round went straight through his muscle. If it had struck a few inches lower, he’d most certainly be dead.

  “How did you find us?” he demands again. He doesn’t give the man time to answer before he swings a fist into his face.

  “Answer his question, Tom,” Naito says, stepping forward and running his hands over the human’s camouflaged pants. He finds something in a pocket on the man’s thigh. I don’t recognize the black rectangle until Naito snaps it into the magazine well of the gun.

  “Naito,” the captive responds, drawing out the shadow-reader’s name. “Your father thought you might be with this group.”

  “So he’s throwing all his firepower at us? How’d he find out about the silver?” He tucks the pistol into the waistband of his jeans.

  “It’s old legend, Naito. We just discovered a way to deploy it.” He nods toward the remains of some twisted-up piece of metal. It looks like it might have been an old Maxwell House coffee can. The vigilantes must have stuffed it with silver dust and some type of explosive and then launched it into the inn. There are other twisted pieces of metal scattered around, too. Probably dozens more outside.

  “Bullshit,” Naito says. “Who told you?”

  Tom shrugs as if he hasn’t been beaten to a bloody pulp. His gaze takes an inventory of the kitchen, finally rests on me. “You’re w
ith them?”

  “No. They kidnapped me.”

  He’s about to say something else, but Aren cuts him off. “How did you find us?”

  “Go to hell,” Tom says. I have to give the human kudos. If Aren interrogated me with that expression on his face, I wouldn’t talk to him like that.

  Aren towers over the vigilante. His voice is ice when he speaks. “You know what I’m capable of?”

  Tom straightens and meets the fae’s eyes.

  Aren’s temple pulses when he clenches his jaw. He glances at Lena as if asking her for permission. Her lips thin, but she gives him a curt nod.

  “Very well,” he says. Then he wraps his hands around the human’s forearms. Tom screams and jerks. His chair tilts back on two legs before crashing over. Aren follows him down, his hands burning through Tom’s camouflaged sleeves and searing his flesh. The scream and the acrid smell trigger the memory of Brykeld, and my stomach churns.

  “Okay!” Tom screams. Aren releases him. Sweat glistens on the man’s face and his chest rises and falls as he sucks in air. He stares at his arms, which are both an angry red from the fire that seared him, then he raises his eyes to meet mine. There’s so much pain in them. I have to do something. I can’t let Aren hurt him again. Silently, I open the cabinet drawer behind me.

  “How did you find us?” Aren demands once more.

  I peek into the drawer. No knives. Not even a freaking fork.

  “We”—Tom heaves a raspy breath—“tracked her cell phone.”

  I hip the drawer shut before Aren and Naito swivel their gazes toward me. I know I look guilty. Hopefully they misinterpret the reason why.

  Naito turns to Aren. “You didn’t crush it?”

  “I did,” the fae answers. “After we fissured here.” His voice is low, angry. I doubt he’s used to making mistakes.

  He returns his attention to his captive. “How did you know to track her?”

  I hesitate before checking the next drawer, partly because I want to know the answer to Aren’s question, but mostly because Kelia’s watching me now.

  Tom shakes his head. “I don’t know.”