“They’re on the left.”
He tosses the shirt to the ground and pins me with a frustrated glare. “I can speak your language, McKenzie, but I can’t read it.”
I huff out a breath and grab one of the white packets. “It’s this one.” I rip the top off and take out the wipe. “You’re going to need more of these than we have.” He’s covered with dirt, sweat, and blood.
“Just clean it as well as you can.”
I run the towelette across the hole in his shoulder and down over his incredibly firm chest. God, he’s in shape. He’s thinner than Kyol, but has the same mouthwateringly toned physique. I try to ignore the hard muscles beneath my hand as I clean his wound. Mostly, the towelettes only smear the blood around. This isn’t going to prevent an infection. “You need a doctor.”
“I’ll be fine once we rejoin the others.”
“So fissure out. We’re not driving anymore. You can send someone back to this location in two minutes.” Two minutes would be enough time for me to jump into the driver’s seat and speed off.
He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”
I stop cleaning his shoulder to frown suspiciously into his eyes. “You can’t fissure, can you?”
“I can.” His jaw clenches. “I just can’t fissure very far, right now. The tech’s poison will fade by the time we reach the gate.”
“In your condition, you won’t make it to the gate.”
“It’s not far.”
“You can’t judge distances when you’re in a car.” Kyol can’t, at least. “We might be miles away from the river.”
“I’ll make it.”
“You’ll bleed to death.”
A smile breaks through his fatigued expression, and damn it if those chaos lusters don’t spring to life again in my stomach. You’d think my awareness of the whole Stockholm syndrome thing would make me immune to its effects, but no. It’s worse than ever.
“Your concern for my well-being is heartwarming,” he says. He oomphs when I slap a new wet wipe against his wound.
Sosch drapes himself across the ledge behind the backseat. His blue eyes blink, watching me work. I clean Aren off as well as I can, but don’t feel like I’m making any progress. Every time I put pressure on his shoulder, a new river of blood pours out. When I’m down to my last two towelettes, I decide it’s time to do what I can for the exit wound. The exit wound’s on his back, though, and short of sitting in his lap, there’s no easy way to get to it.
“Get out of the car.” I move so he can stand.
He grips the edge of the BMW’s roof, hefts himself to his feet, then turns and leans his forearms on the trunk. Damn, he has a beautiful back—minus the bullet wound and blood, of course. His shoulders are broad and the muscles to either side of his spine ripple when he adjusts his position. A chaos luster zigzags down his right rib cage and disappears beneath the waistband of his pants. The urge to trace its path with my hands is despicably strong, but I force myself to focus on the hole in his shoulder.
When I toss the last blood-soaked wipe into the backseat, Aren dips back into the car. He rummages through the first-aid kit for a needle and a spindle of something that looks more like floss than thread. He holds both up to me.
“I didn’t volunteer for that,” I say, keeping my eyes on his face.
He watches me a moment, then says softly, “You didn’t volunteer for any of this, did you?” He strings the thread through the needle himself, then, without hesitation, sticks it through the flesh beside his bullet wound. I grimace and look away.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says.
I keep my eyes on the dirt under my feet. He’s not what I expected either, but I won’t admit to that.
“I thought you’d be heartless,” he continues. “Cold, like Sword-master Taltrayn. You’re not.”
“The sword-master isn’t cold,” I say before I think better of it.
He pauses with the needle sticking through his skin. “Do you ever get tired of defending the Court?”
I shrug off the question. He almost has the wound closed, but his blood-slick fingers struggle to hold the needle and he can’t see what he’s doing anymore, no matter how far down he tries to tilt his chin. He won’t be able to sew up his back either.
“Here,” I growl and take the needle. Before I can back out, I stab it through his skin. I tug the thread tight, slip it under a few of the other stitches, then tie it off. “Turn around.” I grab his arm and spin him to face the car again. A few minutes later, he’s all stitched up. I wipe as much of the blood off him as I can before I tape gauze over the bullet’s entry and exit points.
Aren smiles. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“It was horrible,” I say, letting my gaze travel over him. He’s lost a lot of blood. Surely that’ll weaken him, slow him down some. “You sure you can make it to the gate?”
“I’m sure.” He leans inside the car, grabs my backpack, and then clucks to Sosch. The kimki darts inside the bag.
I step to the side and motion for Aren to lead the way. He slips one strap of the backpack over his good shoulder, then holds out his hand.
“I don’t need my hand held.”
“McKenzie,” he says, his tone ever so patient.
I grind my teeth when I realize what he wants. Rolling my eyes, I take the keys out of my back pocket and chuck them at his chest.
ELEVEN
WITHIN THE HOUR, I’m wearing the Sosch-filled backpack and half carrying Aren through the forest. He resisted my help at first, and I watched him stumble along our weed-clogged “trail.” When the underbrush became too thick to pass, he used his sword to carve us a path. It wasn’t until he overswung and almost hit me that I finally ignored his protests and took the sword from him. He managed a weak laugh and said he was worried I’d strike him down with it. He’s not laughing anymore. He hasn’t said a word in more than twenty minutes, and I’m too exhausted to attempt conversation.
He rests his weight across my shoulders. My arm encircles his waist. His body is hot. I can’t tell if that’s from his edarratae leaping to my skin or from a fever. Most likely, it’s the latter. How long does it take for an infection to set in? His lips are pale and he’s sweating. I’m sweating, too, and my back aches from supporting his weight. My boots sink into the wet earth and I’m seriously regretting not taking the time to put on socks. I feel like I’m shuffling ankle-deep in broken glass, my feet hurt so badly. Aren’s not complaining about the hole in his shoulder, though, so I endure the pain.
Sometime later, I hear the murmur of a river. Sosch must hear it, too. He shifts in the backpack; then, with his signature chirp-squeak, he climbs onto my shoulder before leaping to the ground.
The forest thins enough to see the morning sun glittering across the river’s surface. Sosch scurries to its edge and then laps at the water.
“Is it safe to drink?” I ask, hobbling to the bank.
“It shouldn’t hurt him,” Aren says, but he doesn’t look anxious to try it himself. Is he not as thirsty as I am? I’m absolutely parched.
He takes his arm off my shoulder, stands on his own. “We’re not far from the gate. Once we fissure, we’ll have water.”
I plop down on the damp ground beside the river. It might not be a good idea to drink the water, but I can’t pass up the opportunity to dip my feet beneath its surface.
“Which way is the gate?” I ask as I unzip my left boot.
He looks downriver. “That way.” He doesn’t sound certain.
“How far was it on a . . .” Jesus, my foot looks worse than I thought. Oozing red blisters cover my heel and almost all my toes. The fresh air makes them sting and now I’m not so sure I want to plunge them into the water.
“Nom Sidhe, McKenzie,” Aren says, staring down at my foot. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t know it was this bad.”
He sinks to the ground beside me. When he reaches toward my toes, I pull my foot back.
“You don’t have the energy to heal me.”
“You can’t walk like this.”
“You won’t be able to fissure.”
Silver eyes meet mine. “And that’s bad for you because?” Good point.
“Fine,” I say.
He encases my foot between his palms. Chaos lusters quiver over his hands, flow into my toes, the arch of my foot. I tense and hold my breath, but I can’t help it. I giggle like a schoolgirl.
Aren looks up from his magic, eyebrows raised, and Sosch perks his ears forward.
“Tickles,” I explain. My leg jerks when an edarratae darts from my heel to my pinky toe and another snicker escapes me.
The weariness leaves Aren’s face and the left edge of his mouth curves up.
“What?” I demand.
“I’ve never seen you smile before,” he says.
I plaster on a frown despite the butterflies rioting in my stomach. “Don’t get used to it.” I pull my foot out of his hand. Damn this Stockholm syndrome. There’s got to be some cure for it.
“You haven’t tried to run,” he says quietly.
“You see my feet?” I wisecrack, but I’m gritting my teeth. I don’t need him to point out my lapse in judgment, my inconsistency. Maybe I should leave him now? I’m sure I can outrun him, but he obviously still has the ability to use some magic. He might be able to fissure short distances or stop me some other way. He’s a healer, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have other skills.
Oh, who am I kidding? None of that stopped me before. I’m making excuses to stay by his side. Weak excuses. The real reason I’m still here is because I don’t want him to die. Plus, if I abandon him, it’ll be like I’m sliding a sword through his chest, and executing someone who’s injured and in need of help isn’t something I can do.
“Take off your other boot.”
I swallow back my frustration and comply. Crap, this foot is worse than the other one.
Aren just shakes his head and sends his magic into me. I bite my lip to prevent another giggle from escaping. Thank God, he finishes his work quickly. Laughing makes me feel too vulnerable.
I pull my foot out of his grasp and then submerge both my blisterless feet in the river. Its cool current is invigorating.
Beside me, Aren awkwardly tilts back until he’s lying flat. He closes his eyes. I watch his chest rise and fall. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes betray how much his shoulder hurts. I’m worried about it. He’s not bleeding anymore, but maybe we shouldn’t have stitched it shut. Maybe it needs to drain or have air or something.
“Talk to me,” he says. “It’ll distract me from my shoulder.”
I doubt that, but say, “What do you want to talk about?”
A chaos luster shoots across his abs. Is it dimmer than usual? It’s hard to tell under the dirt and sweat.
“How long have you worked for the Court?”
“Ten years.” I pause, considering how much I should reveal. When one of his breaths turns ragged, I add, “I was planning on retiring.”
Silver peaks between his lashes. “Really?”
I nod. “I was supposed to graduate a week after you kidnapped me. I was going to be a normal human, ignore the fae, and never set foot in the Realm again.”
He smiles. “You could never be a normal human.”
I glare at him, but he’s closed his eyes again.
“Ten years?” he says after a moment. “You were young, weren’t you?”
“Not that young.”
“You still lived with your parents?”
I definitely don’t want this conversation to go there. I lift my feet out of the water and rest them on the bank to dry.
He turns his head to look at me. “Will they be searching for you?”
“No,” I say in a way that should end that conversation.
“Will any humans be searching for you?”
“Yes.” Not a lie. Another couple of weeks and bill collectors will be calling. And it’s possible Paige is missing me. Her sister’s getting married this month and I promised . . .
Ah, hell.
“What?” Aren asks.
“I missed the bachelorette party.”
“The what?”
“A party,” I say. “My friend’s sister is getting married on Saturday.” Paige has never gotten along well with Amy, but she’s the maid of honor. She has to play nice until the wedding, and I gave her my word I’d be at both events to help her keep her sanity.
This is why I don’t have many human friends. Something always comes up with the fae, and I end up breaking my commitments.
Aren stares up at the tree-blocked sky. “Tell me why you started working for the Court.”
I pick up a rock from the bank and blow out a sigh. He still needs a distraction? Fine. “What human girl would turn down the chance to be part of a fairy tale? I was sixteen. I wanted excitement and adventure.” And love, but I won’t tell him that. “The Court offered me all of that. They told me I was special, that I could help them, and that they’d keep me safe.”
“Safe? From who?”
I watch Sosch slide into a rocky, shallow section of the river. “From the false-bloods. Thrain found me.”
“Thrain?” Aren says, as if the name puts a bad taste in his mouth.
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you false-bloods would stick together.”
“I’m not a false-blood.” He sits up. Too quickly. I can tell he’s light-headed by the way his eyes lose focus. It takes a moment for him to stop swaying. “Sethan’s not a false-blood either.”
“So you say.” I won’t argue with him. If—no, when—I make it back to the Court, I’ll have Kyol look up the Zarrak bloodline for me.
I stare downriver, the direction Aren indicated the gate was in. “I think you’re wrong about the gate. Did you see it marked on a map? How far was it from the inn?”
“About thirty yraka.” He blinks, focuses on me. “That doesn’t help, does it?”
“It does. Kyol’s maps are measured in yrakas.”
He tilts his head to the side. “Kyol?”
Too late, I realize my slip. Aren’s eyes meet mine, and, hard as I try, I can’t keep him from learning the truth. He sees it in me, and a thousand emotions collide on his face. Amazement. Confusion. Horror. I manage to mask my feelings the same instant he does.
“You’re in love with Taltrayn.” It’s not a statement, not quite a question, and I don’t know how to respond. My grip tightens around the rock in my hand. He’ll see the lie if I deny it. If I admit it . . .
What’s Aren going to do? Run off and tell the king? Not likely.
He shifts beside me. “Taltrayn may be my enemy, but he . . . he has principles. He’ll never go against Atroth’s wishes. He’ll never disgrace himself with you.”
“I know that!”
He grimaces. “I’m sorry. That came off wrong. I didn’t mean—”
“The gate’s that way.” I jab a finger upriver, wondering why Aren’s words hurt so much. Is it because he used the word disgrace ? I would disgrace Kyol?
No. I can’t let Aren get inside my head.
“McKenzie.”
I stand and chuck my rock into the river. “If you don’t want me to leave you here, get up. Now.”
Slowly, carefully, he struggles to his feet. I keep my hands fisted by my sides. I won’t help him. I don’t care how much his face pales or how heavily he leans on his sword. I’ll get him to the gate where it’ll be easier for him to fissure and then I’m out of here.
His knees manage to hold his weight. “You’re smart, McKenzie. You must see—”
“Don’t.”
“He’s manipulated you.”
“Just shut up.” I turn away.
Aren turns me back. “He’s agreed to be bonded to the daughter of Srillan.”
I stop breathing. My heart shatters. It shouldn’t. Aren wants to drive a wedge between me and the Court. Between me and Kyol. He’s making up li
es to lure me to his side of the war. I have no reason to believe him except . . . I know the daughter of Srillan. She’s a beautiful fae named Jacia, and she’s been around Kyol often the past few months.
Cold, damp air clings to my skin. I’m not shaking, but I feel like I’m breaking apart on the inside. Could it be true? And if it is, why wouldn’t Kyol tell me? Did he deliberately hide it from me? I drop my gaze to the ground, unwilling to let Aren see the questions in my eyes.
Aren lifts my chin with a finger. His edarratae flare out over my jaw. I feel a bolt of lightning strike across my lips. Aren’s gaze focuses on it, then on my mouth, then back to my eyes.
“He doesn’t love you,” he says.
I slap him. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because all my doubts, all my frustrations, surge over me like a tidal wave. I don’t want to face them. Not now.
“I see,” Aren says quietly.
I shouldn’t have slapped him. It’s such a weak, girly thing to do. I should have balled my hand into a fist and launched it at his nose.
“Come on,” he says. “We’ll search for the gate upriver.”
I had every intention to shove him through the fissure without me, but as we near the gate, I realize that’s not going to be as easy as I thought. Aren must have been conserving his strength for this last leg of our journey. As soon as Sosch’s fur begins to turn silver, Aren’s grip on my arm tightens. His face is pinched and he’s bathed in sweat, but he doesn’t feel weak at all right now.
He digs into the pouch tied to his belt and takes out an anchor-stone. It glows briefly when he imprints it with a destination.
“You should let me go,” I say, the first words spoken between us since we started upriver.
“ And leave you alone so far from civilization? And with no boots? No, nalkin-shom. You’ll come with me.”
My barefootedness is an issue. The boots would have quickly rubbed my feet raw again, so I didn’t put them back on. I took care to walk along the softest parts of the riverbank, but still they’re sore and sensitive. They shouldn’t be a problem for long, though, not once Aren is gone and I can use the cell phone that’s burning a hole in my back pocket. I haven’t had an opportunity to make a call yet. Aren hasn’t strayed from my side once since we left the car.
The Shadow Reader Page 12
