The Shadow Reader

by Sandy Williams

  Something moves in front of me. A man. A vigilante. Vaguely familiar eyes widen in surprise. Not Naito’s eyes. His father’s eyes. They narrow, undoubtedly realizing I’m not one of his people, then his mouth thins into a resolute line. A pistol rises out of his camouflaged netting. It aims at my chest.

  “Dad!”

  The vigilante whips his head toward Naito’s voice.

  I roll away as Kyol fissures between us, swinging his blade at Nakano.

  The gun goes off. Something wet splashes across my face.

  “Kyol!” I cry out, terrified he’s been shot. A second later, I see a severed arm clutching a pistol and hear Nakano’s scream.

  “Dad!” Naito skids to his knees beside his father.

  “McKenzie!” Kyol’s hands are on me.

  Before I can say anything, Aren fissures to my other side. “Are you hurt?”

  I shake my head. There’s too much going on. Too many gunshots and fissuring fae. And there’s an arm on the ground in front of me and a man bleeding and cursing and trying to push away his son, his son, who—even though he hates him—is trying to save his father’s life.

  Naito cinches his belt around the stump of Nakano’s arm.

  “Help him.” I push Aren toward the humans.

  “You’re not hurt?”

  “No.” A bullet in the back is what knocked me to the ground, but I don’t think it penetrated my vest. Adrenaline’s numbing the pain now.

  “Get her out of here,” Aren orders. He scrambles across the forest floor to Nakano.

  As Kyol’s pulling me to my feet, a shadow captures my attention. I would just let it go, but it nags at me like an itch that needs to be scratched. It’s a Court fae. I can’t see his face, but I’m certain I know him. He’s . . . Holy shit, it’s Radath.

  I yank my sketchbook out of my satchel as he fissures away. “He’s running.”

  “Not now, McKenzie.”

  I push Kyol’s hands away and take the pen out of the spiral. “It’s Radath.”

  Kyol freezes. I take advantage of his indecision and scratch the first twist of shadows across a blank page. The trail’s fresh enough. I think I can map his location to within a couple hundred feet.

  “He’s gone to the Realm.” He’ll double fissure so I have to be accurate. A deeper shade of black narrows into a curving line. The river leaks out into the Jythia Ocean.

  I focus. The shadow’s scale changes, grows more precise. I flip to the next page to narrow my map down as well. He’s fissured into a rocky field. It’s nowhere near a town, just a place in the middle of nowhere.

  “Criskran.” I shove the sketchbook in front of Kyol’s eyes. “You can catch him.”

  His jaw clenches.

  “Stay with Jorreb,” he orders. He takes my gun out of its holster, presses it into my hands, and something flickers in his eyes. I don’t realize what it is until he fissures out. He doesn’t expect to see me again. Why? He can take Radath in a fair fight.

  In a fair fight.

  Fear drives the air out of my lungs. It’s a trap. It’s the only explanation for Radath being here, right here, where Kyol and I both stood.

  God, what have I done?

  I press my back against a tree and scan the forest for anything, anyone who can help him.

  Aren’s stopped Nakano’s stump from bleeding. He fissures away to fight a trio of Court fae, leaving Naito at his father’s side.

  “Get away!” Nakano roars at his son.

  Naito complies. He picks up the gun from his father’s severed hand and takes aim at one of the fae Aren’s fighting.

  I scramble in the direction of the Sidhe Tol, slipping on wet leaves as the battle roars on. I have to find someone willing and able to help Kyol. I have to.

  I spot Nalst running past Nakano. Before I call the rebel’s name, Nakano moves. My heart thumps in my chest as he pulls a gun out from behind his back. He aims.

  “Watch out!” I scream, swinging my gun up to aim, but Nalst is in my way.

  Two shots ring out. I spin in the direction Nakano shot, making sure he hasn’t hit any rebels.

  He has.

  Kelia cries out, sinking to her knees. She has armor under her camo, though. She’ll be okay. She’ll get up. She’ll . . .

  A wet stain grows across her breast.

  Oh, God.

  I run to her. I drop my gun, placing my hand over her heart to try to stop the bleeding. Her cuirass is in the way. The blood’s leaking out the gap on the side, too. It’s leaking everywhere, staining her clothes. I can’t put enough pressure on it.

  She cries out when I yank at her shirt, ripping it so I can get to the strings holding the jaedric together.

  “I’m sorry. I have to . . . God. I have to get this off you.”

  My hands shake. Blood tightens the knots at her side. I can’t get them undone.

  “Naito,” she chokes out.

  Shit. She’s going to die. She can’t wait. She needs help now.

  “Aren!” I yell.

  I scan the forest, spot him slaying a Court fae. He turns toward me the same instant Naito does.

  “Kelia!” Naito flies across the forest floor almost as quickly as Aren fissures here. He drops to his knees, takes his hand in hers. “Baby, hang on.”

  “Naito,” she whispers, focusing on his face.

  Aren takes out a knife, cuts through the bindings on her side. He flings the cuirass aside and places his hands over Kelia’s bullet wounds. His hands glow blue as he flares his magic. The tension floods out of Kelia’s body. An instant later, she vanishes.

  I stop breathing. No. She couldn’t have died. Aren was healing her. He was . . .

  A spasm wracks through Naito. An anguished scream rips from his throat.

  “No!” He reaches for her rising soul-shadow, clutching at the air as if he can keep it in this world. “No!”

  The white shadow dissipates.

  “No!”

  I back away. Kelia’s dead. Kyol’s gone. Fae are still dying around us. I don’t know if any rebels have made it to the Sidhe Tol. Don’t know how much longer until the reinforcements from the other attacks arrive.

  Naito screams again. His pain brings tears to my eyes.

  God, we shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t have come.

  I take another step back. My tears stream down my face, mixing with the rain.

  Another step back and I hit something. I put a hand behind me to balance against the tree, only it’s not a tree.

  I start to turn, but something wraps around me. Something invisible.

  The forest blurs, darkens, then reappears in a shade of blue. A hand covers my mouth. I can’t suck in enough air to scream.

  I shiver. Not from the icy grip of the In-Between but from the wet tongue that slowly licks up my neck.

  THIRTY

  I TWIST AND I thrash and I try to scream, but no one sees Micid drag me to the Sidhe Tol. No one hears his sick chuckle when he bites my ear, and the battle’s too loud, too chaotic, for anyone to notice the spray of water my kicking legs send up when Micid reaches into the stream and opens a gated-fissure. He presses an anchor-stone into my palm, covers my fist with his hand, then pulls me into the slash of white light.

  My rain-soaked clothing freezes to my skin. Pain stabs through me, stealing my breath and cramping my muscles—all my muscles: my stomach, my calves, my bruised back. Everything hurts.

  Then the In-Between vanishes and I stumble into the Realm. My lungs aren’t working right. The air filling them doesn’t seem to contain any oxygen. Shadows creep into my vision, blurring the gilded doors to the king’s hall. The shadows aren’t all from our fissure, though; most are from my fading consciousness. My knees buckle, but Micid’s hand tangles in my hair and he drags me through the open doorway.

  I recover enough to lock my knees, forcing Micid to stop walking. He slides his hand down the side of my neck, agitating my edarratae. When he puts his arm around my shoulders, I slam my elbow into his stomach.


  He hisses and grips the back of my neck in one hand, then places a knife against my throat with the other.

  “Bring her here, Micid,” Atroth says, rising from his throne. Four guards stand at the foot of the dais, hands ready on their swords, and more than a dozen archers stand with their backs against the room’s long walls. Arrows are already inserted into their crossbows. Everyone is silent and alert, ready in case any rebels make it through the Sidhe Tol.

  Micid places his mouth against my ear. “I will tame you when this is over.”

  His knife cuts into my skin as he leads me down the length of the blue carpet. I’m cold and shaking, but my clothes are just wet, not frozen like I thought, and the muscle cramps are gone now. Unfortunately, I’m all too aware of my thudding heart and the anxiety pooling in my stomach. If I wasn’t holding out hope to find some way out of this, I’d force Micid to slit my throat. I’d rather be dead than in his whorehouse.

  Atroth gazes at me as if I’m a child who’s disappointed a parent. When he walks down the platform’s steps, his four guards part to allow him through.

  “Put away the knife, Micid.”

  “Of course, my king.” He makes the blade disappear.

  I swipe my hand across my neck. It’s only bleeding a little—the shrapnel stuck in the back of my arm is a worse injury—but Atroth scowls, unties a blue sash from around his waist, then dabs at the shallow scratch. I don’t know why he bothers. My clothes are stained with Kelia’s blood.

  Kelia. She’s dead. Kyol probably is, too. And Aren?

  My gut twists. The fight at the Sidhe Tol wasn’t going well, and Aren didn’t see Micid take me. Naito and I told him about the ther’rothi, but will he realize what happened?

  Atroth folds the sash several times before he slides it into a pocket of his embroidered jacket.

  “You’ve become a problem, McKenzie.”

  “What do you want?” Somehow, I manage to sound angry, not scared and exhausted.

  Atroth’s eyebrows go up. “What do I want? McKenzie, you’ve done this to yourself. When we rescued you from the rebellion, I intended to carry on as usual. I’ve always thought you were smart, strong-willed. I never thought you’d allow yourself to be manipulated by a false-blood. What’s worse, you’ve used your chaos lusters to manipulate Taltrayn as well.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Micid gives me a shake, making me swallow my words.

  Atroth heaves out a sigh. “I suppose his actions are partly my fault, though. I knew how he felt about you, but I believed him when he swore he wouldn’t act on those feelings. Still, I shouldn’t have allowed you to work so closely together for so long a time.” He shakes his head as if he’s had this discussion with himself a thousand times before. “But I needed you protected, and Taltrayn was my sword-master. It made sense. You were effective together.”

  I scan the length of the throne room, looking for some way to save myself. There are too many archers between me and the door. I study their faces, hoping to see Taber or someone else who might be more loyal to Kyol than to Atroth, but I don’t recognize any of them.

  “Sidhe,” Atroth curses, regaining my attention. “You have no idea how difficult this is for me.”

  I focus on him and feel my eyes widen.

  “For you?” My voice is so soft, so cold, the nearest guards loosen their swords in their scabbards.

  The king frowns. “You don’t think I’m enjoying this, do you? I’ve known Taltrayn longer than you’ve been alive. I never wanted to hurt him. When my guards discovered you helping the rebels infiltrate my palace, I should have had you executed. I didn’t because Taltrayn begged me to spare your life.”

  “So you planned to give me to him instead?” I jab a finger toward Micid, who smiles in return.

  “Of course not,” Atroth says. “It was a threat only, for both you and Taltrayn. You knew more about the rebels than you told us. I needed you to talk.”

  “I could take her now, my lord.”

  “No, Micid. She won’t become one of your whores.” He says this as if he’s doing me a favor, as if he’s the most reasonable and tolerant king to ever rule a world. He’s not. He’s obviously aware of the ther’rothi’s fetish. Atroth’s a bastard for ignoring it. Besides, Micid’s sick smile doesn’t waver. He still thinks he’ll have me.

  I shiver. When I cross my arms over my chest, the shrapnel embedded in the back of my left arm stabs deeper. I focus on that pain instead of the panic threatening to tangle my thoughts. Atroth hasn’t ordered his guards to kill me yet. There must be some way out of this.

  “I’m not the only reason Kyol helped the rebellion,” I say, trying to buy time. Aren will end up here eventually. If he’s alive. “He disagrees with the way you’re running this war. If you didn’t let Radath—”

  Atroth holds up his hand. “The rebels started this. I’m doing what I must to protect the Realm. Taltrayn understood this until you began whispering in his ear.”

  “I didn’t know what was going on until I was abducted.”

  “You still don’t know what’s going on. No. Don’t say anything else. I hate to let your talent go to waste, but I can’t trust you anymore.”

  “So you’re going to have me killed?” I say the words like they’re an accusation. I don’t know if he notices the way my voice cracks.

  “We’ll see,” he says, staring past me. When he drops into his silver throne, I turn.

  Lord General Radath enters via the huge gilded doors. A silver-threaded ceremonial cape is hooked to his jaedric cuirass. He may have briefly been at the fight at the Sidhe Tol, but he doesn’t have one smudge of dirt, one bead of sweat, or one speck of silver-dust on him. He couldn’t have engaged any of the fae or humans in Montana. He couldn’t have fought with . . .

  Kyol. My heart stutters when I see him. He’s bruised, bloodied, and bound, but he’s alive. He holds his head up and is composed as he strides behind Radath. Composed, until he sees me.

  His mask shatters and a look of helpless horror crosses his face. One of his two guards has to shove him forward. He stumbles, then quickly shutters his thoughts and focuses on the king.

  He’s alive. I close my eyes and draw in a breath, but his presence doesn’t mean I’ll make it out of this. It doesn’t mean either of us will.

  I glance back at the gilded doors, praying Aren and an entourage of rebels will charge through them, but I hate this, standing here waiting for somebody else to save me. I need to find a way to save myself.

  Radath ignores me and bows to Atroth. “The son of Taltrayn, my lord.”

  The king and his former sword-master lock eyes. The silence in the throne room is deafening, the atmosphere heavy. Even though Kyol’s hands are tied in front of him, Atroth’s guards shift their attention from me to him. I’m just a human. I’m not a threat; Kyol is.

  “My lord,” he says after a long moment. “She shouldn’t be here.”

  Atroth’s frown deepens. “She shouldn’t be here like this; you’re right. Neither should you. I’ve been lenient with you, Taltrayn. I allowed you to continue seeing her. I believed you when you said you had no hand in her escape. I trusted you, and you repay me with treason?”

  Kyol’s jaw clenches. “I lost her because of my loyalty to you.”

  “Lost her? To Jorreb?” Atroth’s temper cools. “Taltrayn . . . Kyol, you never should have lost your heart to a human. They’re fickle creatures. They don’t understand loyalty like we do, like you did before she bewitched you. McKenzie was with the rebels for a handful of weeks. She couldn’t possibly have felt the same way for you as you did for her, not if she’s given herself to another fae so soon.”

  Something in Atroth’s tone catches my attention. I glance from him to Kyol, then from Kyol to Radath. Kyol’s here. Kyol’s alive. If Atroth intends to kill him, why the hell is he taking so long? Why didn’t he order Radath to kill Kyol on sight?

  The only plausible answer is that Atroth doesn’t want to kill him. He
’s searching for a reason to forgive his sword-master. If Kyol plays this right, he might be able to survive.

  Radath mutters something under his breath, then, more clearly, says, “My lord, this has gone on far too long. We should have executed him before. We should execute him now.”

  Atroth sits back in his throne, taps his fingers on the sleek, silver armrest. “He’s my friend, Radath.”

  “He’s a traitor. He has been for a while. We’ve only discovered his deceit recently, but he’s been working against me, against us, for years. If he hadn’t opposed every plan I had, we could have ended this war a thousand times over. You cannot trust—”

  Atroth holds up a hand. “Kyol, don’t you see she doesn’t care about you? Maybe she never has.”

  I keep my mouth shut because he might be able to survive this, but my heart’s pumping adrenaline through my veins and my mind is scrambling for an idea, some spark of enlightenment that might save both our lives.

  “If she lives, she’ll aid the remnants of the rebellion,” Atroth continues. “If we destroy it today, the next false-blood will find her. I won’t allow her to hunt down my officers. You can give her a quick death, Kyol.”

  Kyol’s gaze doesn’t waver from the king. I swallow, trying to wet my throat. I need to tell him it’s okay, there’s no reason for us both to die, but I’m too damn scared to force the words out.

  “I’m willing to forgive you if you do this,” Atroth says. “Everything can go back to the way it was.” He draws a dagger from his belt, holds it out toward his sword-master.

  “Did you ever love me?”

  Kyol’s words are so soft I barely hear them. I certainly have a hard time comprehending them. He’s listening to Atroth, doubting how I felt? I waited for him—for ten years, I waited. Does he think that’s normal behavior for a human? I can’t tell. His mask is in place. There’s not a glimmer of emotion in his silver eyes.

  “Take the dagger,” Atroth urges, sounding sympathetic.

  “Did you?” Kyol demands, facing me squarely. “Or did you use me, McKenzie? Did you meet Jorreb before he abducted you?”

  It feels as if the In-Between steals my breath away. My throat is raw when I manage to swallow. I shouldn’t have to deny his accusations. He should know me better than this.