The Shadow Reader ml-1

by Sandy Williams

  “Help me?” I snort. “The only thing I need from you is permission to leave.”

  “And allow Atroth to continue using you?” He shakes his head. “That’s not an option.”

  “What if I agree not to work for the Court again?”

  Sethan’s brow wrinkles as if he can’t comprehend my question. His eyes narrow and he studies me. I hope he can’t read my expression. I hope he sees my offer as the biggest concession I can make and not as something I’ve been planning to do for several weeks now. Next Saturday, the day I was supposed to graduate if I hadn’t flunked my final exam—and I’m certain I did flunk it—I planned to announce my retirement to the Court. Avoiding the Realm and everything fae is the only way I’ll be able to live a normal, human life, and in anticipation of my degree, I filled out an application for an entry-level editor position in a suburb outside of Houston. I made plans to make new friends, to join a book club, to go to movies and concerts and clubs and all the other places normal people have time to go, but that’s not going to happen now, not unless I escape these fae and discover some way to convince my professor to let me retake my final.

  Thinking about escape makes me turn my attention to the dark forest. A gentle breeze blows, and I half expect Kyol to step into the clearing, a silent, deadly figure in the night. A little tug of longing pulls at my heart.

  Aren speaks over the rustling leaves. “She thinks they’ll let her go.”

  I shift my gaze to the false-blood. “Of course they’ll let me go. They’re not the ones who’ve kidnapped me. They’re not the ones who are trying to blackmail me into working for them. I’m free to leave whenever I want.”

  Aren gives Sethan a pointed look. “See.”

  “See what?” I demand.

  “Your ignorance.” He grins as if he’s just delivered the punch line to a grand ol’ joke. He crosses the porch and rests a hand on the knob of the front door. “Talk to her, Sethan. Then tell me what you decide.”

  The door clanks shut behind him. My stomach twists and turns, but this time, I’m not sure if it’s because I’m starving or because Aren’s left me alone with an unfamiliar fae. It makes no sense, I know. Aren’s the man who’s abducted me, who’s brought me halfway across the planet, and who’s responsible for the massacre at Brykeld. The thing is, other than knocking me unconscious to keep me quiet in the engineering building, he hasn’t hurt me. In fact, he’s been almost kind. He could have—probably should have—ripped into me for my escape attempt. Instead, he healed me.

  Sethan leans against the rail. “Aren thinks the Court has misled you. He thinks if you learn the truth of this war, you’ll work with us.”

  “I already know the truth.” The knots in my stomach tighten. I’m not completely delusional. I know how easy it would be for the Court to mislead me. I don’t speak their language. I don’t understand their politics. I know only the history that’s been told to me. But I’ve seen what these rebels have done and Kyol . . . Kyol wouldn’t be on the wrong side of the war. He’s a good man, and even though I want him to be more, he’s a friend. Has been for the last ten years. He couldn’t have faked every moment he’s been with me.

  “The king’s told you there are thirteen provinces,” Sethan says. “He’s lying. There are seventeen. I’m sure he’s also told you we want complete control of the gates. We don’t. We want equal access to them and reasonable tariffs.”

  Who is this guy? “You could have discussed that with Atroth years ago—he gave you the chance—but all Aren’s concerned about is taking the Silver Palace. False-bloods are power-hungry like that.”

  Sethan gives me a smile that he probably intends to be patient and pleasant, but I find it patronizing. “Aren doesn’t intend to sit on the throne, McKenzie. I do.”

  I sit very still, trying to keep the reverberations of shock from making their way to my face. Sethan is the false-blood, not Aren? The king has no clue about this. If he did, Kyol or Lord General Radath would have had me searching for him every time we hunted a rebel, just in case he was around.

  “I’m not a false-blood,” Sethan continues. “The Zarrak bloodline is purer than Atroth’s. Other fae’s are even purer than mine, but they have all been killed, appeased, or made tor’um.”

  Tor’um is a word I know. It translates roughly to “walkers,” a derogatory name given to fae who don’t have enough magic to fissure. Most fae who are that weak are born that way, but some lose their magic later on in life. When they do, they don’t exactly stay sane. Scary thing is, the numbers of both are on the rise. Even with Atroth regulating the Realm’s gates, he’s been unable to reverse the slow decline of the fae’s magic. Despite laws against it, fae take human plants, animals, sometimes even technology, into the Realm. The big problem is that there are literally hundreds more gates on Earth than there are in the Realm. The Court doesn’t have enough soldiers to guard them all, so some merchants have set up shop in my world to avoid taxes and regulations. Those fae don’t care what they fissure into the Realm so long as they make a profit.

  “You don’t believe me,” Sethan says.

  “That you’re a Descendant of the Tar Sidhe or that you have a stronger claim?” I’m not sure what to believe, but I sure as hell am interested in finding out more about him, Aren, and the rebellion. This can be my last hurrah before I retire. I’ll do a little espionage, plan a little escape, report my findings to the king, then get myself a job and a real life on Earth.

  I keep my gaze steady. “If either of those were true, the high nobles would have voted for you to become king.”

  “They would have if all seventeen provinces had been permitted an opinion.”

  “Nine of the thirteen voted for Atroth,” I say, even though I’m not sold on the seventeen province thing. “Do the math. He still would have won.”

  “The high nobles would have voted differently,” he says, confident. “There are two sides to every war, McKenzie. The king has told you only one version of our conflict’s origins.”

  And you’re only telling me your version, I want to point out, but a deep, repetitive banging distracts me. I scan the clearing, see nothing. It sounds like it might be coming from inside the inn. Sethan doesn’t appear concerned about it, and I wouldn’t care much either except for the fact that my head pounds with each erratic beat. I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to find some relief.

  The front door opens and Aren reemerges carrying a leaflined basket of fruit and cheeses topped by a circle of flatbread. He holds the basket out. It takes all my effort not to wrench it from his hands and dig in. The Realm’s fruits are decadent—more luscious and sweet than any Earth-grown apple or melon I’ve ever tasted—but I force myself to fold my hands in my lap.

  He frowns. “You haven’t eaten anything in almost a day.”

  “I don’t know what you put in it.”

  His laugh startles me. “You’re incredibly stubborn, nalkin-shom .”

  “My name is McKenzie.” I manage to refrain from rolling my eyes, but this nalkin-shom crap is getting old.

  Aren pops a purple slice of fruit into his mouth, holds the basket out again. I stare at it, my stomach rumbling.

  “Do I need to try the cheese as well?” he asks.

  When I realize it doesn’t make sense to poison me, I heave a sigh and take the basket. He doesn’t have to be devious if he wants to kill me. A knife across the throat would do the trick and none of the rebels would complain. Most likely, they’d celebrate.

  My fingers bring a wedge of soft white cheese to my mouth. It touches my tongue, triggers my taste buds. If Aren and Sethan weren’t watching me, I’d sink back against the bench and moan. The cheese is absolutely delicious, but then, in my half-starved state, I’d be content even with the bitter-bark the fae are so fond of.

  I chew and swallow and reach for another wedge, ignoring Aren’s satisfied expression as he turns to speak to Sethan in Fae. I tear a strip off the flatbread and fold it around an orangetinted cheese. Before I
finish that one, another is on its way to my mouth. I save the fruit for dessert and try to slow my pace. Even so, I devour the whole basket in a few minutes. Now, if I could just get some sleep, I’d feel so much better. Even a fiveminute nap would be heavenly.

  The two fae finish their conversation as I set aside the basket. Sethan doesn’t look happy.

  “I trust your judgment, Aren, and I hope you’re right. McKenzie.” He gives me a shallow bow before he trots down the porch steps. I watch him walk into the forest. A blink of light indicates he’s fissured out. Unfortunately, his shadows are unreadable behind the foliage.

  “I’ve bought you an extension on life,” Aren says, leaning against the porch column. His casualness and the intensity in his silver eyes make an odd combination. I don’t like the way he’s observing me. I like even less the way the moonlight glows behind him, making him seem mysterious, almost debonair. When he doesn’t say anything else or look away, I shift on the wooden bench.

  “Okay,” I say slowly, because the silence needs to be broken. “Do you want me to thank you?”

  “You’ll help us eventually.” He sounds so certain.

  I shake my head. “No. My allegiance is to Ky—King Atroth.”

  He smiles a little. “I’ll earn your trust.”

  “I’ll doubt everything you say.”

  He chuckles, pushes away from the column, and crosses the porch to stand in front of me. He takes my right hand in his. As he pulls me to my feet, I make the mistake of looking into his eyes. This close, I can become lost in them, especially with the heat of his edarratae traveling up my arm. He dips his head, staring down at me with mirth on his lips.

  “You will be an interesting challenge.” He draws a finger along the line of my jaw and lightning floods inside me, shooting down my neck and into my core. I’m lost for a moment, unbalanced, and burning with a need I’m afraid to identify.

  Finally, Aren steps back. He opens the front door. “Come, nalkin-shom. I’ll tuck you in.”

  When at last I regain my composure, I give the bastard my coldest glare. For some reason, he finds my defiance amusing.

  FIVE

  I BECAME AN insomniac ten years ago. I was a sophomore in high school, president of my class and enrolled in every advanced course the school offered. My teachers loved me, my friends respected me, and my parents were proud. Meeting the fae changed all that. At first, I wasn’t sleeping because I thought I was going crazy, hallucinating because no one else could see the lightning-covered people searching the corridors and classrooms. And it was clear they were searching for something. For someone. For me.

  A false-blood named Thrain realized I had the Sight and dragged me into the Realm. He used me to wage a war against the king. When I refused to read the shadows for him, he starved me. He hit me. He threatened my friends and family. I had no choice except to help him. No choice, that is, until Kyol freed me. He returned me to my world, and I couldn’t sleep because my blood burned in my veins when I lay down at night. Kyol intrigued me. He protected me, and when King Atroth asked me to help him capture Thrain, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. That was when the nightmares began. Some of Thrain’s fae didn’t run or surrender. They fought. They killed. They died, and I couldn’t sleep because I was haunted.

  Now I can’t sleep because I might never see Kyol again. I was sixteen when we first met and he was . . . older. The Realm ages people—both fae and humans—slower than Earth. Kyol looked like he was somewhere in his twenties, but he could have been twice that for all I knew. He wasn’t Atroth’s sword-master yet, but he was his friend. He became my friend, and we eventually became something. In the last decade, the only nights on which I’ve had a peaceful, restful sleep were the nights when Kyol watched over me. Despite my resolution to lead a normal fae-free life, that hasn’t changed.

  I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours, surrounded by my fears. Occasionally, they loosen their stranglehold and my heavy eyelids close, but the creaks and groans of the inn wake me no matter how soft they are.

  Footsteps stop outside my room. I feign sleep as the door creaks open. Someone walks inside, clears a throat. I keep my eyes shut and refuse to twitch.

  “McKenzie.”

  Even though the sheetless slab of springs beneath me could double as a torture device, I still don’t budge.

  “McKenzie,” the someone says, louder this time. I don’t recognize the voice. It’s female, but it’s not Lena.

  “McKenzie Lewis.”

  I crack open my lids to glare. I end up frowning instead. The light coming in from the doorway is just bright enough to see that the fae staring down at me is wearing human clothing: jeans paired with a tight red top, jingling bracelets, and a triple-layered black-beaded necklace. It’s hard to be sure in the dim room, but it looks like a string of garnets and premthyste, a pearllike stone found in the southernmost province of the Realm, is braided through a lock of her dark, silky hair. I think I recognize the pattern the stones make. If I’m right, she’s a daughter of Cyneayen, Tayshken Province’s ruling noble.

  “The sun is up,” she says, nodding uselessly toward my boarded-up window. Not even a crack of light peeks between the wooden planks. The banging that gave me such a headache last night was Lena going to town with a hammer and nails. I’d have better luck clawing my way through the wall than through the layer of wood covering the window.

  “It’s time to get up.”

  “Not back home, it isn’t.” I close my eyes, willing her to go away.

  She huffs out a breath. “I have instructions to place you in Lena’s care if you’re uncooperative.”

  Well, there’s nothing like a threat to get you going in the morning. I sit up . . . and barely manage to suppress a groan. Despite not sleeping well, I didn’t toss and turn much, and damn, my body’s stiff. I guess jumping fences and dangling off the sides of buildings will do that to you. I rub my neck, trying to massage out some of the pain.

  “Aren said you might be sore.” The fae holds out her hand and uncurls her fingers to reveal two little white pills.

  “What’s that?”

  “Ibuprofen.”

  My eyes narrow. “Fae don’t take human medications.”

  “They’re not for me.”

  Fae anatomies aren’t all that different from humans’, but they’re not supposed to have anything to do with our food or culture. Not that the medicine is directly hurting her. If it was, lightning would be circling the pills in her palm like writhing blue snakes, but nontech items from my world are gradually weakening the Realm’s magic. Of course, we’re not in the Realm right now so the only one hurting here is me.

  After reminding myself that poisoning me doesn’t make sense, I pluck the two tablets from her hand. It takes a moment to work enough moisture into my mouth to swallow them. Unfortunately, it’ll take another twenty minutes or so before they kick in.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “I’m . . . Kelia.”

  Interesting hesitation there. I’ve never met a fae who, on their first introduction, doesn’t tell me who they’re a son or daughter of. Are we hiding our ancestry, perhaps?

  “Is that premthyste in your hair?” I’m sure I recognize the stone now. Only a few prominent bloodlines wear name-cords these days. She has to be a daughter of Cyneayen. If I remember Lord Raen, elder of Cyneayen, correctly, he’s notoriously antihuman. He doesn’t speak a word of English and every time I’ve run into him he’s scowled as if I’ve put a bad taste in his mouth. This girl—Kelia—has impeccable English. She’s perfected an American accent and could blend in with a crowd of humans so long as no one around her has the ability to see edarratae.

  Her lips narrow into a thin line. “Aren wants me to teach you our language.”

  I might have called her out for avoiding my question if her statement didn’t give me pause. Teach me to speak Fae? Why the hell would Aren want that? He speaks English. So do Sethan and Lena and anyone else who might need to work with humans.
I wouldn’t be surprised if half the rebellion has mastered my language. Plus, won’t I be more of a liability if I can eavesdrop on their conversations? As it is now, they could detail their entire war strategy and I wouldn’t have a clue what they were saying.

  “The king’s forbidden that.” It’s not that I don’t want to learn to speak Fae—I’d love to—but I’m used to not knowing it. I’m used to keeping our cultures as separate as possible.

  “He’s also forbidden us from learning the languages of your world,” Kelia says without missing a beat. “That hasn’t stopped us. It shouldn’t stop you, not unless you’re afraid of the Court.”

  Afraid of the . . . Oh, I see his angle now. “Aren starts big, doesn’t he?”

  Kelia’s eyebrows rise. “What?”

  “Never mind.” This is a devilishly clever move on his part. He’s making a statement with this offer: the Court might not trust me enough to learn their language, but he does, or so he wants me to believe. Nice try, but I’m not stupid. The only way I might—might—have believed his intentions were pure is if I learned their language, then he let me go. Unfortunately for him, he and Sethan both made it clear that’s not an option, not until this war’s over. I won’t fall for Aren’s manipulations.

  But I will take advantage of them.

  “Okay. I’m game,” I say, standing too quickly. My muscles protest the movement and my vision blackens around the edges.

  She stares a moment. “After breakfast.” She starts to turn, then suddenly she grabs my hand.

  I ball my other hand into a fist, ready to defend myself.