He sighs. “I can’t let the Court have you back, McKenzie. If you want to live, stay by my side.”
He pulls me forward, and I stumble along in the dark, trying to convince myself I have no reason to feel guilty. Aren hasn’t killed or tortured me only because he needs my willing cooperation. I’m useless as a shadow-reader without it. I’d lie, I’d stall, I’d fissure the rebels into a trap. But shouldn’t he know by now that I’ll never turn against the Court? There’s no reason to keep me alive anymore.
Chaos lusters mark a shadow ahead. Naito. Before we reach him, a sharp shrrip cuts through the air. Kelia steps out of the fissure, tosses a sword to Aren. She hands another one to Naito, saying, “Hurry. The Court fae are coming.”
“Lena?” Aren asks.
“She’ll fissure back with help.”
We’re only a few steps from the end of the tunnel. A faint light from above allows me to see Naito’s and Aren’s silhouettes and the wooden ladder climbing the wall beside us. Naito goes up first. I follow, grimacing each time a chaos luster flashes over my hands and arms. By the time I slide out a narrow crack in the rock, I’m shaking. I know better than to expect the street to be free of Lyechabans.
A fissure opens to my right. I recognize Aren’s scent, the warmth of his touch, as he steps out of the light and helps me to my feet. Squinting, I take in my surroundings. We’re on a narrow strip of land between the city and its river. Behind us, shops and residences are built almost on top of each other. Vendors have opened kiosks along the bank. I’m able to translate most of their shouts. Fortunately, they’re selling their fish and produce, not pointing fingers at me and Naito. Yet.
Aren pulls me in front of him. I stumble forward, toward another group of merchants who are standing with their carts and cirikith, beasts of burden that look like a cross between a horse and a stegosaurus with small, opalescent plates as skin. Their bridles and the carts they pull are inlaid with imprinted anchor-stones to ensure nothing gets lost in the In-Between when they fissure. We’re close to the front of the line where a thick band of silver plating covers the ground. The merchants have to pay a toll to cross the silver and reach the semicircle of bare earth, right on the river, where the gate is located. That’s where the inspectors wait. When one of them looks up, looks right at me, I suck in a breath.
The next instant, his attention snaps to his left. A dozen fissures rip through the air just beyond the band of silver. Rebels charge out of the light, swords drawn and bellowing. A second wave appears behind them with Lena in the lead.
I’m astounded when the merchants don’t run. They always run, saving their hides by abandoning their wares and cirikith. The rebels have been successfully attacking gates like this for years, but maybe the merchants have finally had enough of being caught up in the cross fire. Only a few of them flee. The rest draw their weapons and move between their carts and the approaching rebels.
“Sidhe,” Aren mutters under his breath. One glance at him, though, and it’s clear he’s not worried about a bunch of merchants with swords. I follow his gaze behind us, down a street that leads toward the city center. The Court fae—about two dozen of them—sprint toward us. All at once and midstride, they open fissures and disappear.
“Go!” Aren shoves me forward. I skid across the silver plating. Fissures open up behind me—the Court fae are reappearing—and metal rings against metal.
Some of the king’s swordsmen run by to intercept the rebels. As I push up to all fours, a second wave arrives at the edge of the silver. Then there’s a third wave. Lena is in the midst of the chaos, vanquishing every Court fae who encroaches within the reach of her sword. Bodies drop around her. Some enter the ether before they hit the ground. Their soul-shadows float up and mingle with others. So many others. The bank looks like it’s covered in fog.
Anxiety pools in my gut. I peer over my shoulder, looking for Aren. He’s outnumbered, but okay. No, he’s more than okay. In seconds, he fells two of his opponents, turns, and blocks an attack from a third. Holy hell, he can fight. He’s surrounded by soul-shadows, too, and I realize there’s a damn good reason why this rebellion has lasted so long: its leaders wield swords almost as well as the king’s sword-master.
The sword-master. I climb to my feet and search the faces of the fae as they rush by, but I don’t see him. There’s too much chaos for me to recognize anyone.
“To the gate, McKenzie!” Aren yells. He’s stepped onto the silver.
“Watch out!” The warning escapes my lips as a bleeding fae on the ground pushes up to an elbow and swings his sword at Aren’s ankles. Aren jumps over the path of the blade and then plunges his sword into the fae’s gut.
“Go!” Aren orders.
Frozen, I stare at the dying fae until he disappears and the white mist of his soul-shadow rises into the air. What did I just do? My warning killed him. I killed a Court fae. I back away from my crime, clench my hands into fists so they don’t tremble.
Someone runs into me. Then someone else.
“Tchatalun,” a voice whispers. The word means “defiled one” but it’s practically synonymous with “human.”
“Tchatalun,” the merchant says again, louder this time. I leap back when he swings at me, realize he’s holding a dagger only when he strikes again. Aren kills him before he can cut me a third time. Numb, I stare down at the red stain growing across my stomach.
Aren’s hand is there a second later, slipping under my wet shirt and flaring with magic. Lena comes to his aid, fighting off fae as he heals me. He eases me closer and closer to the gate, but there are too many people closing in on us. When a fae lunges toward us, Aren shoves me toward a merchant’s cart.
I lose traction on the silver underfoot and land hard on my side. Pain, white-hot and nauseating, shoots across my middle. My stomach’s not completely healed. Gritting my teeth, I ignore the wound, crawl to the cart, and slide underneath.
It takes a moment to catch my breath. When I focus on the blood and chaos beyond the shadow of my shelter, I see him—Kyol, conquering his way through the rebels. A rush of emotion fires through me. I want to shout his name, to be at his side again, but I keep my silence because I’m afraid I’ll distract him. I don’t think he knows I’m here. If he did, he’d be searching past the fae he’s fighting, looking for me near the gate or the edges of the battle to make sure the rebels don’t take me away from him. Instead, he wears an expression of cold indifference as he cuts through his opponents. It’s a mask. He shuts off his emotions when he fights. I think Atroth and I may be the only ones who know how much the killing bothers him, but Kyol will do anything, slay anyone, for his king.
He’d even kill Aren.
I don’t know why the thought pops into my head. Maybe it’s because my stomach hurts and needs healing. Maybe it’s the Stockholm syndrome reasserting itself. Or maybe it’s because . . . because I don’t want Aren to die. Whatever the reason, I find myself searching the throng, seeking his tall frame and wild, disheveled hair.
I find him close to Kyol. Too close. They’re fighting practically back to back. If Aren turns a few degrees to his left and Kyol turns a few degrees to his right, they’ll see each other. They’ll attack each other. And one of them won’t survive.
It’ll be Aren who’s struck down. I’m sure of it.
Only two clashing men separate them now. One of those men is Naito. He hasn’t made it to the gate and, holy crap, his sword cuts through a Court fae’s defenses, cleaving deep into his cheek and jaw. I don’t know if the swordsman felt it, though. The blow itself was hard enough to snap his neck. The fae’s body crumples. It’s replaced by his soul-shadow a second later.
“Naito!” Kelia screams a warning.
Another Court fae swings his sword at the human. Aren turns, intercepting the blade before it finishes its arc.
“Go!” Aren shouts.
Naito sprints toward the gate, toward Kelia, who’s waiting for him in the circular area that’s free from silver. She dodges a
ttacks while he closes the distance between them. When he’s almost to her, she dips her hand into the river. Stands.
A cry to my left. I turn in time to see Kyol pull his blade free from a rebel, in time to see him take three long strides toward Kelia. Her fissure splutters out when she staggers back and lifts her sword.
“No,” I whisper.
She deflects Kyol’s sword, but doesn’t duck under his fist. It slams into her face. Naito’s there the next instant, screaming. Kyol effortlessly parries the human’s enraged attack. By the time Kelia hits the deck, Kyol’s disarmed Naito. Within seconds, he opens a gated-fissure, wraps his arm around Naito’s neck, then vanishes into the slash of light.
“No,” I whisper again.
“Naito!” Kelia screams.
Aren skewers his opponent, turns toward Kelia, sees her crawl to her knees and stare helplessly at the twisting shadows. But she can’t read them. She doesn’t know where to go.
I do.
With a start, I look away, but Aren’s already seen me.
The next minute passes in a blur. Before I can scramble out from under the merchant’s cart, Aren takes hold of me. He pulls me out, holds me down on my hands and knees, and grabs a handful of my hair, wrenching my head back so I’m staring at the shadows.
“Read them!” he orders. He takes the paper, the map I started in Lorn’s basement, and unfolds it on the ground.
I shake my head.
“Now!” He jams a pencil into my hand. When a Court fae rushes us, Lena leaps into his path, thrusting her sword into the man’s gut.
I don’t move, don’t even flinch, when the body drops down beside me and disappears. I won’t read the shadows. I won’t send Aren after Kyol.
“Either she maps them or you kill her!” Lena snaps, deflecting another fae’s attack.
Aren raises the bloody edge of his sword to my neck. “Don’t make me do this, McKenzie.”
My breath empties out in a quick puff. No. He healed the gash across my stomach—or started to, at least. He’s not going to kill me now. He’s bluffing.
I close my eyes so I don’t see any more of the twisting shadows.
Aren yanks on my hair. “Look, damn you!”
His blade slices into my neck. My eyes snap open.
“I’ll do it,” he snarls into my ear.
The metal presses deeper. I’m too terrified for it to hurt, too surprised to manage a protest or a plea. Warm, thick liquid bleeds down my throat.
“Read them!”
I stare at the shadows. My hand moves. I don’t know what I’m doing until my map’s scale changes.
Red splatters on the paper, marking the edge of a forest on the west side of the Derrdyn Mountains. Kyol’s there. My reading is accurate enough for Aren to reach him before he fissures again. I can save my life with just one word.
Another drop of red hits the map. I don’t feel the blade at my neck, just the warm wetness that proves Aren is willing to kill.
He might be willing, but I’m not.
It’s suicide, my next action, but I carry it out nevertheless, ripping my shadow-reading in two. Seconds later, I’m engulfed in darkness.
FIFTEEN
I HAVE TO be dead. People die when their throats get slashed. They drown in their own blood. I’m pretty sure I’m not breathing. I’m cold, numb, and I don’t hurt anymore.I’m not breathing. I’m cold, numb, and I don’t hurt anymore.
IT’S oppressively heavy here. Vaguely, I remember the bite of the In-Between, but I don’t know how I got from the merchant’s cart to the gated-fissure or who took me through it. All I know is I’m not where I was before. I’m walking next to lightning. Stumbling next to it, really. My coordination is shot. I’m weak and tired. And cold. Why can’t I get warm?
The lightning holds out a hand. Something warm presses into my palm. It’s not enough to keep me going, though. My knees buckle. This time, I’m carried into the ice.
LUCIDNESS returns slowly, sane thought by sane thought. I realize my hand is pressed to my neck. I feel the cut beneath my fingertips. The blood’s almost dry now, but I don’t dare move. I’m afraid of opening the gash again. I have images of my throat splitting apart, of feeling my windpipe whistling red spittle. But Aren must not have cut deeply enough to sever whatever tissue protects my airway. Any more pressure, though . . .
We’re in a suburb of Vancouver, somewhere called Lynn Valley. I must have overheard the fae name this place when we fissured here. I honestly can’t remember. Shell-shocked, I think they call this. But we’re definitely in my world. Only the fae have chaos lusters on their skin, and the house in front of me with its shingled roof, arched windows, and white siding is definitely Earth architecture.
“You need to rest.” A voice to my left.
I slowly turn my head toward Sethan, see him standing behind Aren. I’m sitting against a wooden fence. So are a dozen hurt fae. Aren moves from one rebel to the next, laying his hands on them, easing their pain and healing their injuries. Even from this distance, Aren looks exhausted, and I wonder how long he’s been at this. From the slump of his shoulders and his shakiness when he rises, I’d say he’s trying singlehandedly to heal everyone here.
Everyone but me.
He looks my way. Our eyes meet. The weariness in his gaze changes just perceptibly, growing heavier with something that might be a plea. My throat suddenly hurts, inside and out, and I glance away.
Too quickly.
The backyard spins. I close my eyes a moment, willing the world to settle.
“HEY.”
Someone nudges my leg. I force my eyes open, see a fae in jeans and a white sweater squatting in front of me. At first, I think it’s Kelia, but no stones are braided into this girl’s hair. Plus, her eyes are unnaturally dark, and something feels off about her. When a chaos luster flashes across her face, I realize what that something is. The lightning is pale, so pale it looks almost white, not bright blue like a normal fae’s. She’s a tor’um, a walker. Born that way, I presume, because she doesn’t look crazy.
“We need to move you inside,” she says.
Maybe my head isn’t completely clear yet, because it makes no sense for tor’um to be in my world. Fae aren’t supposed to come to Earth unless they have permission from the Court. I realize that doesn’t stop all of them. Every false-blood I’ve hunted has come looking for shadow-readers and humans who have the Sight. Merchants fissure here as well, either to avoid the gate taxes or to take back Earth-made goods to sell. But the tor’um can’t do that. They can’t fissure.
“Here,” she says, holding out a bottle of water. “Drink.”
I’m afraid to swallow, but my lips and throat are parched. I reach for the water. My arm is heavy and my hand shakes so badly I accidentally brush hers.
I jerk back, dropping the bottle, as a chaos luster leaps into my skin. Instead of a hot, tingling sensation, the lightning is cold, almost numbing. My gaze shifts between my hand and her face, which has turned stony. She picks up the bottle and thrusts it at my chest. “Tor’um aren’t contagious.”
That’s not why I recoiled. I’m human—it’s not like she can damage my magic—but I haven’t met many tor’um. I certainly haven’t touched one before. They tend to keep to themselves. Whether that’s by choice or because they’re outcasts, I don’t know. The ability to fissure is deeply embedded into their culture. Taking that away is a huge handicap no fae wants. It doesn’t matter that some of the tor’um are able to work small magics; they’re not able to instantaneously travel from one point to another on their own, so fae society has left them behind.
“You have half an hour,” she says, standing. “Be ready to move by then.”
An apology is on my lips, but my voice refuses to work. I take a sip of water. It doesn’t give me more energy, though, and the back door to the house seems so far away. I don’t know why she wants me inside. The other fae have been healed, but they don’t look like they’re going anywhere soon. They’re sitting farthe
r away from me than before, far enough that I can’t hear their conversations, and someone’s brought them food and water. Someone’s taken care of them.
I rest my head back against the fence, letting my eyes droop shut again. I swear it’s only seconds later when I feel someone watching me. Aren. I wonder how long he’s been there, sitting with his arms propped up on his knees. His posture makes it seem like a while, and that makes me uncomfortable. So does his silence. I close my eyes again, hoping he’ll go away.
He doesn’t.
“May I heal you now?” he asks quietly.
“You’re the one who cut me.” My voice is weak, hoarse, and the wound across my neck stretches with each word, but at least I can speak.
Aren doesn’t respond for a long time. I stare at the dew-covered grass. I should feel afraid or angry right now, but I don’t. I don’t feel much of anything until Aren says softly, “I’m sorry.”
I pull my lower lip between my teeth. I don’t want to believe him, but there’s so much regret in his voice, in his gaze, even in the air around him.
“I didn’t like hurting you,” he says.
“You could have healed me hours ago.” I want my words to come out angry, but I’m too tired, too hurt, to hate.
He tilts his head slightly. “I tried.”
At first, I think he means he tried and didn’t have enough magic. After all, he healed a dozen fae during the night. Then a memory surfaces. It’s fuzzy but I remember Aren kneeling at my side and reaching out to me, and me, kicking and screaming and demanding he stay the hell away.
I shrug in response.
A minute passes in silence before Aren says, “The tor’um want you inside before their neighbors wake up.”
Next door, the upper story of a house rises over the fence. Above it, the stars are fading from the sky. It’s almost morning. Is that why the tor’um wanted me inside? Someone might look out and see me here, covered in blood? If I screamed, would someone hear me? Help me?
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