The minute hand snaps to twelve.
“Midnight,” I say softly. I half expect to hear a deep gong toll the hour, signifying this moment.
Aren follows my gaze to the clock and then to Kyol, who stands beneath it, silent and ready. When the sword-master takes the first step toward us, Aren puts his hands on my shoulders, turns me to face him.
“McKenzie, listen. Don’t let Taltrayn know you’ve learned our language. Think about what you hear. Look for the lies. The rebellion, we’re not who they’ve made us out to be. You know us.” His hands tighten on my shoulders. “You know me.
“Your necklace.” He lets his thumb glide over the string of diamonds. “These stones, they have some of the same . . . ekissrin.” He glances to his right, undoubtedly seeing Kyol is halfway to us now. “There’s not a word for it in your language, but they’re similar, diamonds and anchor-stones. They can both be imprinted. This one.” He touches the largest diamond, the one in the center of my chest. “This one will take you to a safe place.”
“ Aren—”
“I’ll be there every sunset I can. If you can’t come yourself, send somebody else. Not someone you think you can trust. Someone poor. Someone who can be paid off.”
Aren’s crazy to talk like this, to leave me with this imprinted necklace. Kyol’s only a few steps away and—
“Tell the fae a location outside the silver walls and I’ll come for you.”
My stomach knots. “I won’t—”
“I’ll come for you, McKenzie.”
His kiss takes me by surprise. I’m aware only for a moment of Kyol’s steps faltering, aware of him watching me, watching us. Then lightning pours from Aren’s lips and there’s only us.
My only defense is that the edarratae make me lose my discretion because I kiss Aren back. Really kiss him back. Chaos lusters tickle down my face and throat, bolt across my shoulders and down my arms. They shudder through my entire body, and I lean into him, press my chest against his.
His hand slides up my back, pulling me closer. Everywhere he touches is bliss. Complete, utter bliss. The hand on my shoulder sinks lower. It slides down my breast before resting on my hip. Only my thin, satin dress separates us, but if I close my eyes, if I let myself forget everything that matters in both our worlds, I can imagine it disappearing, imagine being skin to skin with him.
My eyes shoot open when Kyol grabs my arm. Aren holds on a moment more, his lips and hands lingering as if this is his last breath. As if this is the only breath in his life that has ever mattered. Then he locks eyes with the sword-master.
“You have competition now.”
He backs away before Kyol can kick his ass and gives me a smile that sends hot aftershocks coursing through my body. I take a step toward him, but he disappears into the crowd.
SEVENTEEN
“MCKENZIE?” KYOL’S HAND tightens on my arm. “Are you okay?”
For a handful of heartbeats, I stare at the path Aren took. Humans have blocked it off now, but I can almost see him there. I can still taste him, still feel the lingering heat from his touch.
An edarratae leaps up my arm. Kyol’s edarratae. He lets go of me quickly, as if he’s unsure if his touch is welcome. Still unbalanced, I stare into his face until my world stops spinning, until the silver storms in his dark eyes ground me.
It’s over. I wait for a rush of relief, but it doesn’t engulf me. Instead, it trickles in.
“Kaesha?” Kyol’s brows are lowered with concern—concern for me—but he should be worried about himself. The tech in this ballroom is wreaking havoc on his chaos lusters. They’re all but constant on his skin.
I shake my head, dislodging the memory of Aren’s kiss. “You need to get out of here.”
“McKenzie.” My name comes out on the end of a shaky breath. There’s so much pain in his eyes I take a step back. Could Aren have done something to him? He doesn’t look hurt. He looks more solid and stoic than ever.
“Come on.” I tug on his hand again. This time, he gives me a somber nod and follows. Walking seems to settle him. After only a few steps, he’s the one leading me.
His pace increases once we’re outside, half trotting down the stone steps to the lower terrace. A handful of humans are out here. We hurry past them, heading toward the back of the gardens, toward the cemetery where Lorn fissured me and where Aren fastened diamonds around my neck.
Shit. I have to get rid of this necklace. If the Court finds out it’s imprinted, they’ll find Aren.
Aren. God, he’s a fool, trusting me with something like this.
Kyol’s face is hard, troubled, as he scans the garden’s shadows. I have to jog to keep up with his long stride.
“Kyol.”
He doesn’t slow down.
“Kyol, stop.” I dig in my heels, forcing him to turn. “What’s wrong?”
“I . . .” He sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry, kaesha.”
That injured look is back, injured and . . . guilty?
“I’m okay, Kyol. Really.”
“Jorreb,” he forces out the name. “He hasn’t . . . didn’t . . .” He cups the back of my head, lowers his forehead to mine. His dark hair is cut manageably short, but it’s still long enough to run my fingers through. I shouldn’t, not out here where fae might be watching, but I want to comfort him, and I’ve missed his touch, his scent, his entire presence. He’s broad and muscular—more muscular than Aren—and I feel small in his shadow, safe, even though he still seems off-balance. Beneath my hands, his muscles tighten as if he’s bracing for a blow. “Did Jorreb force himself on you?”
It takes a moment to understand what he’s asking.
“No,” I say, almost offended by the question. “He never hurt me.”
I realize those last words are a lie right after I say them and, seconds later—after Kyol tucks my hair behind my ear and his fingers slide down my neck—he discovers the truth. He frowns, his silver eyes dipping to my throat.
I pull my hair back over my shoulder, but it’s too late. He felt the upraised skin.
“What did he do to you?” he demands, both hands exploring my neck, searching for other scars.
“It’s nothing,” I say quickly. “I was hurt. He healed me.”
“Healed you?” He stops his inspection abruptly. “Jorreb is a healer?”
“Yeah,” I say, wondering if I’ve just revealed information I shouldn’t have. But then, why should I worry what I tell Kyol? It’s not my job to protect Aren, and don’t I want this war to be over? Don’t I want the Court to win?
Ah, hell. This isn’t good. My loyalties are so twisted up inside I don’t know what I want anymore. The rebels have faces now, personalities. They’re not so bad, and what if some of what they’ve claimed is true? Sethan might not be a false-blood. He might be a true Descendant of the Tar Sidhe. There could have once been seventeen provinces instead of thirteen. And maybe the fae’s magic isn’t fading as much as the Court thinks, and the gate taxes aren’t entirely fair.
Maybe. I’m sure of so very few things these days. A headache pulses between my eyes.
“I want to retire.”
Kyol grows very still. “Retire?”
I didn’t plan to mention this so soon, but it’s too late to take it back. Besides, this was my plan before Aren abducted me. It sounds like an even better idea now. I’ll stay out of the Realm’s war. I’ll go back to campus, convince my professor to let me retake my final, and then I’ll graduate and get a job. I’ll be normal.
“Yes. Retire.” I meet Kyol’s eyes, but his mask is in place. I can’t get a gauge on his emotions. “I was planning to before Aren took me.”
He lowers his gaze as he runs his hands down my arms. He slips his fingers through mine. “I’ll . . . I’ll talk to Atroth.”
There’s a noise in the bushes behind me. Kyol spins, putting himself between me and the danger.
Fortunately, he doesn’t need to prepare for a fight. A moan of pleasure accompanies the next rustle
of the underbrush and two pair of bare feet scrape across the dirt. Humans.
“Take me home,” I whisper.
Kyol’s arm tightens around me. “It’s not safe to go home. The rebels could find you there. I’m sorry. They should never have learned your name. We don’t know how they did, but . . .” He draws in a breath. “I’m sorry.”
It’s obvious he feels responsible for what happened. That doesn’t surprise me. He always takes his responsibilities seriously, and he hates to see me upset. This isn’t his fault, though, so I smile and start walking, keeping our hands clasped.
“Where are we going, then?”
“Another human who works for us lives nearby,” he says. “He’s sending a car to pick you up. You can stay with him until you find a new home.”
“Is he a shadow-reader?” The Court has five of us. We don’t usually work together, but I’ve met the others.
“No,” Kyol says. “He only has the Sight.”
Which means the Court uses him in full-blown battles, the kind Kyol tries to keep me away from. Fortunately. I hate it when my shadow-reading expeditions turn bloody, when the rebels attack instead of run or surrender.
“My swordsmen are on the other side of that wall.” He indicates the tall hedge we’re approaching, and I let go of his hand. Just in time. A wooden gate cracks open, and a fae peers out. He’s Taber, one of Kyol’s officers.
“There have been no signs of the rebels,” he says.
Kyol takes off his jacket, hands it to the other fae in exchange for his sword-belt. “Jorreb was alone.”
My Fae is by no measure perfect, but I think I understand their words. Even if my translation is off, Kyol’s tone suggests he expected trouble. At least, he expected more trouble than a dance and a kiss.
Kyol ushers me through the open gate. About a dozen swordsmen wait on the side of the road. They’re dressed in jaedric armor. It’s fancier than what the rebels wear, coated with a black polish and with the king’s sigil—an abira tree with thirteen branches, one for each province—etched in gold over their chests. They’re all invisible, I presume, because they’d look odd standing here beside the street otherwise.
Not that there’s much traffic. Just one car so far, coming around a corner. I watch it, wondering if it’s the one the human is supposed to send. But it’s a limousine. Probably for the wedding. I turn back toward Kyol and Taber to concentrate on their conversation, but they’re both looking at the limo, which is pulling to the curb.
The driver rolls down his window. I sigh. He probably thinks I need help since it looks like I’m alone on the side of the road.
“I’m okay—”
“Are you McKenzie?” he asks.
“Uh, yeah.” I glance at Kyol.
“He’ll take you to Shane’s home,” he says, confirming this is my ride.
The driver climbs out of the car and opens the back door. Before I get in, Kyol cuts me off. He says something to Taber, then ducks inside.
“Ma’am,” the driver says when I don’t move.
I smile an acknowledgment and then slide onto the soft leather seat. Kyol sits across from me. As soon as the door closes, I say, “You shouldn’t be in here.”
“I’m not leaving you alone until you’re safe.”
“Aren can’t fissure into a moving car.” I would say more, but the driver climbs behind the wheel and the partition between his seat and our section of the limo is open.
“Do you need anything, ma’am?” the driver asks.
“How long until we get to”—what was the guy’s name?—“Shane’s ?”
“About thirty minutes,” he answers.
Thirty minutes. That’s a little longer than Aren and I were in the car in Germany. He was injured and his magic came back. Kyol’s completely healthy so he should be fine.
“Do you mind if I close this?” I ask the driver, indicating the privacy panel.
“I’ve got it, ma’am,” he says. He presses a button on the limo’s dash. When the panel slides into place, I sink into my seat, trying to relax. For some reason, I can’t. Kyol and I are alone. We’re together. But we don’t say anything; we just stare at each other as if we’ve both doubted we’d ever see the other again. I know I doubted it.
Kyol’s gaze drops to the floor. That’s not like him. I’m more likely to glance away, either because I’m worried others will see the way I look at him or because it’s too hard to stay apart.
He unfastens his sword-belt and lays it on the seat. I’m not used to seeing him like this, looking so unsure of himself. I watch his edarratae. If they start to look too frenzied, I’ll tell the driver I don’t feel well and ask him to pull over. Kyol looks fine, though. There’s only a slight crease to his forehead. Whether that’s because the tech is giving him a headache or because he’s thinking about something serious, I don’t know. Maybe both. The heavy silence suggests he wants to discuss something.
Nervousness coils in my stomach. I think he wants to talk about us. Every conversation we’ve ever had about our relationship ended one way, with him telling me we can never be together.
His gaze returns to me and, suddenly, it’s very important we don’t have that conversation.
“I flunked my final again,” I say quickly. “I don’t know if my professor will let me retake it. I’ll never be able to explain why I ran out of class.”
He blinks. Yeah, my topic is that random.
“I’m sorry. There wasn’t time and . . .” He lets out a breath and his shoulders slump. “In the end, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t fast enough.” He shakes his head and frustration leaks into his voice. “I took precautions. I always double-fissured you home and only a few fae knew your full name. Fae I trusted. If I’d known you were in danger, I wouldn’t have let you out of my sight. I’d have kept you safe.” His hand clenches on the sword lying at his side. Conviction shines in his silver eyes. “I can keep you safe, McKenzie.”
Butterflies take flight in my stomach. Not good. My determination to retire wavers like it always does. I don’t want to leave him. Ever.
He holds out a hand, but I pretend not to see it. Instead, I scoot along my seat toward the wet bar in the back corner of the limo.
“I missed Amy’s bachelorette party,” I say, scrutinizing the label on every bottle, one by one. “It’s a human tradition, basically an excuse to go out and get wasted. I promised Paige I’d be there.”
“McKenzie—”
“I think she’s forgiven me, though,” I continue, refusing to look at him. “She was worried when I didn’t return her calls.”
Kyol moves to sit beside me. I grab an individual-sized bottle of wine, twist the top off, and pour it into a glass. My hand shakes, mostly from the motion of the limo, but partly from nerves. I’m usually more together than this, more in control, but I’m tired of . . . of everything.
Kyol puts his hand over the glass before I raise it to my lips.
“McKenzie.” His edarratae quiver across his skin. “Talk to me. I need to know you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“Look at me.” He lifts my chin, forcing me to meet his silver eyes.
“Kyol.” I draw in a breath. “I can’t do this. I can’t go back to the way things were, sneaking touches when no one is looking.” I won’t live like that. Not anymore.
“Okay.”
“I know Radath and the king will—What?”
He runs his hands down my arms, then back up, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. “These last couple of weeks . . . they’ve been the worst of my life. Jorreb sent a fae with your clothes. They were stained red and . . .” He swallows. “I thought you were dead. I thought I’d never see you again, and I hated myself for holding back when we were together. I remembered every time I told you no, and all I wanted was the chance to tell you yes. I have that chance now.” His hands tighten on my shoulders. “I’ll talk to Atroth, McKenzie. If you’ll forgive me, if you still want me, I’ll talk to him. I’ll convince hi
m you and I should be together.”
Really? I want to ask, but I can’t form the question. This is what I’ve always wanted, the hope I’ve been clinging to for a decade, and now, I’m terrified I might be trapped in a dream. Maybe Aren killed me when he cut my throat. Something has to be up because this is too simple, too easy, to be real.
“What about you?” I ask when I find my voice. “Won’t Atroth want you to be with someone else? Someone like Jacia?” Even though Lorn said Kyol refused the life-bond, it hurts to say her name.
He frowns. “How . . . Who told you that?”
My lips tighten into a thin, apologetic smile.
“Jorreb,” he says. He lets go of my shoulders. “Atroth wants that—the daughter of Srillan is a good match for me—but I will never make a bond. Never, McKenzie.”
“The king knows why?” If Atroth knows Kyol loves me, why hasn’t he done something? Why hasn’t he changed the law, made an exception to it, or assigned me to another fae?
Kyol lets out a sigh. “I’m sure he suspects it, but if I don’t say anything and there’s no evidence to support it, I think he’ll continue to ignore us.”
But if he does say something . . .
“Will you lose your position?” I ask.
“There is a chance of that. I would like . . .” He stops, closes his eyes. When he opens them again, there’s an apology there. “I need a few days. You’ll need to tell us what you know about the rebellion. We’ll find its leaders and take them out. When the war is over, Atroth will be more willing to listen. If he doesn’t . . . if he won’t allow us to be together, I’ll leave the Court. I’ll stay with you.”
Everything I want, dangled in front of me like a carrot.
“And if the war doesn’t end?” I ask, my voice quiet.
“If we take out the son of Jorreb, it will.”
I have the means to kill Aren, hanging around my neck. My heart constricts. I love Kyol—always have, always will—but I can still feel Aren’s lips, desperate against mine. I hear his last words to me, making a promise to come for me, a promise that, somehow, I know he would keep. I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to get away from him, and now that I’m free . . .
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