When he doesn’t elaborate, I ask, “Why Kelia?”
“I needed a life-bond with someone.”
“She wasn’t seeing Naito?”
Lorn chuckles. “Oh, she was seeing him—nightly, I presume.” He glances my way and smirks. “The sons and daughters of Cyeneanen have . . . How would you say it? Reserve? Magical reserves? The bond allows me to access it. My magic requires a lot of energy, especially when fae object to my little mental incursions.”
“She agreed to—”
I flatten against the wall when two fissures slash through the darkness. Kelia and Aren. God, Aren looks ragged. He’s smeared with dirt and blood. I don’t see any serious injuries, but he looks like he might be having just as much trouble standing upright as I am.
He greets me with a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. I’ll be fine when I get out of the Realm. “The gate’s guarded. There’s about a dozen swordsmen.”
He nods, then walks to the end of the narrow alley to peer around the corner.
“Too many,” he says as if talking to himself. “I’ll need help, but we’re scattered. Hurt.” He runs a hand through his hair.
I’ve never seen him like this before. He seems . . . not quite disoriented. Maybe at a loss? Like he has no idea what he’s going to do. I’m still trying to figure out what’s wrong when Kelia whispers to Lorn, “Sethan’s gone to the ether.”
A block of ice settles in my stomach. Defeated, that’s how Aren looks. Aren might be the fae who works out the logistics of the war—when and where and how to strike against the Court—but he’s not a Descendant. He can’t replace Atroth; only Sethan could.
Shit. Has the rebellion just lost the war?
“The Vancouver authorities are there,” she adds. “There were fires. Stray arrows. Human casualties. We don’t know yet what they think happened.”
It’s like someone’s taken an ice pick to my eyes. I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, trying to relieve some of the pressure. A part of me didn’t believe Atroth would authorize the attack. His fae have always gone out of the way to not involve normal humans.
“I’m sorry,” I say when Aren ducks back into the shadows.
He gives me another fake smile. “We’ll get you out of here.”
“That’s not wh—”
“Against these odds?” Lorn shakes his head. “I think I’ll take Kelia and go. I’ve already contributed much more time and energy than I should to your crumbling rebellion.”
His crumbling rebellion. A muscle in Aren’s cheek twitches. I’m sure it hurts, seeing everything he’s fought for fall apart with one fae’s death.
“I’m staying to help,” Kelia says. Lorn rolls his eyes, but doesn’t look surprised by her offer.
He has to help now if he wants to be sure she’s safe.
“Don’t you have people you can bring here?” I ask, remembering the dagger that killed Delan. Somebody in the tavern threw it.
“Lorn’s too concerned about his neutrality to involve his people.” Aren edges back to the building’s corner.
Lorn shrugs. “I’m doing just fine under Atroth’s rule. My associates have no reason to want a new king occupying the Silver Palace.”
This is why I don’t trust Lorn—he clearly only helps when there’s money to be made. Or Kelia to protect.
Aren ducks back into the darkness. “More fae. And they’re moving.”
“Organizing patrols of the lakeside?” Lorn asks. At Aren’s nod, he adds with a dramatic sigh, “It was only a matter of time.”
“We have to move,” Aren says. “I’ll keep as many of the swordsmen away from you as I can, but, Lorn, you’ll have to take care of the ones who slip past me. Stay with McKenzie and Kelia until they use the gate.”
He meets my gaze, still faking confidence. “You have the dagger I gave you?”
I pull it free from my waistband.
“Good. You shouldn’t need to use it.”
Lorn snorts and rearranges his sword-belt. Somehow, I doubt his blade’s drawn blood in decades.
I’m shaking as we inch toward the edge of the building. Aren’s exhausted. Even if he were fresh, he’d have trouble taking on a dozen fae at once. I don’t see how he’s going to make it through this, not unless that number is cut by half.
“Ready?” he asks.
No, I’m not ready. There’s no way this will end well.
He presses an anchor-stone into my hand.
“Wait,” Kelia says before we move.
Lorn peers sideways at her. “Having second thoughts, my dear?”
Without glancing his way, she says, “I can work small illusions.” She holds out her hand. I stare at it for a good five seconds, wondering what she’s doing, when a small smile bends Aren’s lips. He pulls her into a hug.
“That will help.” He steps back and turns to me. “She’s mimicking your edarratae. It’s not perfect, but it’ll be enough to lure the Court fae.”
A decoy. It’s a good idea.
“She’ll fissure out when the fae close in,” Aren says. “I’ll try to draw the others’ attacks while Lorn takes you through the gate.”
Lorn heaves a sigh.
The knots in my stomach loosen a little. This might work. I nod to signal I’m ready and then Kelia and I both pull on our hoods.
We start off casually, just four people strolling down the street. The guards spot us immediately. We’re heading toward the group at the gate. There are more than a dozen of them now. If half don’t follow Kelia when she runs, we’re screwed.
Aren waits until the silver plating is almost underfoot before he orders, “Go!”
Kelia’s hood flies off when she runs. There’s a second of stunned silence before five Court fae take off after her. Aren and Lorn draw their swords. I unsheathe my dagger.
The guards fissure after Kelia as soon as they step off the silver. We run onto it. Aren’s in the lead. He takes down one fae before he can draw his sword, blocks the attacks of a second and third while Lorn and I sprint for the gate.
Two fae block our path. Lorn mutters something under his breath but parries their attacks.
I throw off my hood—they’ve figured out I’m human, I’m sure—and see someone charging at me out of the corner of my eye.
I swing my dagger. The fae’s sword crashes against it, flinging it from my hand and sending a sharp explosion of pain through my wrist. He has ample time to finish me off. He doesn’t.
He grabs my arm. I slam the heel of my palm into his nose. He’s pulling me toward him, so I hit twice as hard. He clutches his bleeding nose, but lunges after me as soon as I run.
Aren steps between us. Kills him quickly.
I escape toward Lorn, toward the gate, retrieving my dropped dagger on the way. The soul-shadows rising into the air prove Lorn’s a hell of a lot better fighter than I took him for. He dispatches another fae, then dips his hand into the river.
I lose sight of him when a swordsman blocks my path. Aren’s beside me. He pushes me to the right as he charges forward.
There are too many. Two more approach, swords at the ready, but inching forward more cautiously than the one whose nose I broke. My little dagger isn’t going to do much good against them and . . . and, shit. They’ve sent for reinforcements.
A dozen fissures slash through the air at the edge of the silver plating. Fae step out of the light. In the midst of their twisting shadows, a crossbow rises.
“Aren!”
The fae fires.
Aren’s not able to fissure out of the way, but the arrow doesn’t slam into his chest. It plunges into the back of the Court fae he holds in front of him like a shield. The fae doesn’t disappear into the ether. His jaedric armor stopped the bolt from going all the way through. He’s alive, so when the archer looses a second bolt, Aren uses the fae’s body to block it as well.
I wrench my attention back to the two swordsmen in front of me. One of t
hem has a deep, ugly scar carved from temple to jaw. I swipe at the air when he lunges. They want me alive; it’s the only advantage I have.
The scarred fae moves to the right, begins to circle. The other one waves his sword. He’s toying with me, the bastard.
I back up to keep them both in front of me. No need. Lorn’s here. He intercepts the scarred fae, manages to knock the sword out of his hand in time to meet the attack of the other guard.
“To the gate, please, McKenzie,” Lorn says, striking high at his opponent twice before attempting a low blow.
The cold night air burns my lungs as I dodge around them. Lorn’s fissure is still open at the gate, but I can’t go through it without a fae.
Oh, shit. There are plenty of fae around. The guard Lorn disarmed glances between me and the gate. In his eyes, I practically see his plan take shape.
He charges me.
I slash. I don’t expect to cut through anything except air, but he’s faster than a human; he reaches me too soon. My blade slices into his belly, gets stuck on something inside him, then rips the rest of the way through.
I put up a hand to keep him from barreling into me. My palm presses against hot blood and—and, oh God, I think it’s his intestines—before he collapses.
I’m still staring at him when Lorn grabs me. Still staring as Lorn drags me to the gate. Staring, still staring, as Lorn dips his hand into the river and opens a gated-fissure. The swordsman disappears into the ether the moment we disappear into the In-Between.
TWENTY-FIVE
I RETCH INTO the toilet, clutching the porcelain lid. I don’t know whether to keep my eyes open or shut. If I open them, I’ll see the bright red blood my hands smeared across the white seat. If I close them, I’ll see the pale, pain-stricken face of the fae I killed.
The fae I killed.
My stomach lurches again. I already threw up the minuscule meal I ate at the tavern. Dry heaves wrack through my body now, and I’m shaking. I can’t stop. I’ve seen fae die before, but I’ve never felt a blade carve through flesh like that, never pressed my hand against someone’s insides. I’ve never been directly responsible for a death.
I should be tried for murder. Yes, it was self-defense but even so, a judge would sentence me to . . . to something.
“Is she hurt?” Aren’s voice behind me.
“She’s fine,” Lorn says from his post by the door. “It’s just a bit of queasiness. She managed to kill one of the guards.”
Aren lays his hand on my shoulder, turns me away from the toilet. “McKenzie?”
My vision unfocuses. Seeing. Remembering. My stomach churns, and I want desperately to go back into the In-Between where it’s too bright to see and too cold to think.
“I’m quite impressed, actually,” Lorn says. “I didn’t know human girls were capable of killing.”
“Shut up, Lorn.” Aren takes my chin in his hand. “Look at me, McKenzie. Look at me.”
I force myself to meet his silver eyes. I try to ignore the smear of red across his jaw, ignore the fact that the hands touching me have killed so many more fae than I have.
“McKenzie?” Aren smoothes my hair away from my face.
I’m not crying. Why am I not crying? I just killed a man.
“It’s okay, McKenzie.”
It’s not okay. “Where are we?”
The skin at the corners of Aren’s eyes tighten. “We’re in Colorado. Naito lives here.”
“Is he here?” I ask. I manage to stand without his help.
“We haven’t found him yet.”
I can’t take the way he’s looking at me, like I’m fragile and one second away from falling completely apart, so I nod and walk out of the bathroom.
He follows me to the living room. The rebels have made themselves at home, the few who are here, anyway. Lena’s sitting on a camel-colored couch in between Trev and another fae—I think his name is Nalst. Three fae sit to her right in chairs stolen from the dining table. They all look out of place here, and not just because chaos lusters flash across their skin. They’re too haggard and dirt-smeared to belong in a house like this. It’s not a mansion like Shane’s place, but it’s put together just as well. Either Naito has a talent for picking out drapes and accent furniture or he hired a professional decorator.
Bottles rattle in the kitchen. Since the house has an open, spacious floor plan, I can see it from the hall’s exit. It’s separated from the living room by a granite countertop. Kelia’s on the other side, peering into the open refrigerator. I think the fridge might be the only working appliance in this house. The lamps are all unplugged, there’s no television in the living room, no phone or other appliance anywhere in sight.
“You should eat something,” Aren says.
“A drink would do her more good.” Lorn strides by. He stops where the dark cream carpet meets the tiled kitchen floor.
“Kelia, my dear. Could you please step away from the cold machine?”
“Refrigerator.” She holds out her hand without turning to look at him. “And my edarratae barely register it.”
“But it does register,” he says. “Really, sometimes I think you’re damaging your magic to spite me.”
“Here.” She hands him a bottle of white wine, then looks at Aren. “There’s nothing to eat. We’ll have to go out to get food.”
“I’ll go,” I say. Too quickly. Aren gives me a look that I haven’t seen since the last time I plotted an escape attempt, though this time, there’s no amusement in his eyes. He thinks I’m going to run. I’m not. At least, I don’t think I am, but I need time to think. I need time to be alone.
“Perhaps you’d like to take a shower first?” he suggests.
I glance down. Hell. I can’t go out in public like this. My clothes are stained with blood; I’d be arrested for sure.
I should be arrest—
No. I won’t think about that.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll shower.”
Kelia sets a couple of wineglasses on the counter. “I have extra clothes in Naito’s closet. Someone else will have to go to the store.”
“Kelia,” Lorn’s voice holds a warning.
She gives him one quick scowl, opens a fissure—
“Kelia!”
—and disappears.
“Nom Sidhe,” Lorn curses. “She could have at least . . .” He stops. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn toward me. “You, shadow-witch. Read her trail.”
I’m already staring at it. The dancing shadows might as well be magnetized, they capture my attention so fully. She’s fissured to the Realm. To the north. Corrist, I’m guessing, because I’m sure she’s searching for Naito.
Lorn thrusts an open magazine into my left hand and a pen into my right. I map the contortions shading my vision, turn the page when I zoom in on the southern quarter of the city and scratch down those shadows, pinpointing her location as well as I can.
“Corrist,” I say to make the magic work.
Lorn peers over my shoulder. The map is drawn over a diagram of some atom/nucleus thing. Hopefully there’s not too much text obscuring my lines.
“Thank you.” His fissure slices through the air a moment later. I focus on the magazine in my hand so I don’t get sucked into staring at his shadows. It’s Popular Science. There’s a photo of a corpse in the story highlights. It peeks out between my bloodstained fingers.
My hands itch. I toss the magazine on the counter. Fisting my hands at my sides, I hurry to Naito’s bedroom to grab clean clothes.
I linger in the bathroom long after I finish showering. My skin is clean, but not my conscience. If anything, the guilt is worse than before. When the warm, humid air grows heavy, constricting, I rise to crack open the door. I don’t intend to leave, but somehow, I end up at the end of the hall. The living room is packed with fae. Aren’s speaking to a black-haired man who’s shaking his head. In black pants and a richly embroidered jacket, he has to be a noble. Plus, he’s brought an entourage of guards—fou
r of them—all armed and standing ready to defend their employer.
My gaze is pulled toward the door. Kyol told me years ago that this isn’t my war. I should have listened; I can listen now. I can leave this all behind and start living a normal, human life, a life where I won’t be put into a situation where I might have to kill to survive.
I close my eyes, draw in a breath. No. Retiring isn’t an option anymore. Maybe the Court fae were the good guys when I first entered the Realm, but they aren’t now. I have to undo all the harm I’ve done these last few years.
I’m about to force my feet to move, to walk into the living room and join the rebels, when twin flashes of light strike outside the back windows. Shadows twist through the backyard. Naito and Evan move away from them along with two fae I’ve never seen before. Evan stumbles.
“Aren!” I call.
He grabs his sword.
“Naito and Evan,” I say, gesturing toward the door as the humans stagger inside.
“He’s hurt,” Naito says, a needless statement since there’s an arrow protruding from Evan’s chest.
Aren drops his sword and helps Evan into a chair. He’s pasty white beneath his beard, and his lips are dry and cracked.
Lena rises from the couch. “Hold him,” she says. “I’ll heal him.”
Aren grabs one of Evan’s shoulders. Naito grabs the other. Then Lena wraps her hand around the shaft of the arrow and yanks.
My stomach lurches, but I can’t tear my eyes away from him, away from the blood that gushes from his chest, from between Lena’s fingers as she presses her palms over the wound.
Evan’s sweating. He stops fighting Naito and Aren and goes still. When his eyes close, I half expect to see his soul-shadow rise up. He’s not fae, though. He’s human and . . .
I exhale when he nods and mutters a thank-you. He’s not dead. Not yet, at least.
Naito straightens. He steps back to scan the living room, glancing at the black-haired noble and his guards, then looking into the kitchen. He walks past me to peer down the hallway before turning back. “Where’s Kelia?”
“She’s looking for you,” Lena says, accepting a towel from Trev and cleaning her hands. “She’s fine. Or she was when she left.”
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