“McKenzie,” he says, turning me toward him. His eyes are worried but determined. “I have to find Lena.”
“I . . .” I want to scream. Lena’s more important than Kyol. In my head, I know that. In my heart . . . Kyol’s a part of my history, but he’s also a part of me. How can I abandon him?
“God.” I press the heel of my free hand against my temple. I’m so sick of having no choices.
“Okay,” I say, hating myself. “Okay. We’ll find Lena.” And maybe Kyol will be safer in his room.
Aren lets out a breath, then he steps into the hallway. It’s not empty. Lena’s fae are at both ends, fighting off the false-blood’s people. If Aren and I join the fight, we’ll even out the numbers, but I’m not anxious to go blade to blade with the elari.
“It sure would be nice if I had my tranq gun,” I mutter.
Aren, who decided it would be a great idea to throw my backpack out the window, gives me an apologetic smile. “Didn’t think we’d need it. Anyone heading our way?”
I focus on the elari again. One of them has crept past the swinging blades.
“Left wall, ten paces,” I tell Aren, shutting out everything to do my job. He continues forward so casually I’m not sure he heard me, but just when I’m about to shout a warning, he surges forward, closing the distance between him and the fae.
The elari intercepts Aren’s attack with ease, but he’s visible now.
And now, he’s dead.
“Beside me, McKenzie,” Aren says. I run to catch up with him, and he takes me into the servants’ corridor. The same corridor I hid in earlier and where I—
“Lorn?” Aren says before I can warn him. He crouches beside the fae, who’s sitting up. The antidote neutralized the tranquilizer quicker than I thought it would. “What happened?”
“He tried to stop me,” I say before Lorn can answer. I fully expect to get an earful anyway, but Lorn accepts the help Aren offers him, and they both rise.
A scream rings out from the main hallway. Lorn frowns in that direction.
“What’s happening?” he asks.
“The elari,” Aren says. “They’ve invaded.”
Lorn’s eyes widen. He’s definitely not himself yet, though. His pupils are unnaturally large.
“Lena,” he says, swaying. “Is she okay?”
“We don’t know. We’re looking for her.” Aren’s head whips left as a second scream erupts from farther down our narrow corridor. “McKenzie?”
I move past him, my gaze searching the darkness. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Can you walk?” Aren asks Lorn.
“Barely,” he says acidly, looking at me. I hold his gaze for half a second before I start down the corridor.
“If you could watch our backs,” Aren says, “I’d appreciate it.”
“Lena should be in the Mirrored Hall,” I tell Aren when he catches up with me.
“Yes,” he answers, though I wasn’t asking a question. The Mirrored Hall was where Lena met with the high nobles. If she’s still there or has fled this way, we should come across her. If we don’t . . . If we don’t, it won’t be a good sign.
We’re only a few steps down the corridor when my spine tingles. I feel someone following us, someone besides Lorn. Tightening my grip on my sword, I turn.
Ah, hell.
“No, Sosch,” I say, kneeling down as the kimki scurries into my arms. “No. You can’t follow us.”
“Scratching behind his ears isn’t going to get rid of him,” Aren says behind me.
I don’t answer him; I just push Sosch away and tell him, “Go.”
He rolls to his back, belly up.
“Nom Sidhe,” Lorn curses. “Just get rid of the animal.”
Sosch looks at Lorn, and I swear his next chirp-squeak sounds more like a chirp-hiss.
I stand, then, more firmly, I say, “Go.”
When he rolls onto my foot, I give him the gentlest shove with my shoe. His whiskers twitch as if I’ve just attempted a field-goal kick with his head.
“Come on,” Aren says, taking my arm, pulling me down the corridor. When Sosch follows us again, Aren turns and, in Fae, growls out, “No! Go find a fissure!”
The damn kimki listens to him, of course. He curls into a ball and blows air out of his mouth, wiggling his whiskers in discontent.
We don’t stumble across any more of the elari, but when we step out of the corridor and into the Mirrored Hall, evidence of their presence paints the floor and furniture. Blood streaks across the long wood table like spilled wine, and more than half the chairs are overturned. My foot hits a sword that’s lying in a pool of crimson, and the smell . . . It’s acrid and metallic.
I breathe through my mouth and try not to gag. I try to ignore the scene entirely. I can’t let the violence touch me.
“How do we know if she’s alive?” I ask quietly. The wide, double doors to this room aren’t completely shut. My gaze swings between them and the almost hidden servants’ corridor we exited. It unnerves me that no one is here. Where are the elari? Where is the false-blood?
Where the hell is Lena?
Aren doesn’t answer my question. He walks slowly alongside the table, taking care not to step in the blood. Finally, he says, “The false-blood shouldn’t be capable of this. We have guards on the Sidhe Tol—all four of them.”
“He wouldn’t have to use a Sidhe Tol.”
I glance over my shoulder as Lorn makes his way toward us, using a chair for balance. Even with its aid, he looks like a sailor who hasn’t gained his sea legs yet.
Or, he looks like a man who was knocked out with a tranq gun.
“Do you know something we don’t?” I ask. It’s actually a stupid question. Of course Lorn knows something we don’t. That’s his joy in life. Hell, he probably knows the location of all the Sidhe Tol, the extremely rare, special gates that allow fae to fissure to places protected by silver.
“A slaughter like this would be easy to accomplish if your enemies trust the fae they’re fighting with.”
Aren’s jaw clenches. Lorn notices it, and says, “I decouraged Lena’s recruitment drive.”
Discouraged. I don’t know if the tranq is causing him to trip up on his words or if it was just a mistake, but I get what he’s saying.
“We screened the new recruits.”
“You didn’t screen them well,” Lorn says. “You’ve added several of my fae to your lists.”
Aren gives Lorn a tight smile. “We know.”
“Do you?” Lorn asks. “Or do you know only the fae that I want you to?”
I roll my eyes. “This isn’t accomplishing anything. We need to know if Lena’s alive.”
“You moved too quickly taking over the palace,” Lorn says. His words sound like an accusation, like he’s blaming Aren for this invasion.
“The opportunity was there,” Aren fires back. “We had no choice but to take it.”
“That’s exactly what the false-blood wanted. You weakened the king, the king’s remnants weakened you. Makes it simple for the Taelith and his elari to take over now.”
“It would have been helpful if you’d given us that information months ago.” He turns his back on Lorn, nods to me, then makes his way toward the double doors.
To the double doors that are silently swinging open.
Terror moves through me as a fae comes into view. It’s him, the false-blood. I know it the instant I see him. There’s something different about him. His face is slender, with hollow cheekbones and a high hairline. His hair is black and . . . and something about him is familiar. His eyes? They’re bright, with more color than a normal fae’s, and they’re ringed in a dark band of silver. They’re wicked and calculating, and they’re locked on me.
TWENTY-FIVE
GOOSE BUMPS PRICKLE across my arms. Lorn said the false-blood was interested in finding me. He wanted to use me as an example. The way the false-blood tilts his head to the side and gives me a cruel, teeth-filled smile, tells me that’s
still true.
He takes an easy, almost lazy step inside the Mirrored Hall.
“Nom Sidhe,” Aren whispers. Then, “Lorn. Get McKenzie out of here.”
Lorn’s hands are clenched on the back of a chair—he needs my help more than I need his—but I’ve already taken a step back. When I realize I’m retreating, I make myself stand my ground. It takes a conscious effort to do so, but I’m not leaving Aren to fight on his own. He might be able to take on the false-blood by himself, but it would be stupid to leave when I can tilt the odds in his favor.
I tighten my grip on the hilt of my sword and stride forward.
“McKenzie,” Lorn calls after me. I intend to ignore him—I won’t let him talk me into abandoning Aren—but then he adds, “You might consider turning around.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I spin in time to see an elari emerge from the servants’ corridor.
Lorn lets go of the chair and takes a wobbly step toward the fae. His sword is held ready, but it’s blatantly obvious he’s in no condition to fight.
The fae’s gaze moves from Lorn to me, then back, as if he’s considering which of us is the bigger threat: the noble who can barely stand or the human who can barely hold a sword.
At least, it appears that I can barely hold it. I take a step forward, volunteering as a target, and when I swing my blade, I hope the fae sees how awkward the movement is.
He does. He focuses on me, looking extremely unimpressed with my skills. Good.
I deliberately do everything wrong when I swing for his head: I stare at where I’m aiming and I prep the attack by hunching my shoulders.
He deflects my blade with ease as Lorn sweeps forward, attacking from the left. The elari blocks that, too, then he follows up with a powerful slash at Lorn’s midsection.
Lorn’s blade catches the blow, but the weapon flies from his hand. That’s all the diversion I need. The elari’s momentum carries his blade just a fraction too far to the left, allowing me to plunge my sword into the small area under his arm that’s not protected by jaedric.
It isn’t the easiest place to embed a blade, but I put all my weight behind the move and plunge deep enough to nick his heart. His body disappears an instant later, and my gaze locks on his soul-shadow, a white mist that twists as it rises.
“McKenzie!” Lorn shouts out a warning just as something dark parts the mist.
I lunge awkwardly for the new elari, stabbing forward and praying I can kill him before he can kill me.
I don’t know what happens next. Maybe he sidesteps, maybe I stumble, but somehow, he’s close enough to backhand me across the cheek.
I hit the ground, roll to my back, then swing my sword out in a protective arc of defense.
He’s out of range. He flips his sword in his hands, pointing the blade down and raising his arms above his head.
In the corner of my vision, I see Lorn grab his dropped sword. He’s too slow, too far away.
The fae’s muscles tighten, readying for the downward thrust, but then, a spasm wrenches through his body. A second later, I notice the blade protruding through his stomach.
The fae’s jaw goes slack. He drops to his knees, revealing his killer behind him.
Trev tugs his sword free of the body a second before the elari disappears.
“Thank God,” I say, climbing to my feet.
Trev wipes the back of his arm across his forehead. He’s sweating and breathing hard. Getting to us couldn’t have been easy.
“Lena?” he asks.
“We don’t know,” I tell him. “Aren’s—” I break off as I turn toward the front of the Mirrored Hall. He’s not here. My breath freezes in my lungs.
“He didn’t like the scenery,” Lorn says, wheezing. “He stepped outside with the false-blood.”
I start for the doors.
“No,” Lorn says, catching my arm. “You’re leaving with me. You think far too much of your skills.”
“I think far too much of yours.” I try to shake him off. He tightens his grip.
“I need her eyes,” Trev says, attempting to step between us.
“The King’s Hall,” I say. “If Lena’s alive, the false-blood would have taken her there.” That’s complete speculation on my part—wishful thinking, even—but that chamber in the back of the King’s Hall is our best chance to get out of here.
A handful of seconds tick by. Lorn looks resolute, but finally, he sighs and releases my arm. “Very well.”
We leave the Mirrored Hall, stepping out onto a balcony that overlooks a marble floor. Trev and Lorn come to a sudden stop. So do I. They’re just as stunned as I am by what we see. Or rather, by what we don’t see.
There’s no blood below. No signs of violence.
No sign of Aren.
My heart hammers in my chest. Aren’s not here, but neither is the false-blood. If one or both of them died, there would be a sign of the struggle. There would be at least one drop of blood spilled, and the fae below us wouldn’t be standing there with their weapons safely sheathed in their scabbards.
Three of those fae are elari. They’re speaking to the high nobles—Lord Raen, Lord Kaeth, and Lord Brigo. The nobles shift their weight from foot to foot, but the elari—even after they glance up at us—all look unconcerned.
“The King’s Hall looks rather welcoming,” Lorn says.
It does. The doors are wide open and unguarded.
“I think it would be wise to take that as a sign to run,” Lorn adds.
“Can’t,” Trev says. “The elari blocked off the exits.”
My hands are shaking from too much adrenaline and fear. I try to make them stop as I follow Trev along the balcony. I try to concentrate on my breathing, and I make my mind picture us escaping through the hidden tunnel.
Better yet, if we can kill the false-blood, we won’t need to escape at all.
A cry from below makes us stop and turn. It’s Lord Raen. One of the elari pulls his sword free from the high noble’s shoulder.
“Are there any other opinions?” the fae asks.
Kelia’s father hits his knees. His right hand clutches his shoulder and the first drops of blood splatter onto the marble floor.
Trev’s eyes burn with fury. Even Lorn looks more steady, more ready to kill.
“The false-blood,” I remind them. “We have to kill the false-blood.”
Grim, Trev nods. Then he moves to my right side. Lorn falls into step on my left, and I lead the way to the open doors, keeping my shoulders back, my stride confident, and my sword held ready. My pace doesn’t falter until I step over the threshold. It’s not due entirely to what I see, though the bloodshed here makes the long, large room look like a slaughterhouse. Smears of red mar the white-stoned floor, and the blue carpet that leads down the center is wet enough to glisten in the light streaming in from the hall’s tall windows.
But my steps faltered before my mind completely registered the violence. Kyol is stirring. He’s not completely awake, but his emotions begin to travel over the bond. It’s only been a few hours since Naito gave him the drugged drink. He’s moving much sooner than he’s supposed to. Because of my adrenaline? I can feel a faint echo of it pumping through him.
Once again, I wish I could communicate with Kyol. I wish I could tell him to get the hell out of Corrist, but the best I can do is let him feel what I feel: fear and foreboding mixed with grim determination. And a little hope. Lena’s standing at the foot of the dais.
She’s not alone. I stride down the blue carpet, ignoring the way my shoes squish into its blood-soaked fibers. I have to assume Lena’s guards are all dead. The only people in here are Lena, the elari, and the false-blood himself. He’s waiting for us at the foot of the silver dais.
Again, I’m hit with the feeling that we’ve met before. That has to be impossible, though. I’d remember those eyes and that cruel . . .
That cruel smile. That’s what’s familiar. I’ve seen it on someone else’s face before. Whose?
Twelve against four. These are the crappiest odds ever. Where the hell is Aren? He wouldn’t have fled, leaving Lena and me behind, and I refuse to believe the false-blood killed him.
Four of the elari move toward us. We can flee back out the doors, or we can continue down the carpet. Outnumbered like we are, we won’t be able to fight our way out of here.
God, we need a plan.
No, we need a freaking miracle.
We stop half a dozen feet away from the silver dais, and still, there’s no sign of Aren.
“Lorn,” the false-blood says.
“Taelith.” I have to give Lorn credit. He greets the false-blood like this whole situation bores him. He knows we’re screwed, just like I do, but he’s putting on a good show, acting like he’s unafraid of the fae who beat the shit out of him just a few days ago.
“I allowed you to live,” the false-blood says. “And you used the life I gave you to warn the shadow-witch that I was coming for her. I am not pleased.”
Lorn sighs. “I admit that it wasn’t the wisest decision I’ve ever made.”
I glance at Lena. She’s standing tall and regal at the foot of the dais despite a blackened eye and a deep gash over her right forearm. Her right side is stained red. I’m not sure if that’s from the arm injury or some other wound I can’t see beneath her clothes.
The false-blood turns his attention to me. “Shadow-witch, I have a present for you.”
Every ounce of blood drains from my face. I stop breathing, terrified his present will be a half-dead Aren.
Kyol latches onto my horror. He’s moving more quickly now, his veins filling with his own adrenaline, but he’ll never reach me. He’s too weak, and there are too many elari between us. If he tries, he’ll die.
We’ll die.
I force myself to breathe, to draw air into my lungs and let it out through my nose. I can’t worry about that right now. I have to worry about the false-blood, the so-called Taelith. He’s . . .
Oh, God.
My hand trembles on the hilt of my sword. I know who he is. Or rather, who he’s related to. I recognize the demonic spark in his silver eyes.
The Sharpest Blade Page 26
