The Sharpest Blade ml-3

by Sandy Williams

  The slash of light behind him winks out, leaving him framed in twisting shadows. For once, those shadows don’t capture my attention. Our eyes meet, maybe for just one second, but in that single second, a million emotions crash through me. Even dressed in old, well-worn jaedric, Aren is gorgeous. On anyone else, the armor would look cheap and shoddy, but he makes it look durable and strong. I’ve always been physically attracted to him, a fact that infuriated me when we were enemies, but it’s the deeper part of him that I fell in love with.

  It’s the deeper part of him I’m still in love with. I never doubted it these last three weeks, but the strength of that emotion makes me feel vulnerable. He could shatter my heart so easily.

  The second of eye contact ends, and suddenly he’s closed the distance between us. I expect some sort of greeting, an embrace, a kiss, a simple hello, but he lifts up my shirt with such urgency I stagger back. I grip his shoulders for balance as he runs his hands over my ribs. His touch isn’t a caress.

  “Aren,” I say because I see the fear in his eyes. His right hand moves to my back, up to my shoulders. “Aren, I’m not hurt.”

  He’s not listening. He continues searching for an injury I don’t have.

  I grab one of his hands. “I’m fine.”

  A chaos luster leaps from his skin to mine. The heat of our contact finally shows in his eyes. He meets my gaze again, and his pinched brow wrinkles even more.

  “You’re covered in blood,” he says. He reaches up and drags his thumb across my cheek. Whether he’s tracing the path of a chaos luster or touching a smear of dirt or blood, I don’t know. All I know is I’ve missed his touch.

  His gaze drops to my lips. He’s breathing hard. I’m not breathing at all.

  He swallows. “Taltrayn said you needed a healer.”

  “Hmm?”

  “He said . . .” He fades off, and something more potent than worry is in his eyes. He closes his mouth, then opens it again as if he’s determined to finish what he started to say, but no words come out.

  His hand is still on my cheek. A flash of edarratae draws his gaze to it, then the lightning hits me, an erotic burst of pleasure that makes my entire body ache.

  His muscles tense, and he’s standing in front of me as rigid as iron when all I want to do is melt into his arms.

  “Aren,” I say, my voice uncharacteristically raspy.

  “Sidhe,” he curses. His stiffness disappears, and his mouth captures mine.

  Instantly, I’m alight, burning from the inside out as if I’ve been scorched by lightning. The power, the need, the magical bite of his kiss seizes me. I dig my fingers into his shoulders, then slide one hand behind his neck pulling him closer, closer.

  My lips part, inviting him to deepen the kiss. He does, and I moan, heat gathering under my skin. He tastes of the Realm, exotic and sweet and primal. I want more—the way his body shudders tells me he does, too—but he ends the kiss in a tender, exquisite pull that leaves my head spinning.

  “Hi,” I whisper when I can breathe again.

  He gives a slow, almost imperceptible shake of his head before he responds, just as softly, “Hi.”

  We’re still touching, still close enough that all I’d have to do to reignite the kiss is to press forward a fraction of an inch, but between two rapid beats of my heart, someone else’s breaks.

  I close my eyes, grimacing. There’s no way I can hide this . . . this need. Even a world away, Kyol can feel it, and the tight ache in his chest makes me feel like absolute shit.

  Aren’s suddenly rigid again. He knows the reason why I grimaced, and in an instant, we’re half a room apart. He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, an action that does nothing to quell my desire. I want my fingers there, wrapped in the sun-bleached strands.

  “Why would Taltrayn tell me you need a healer?” he asks. His voice isn’t soft anymore. It’s hard and emotionless. Somehow, I’ve managed to hurt him as deeply as I’ve hurt Kyol.

  Fantastic job, McKenzie.

  “I don’t know,” I answer because I need to say something to fill the silence. Plus, that’s the truth. Kyol knew I wasn’t hurt, so why would he . . . Oh.

  “Lee,” I say. Then, because I feel like I might explode if I don’t move, I walk to the other side of the couch.

  “He’s the one who’s hurt.” I peer down at the passed-out human and concentrate on pulling air into my lungs one slow, steady breath at a time.

  “Lee?” Aren walks to my side. When he sees the sleeping human, he asks, “Why is he here?”

  “To tie a vigilante to my bed.”

  He’s silent too long, and when I look at him again, his eyebrows are raised, waiting.

  I give him a brief summary. He listens without comment, and that unnerves me. He’s not acting like himself. He’s usually relaxed and carefree, not quiet and tense.

  “The blood on you is from him?” Aren asks, kneeling.

  “No. Some of it’s mine. Some of it is Kyol’s.” I wince when I say Kyol’s name out loud. It feels like I’m driving a dagger into Aren’s heart. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t give any indication that I’m hurting him now, but I feel like crap all the same. Kyol is the reason why Aren’s stayed away from me these past three weeks. Aren was furious when he learned about our life-bond. The only reason he didn’t strike Kyol down instantly was because he knew how much Kyol meant to me.

  But, apparently, Aren doesn’t know how much he means to me. I tried to tell him that I was his, that the life-bond didn’t change anything, but he wouldn’t listen. He was too hurt and angry to accept my words then. I think he might still be too hurt and angry to accept them now.

  “Most of the blood is from the fae at the tjandel,” I say past the lump in my throat.

  Aren looks up. “The tjandel? You were in the Realm?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Briefly.”

  His jaw clenches, and his silver eyes remain locked on mine for a handful of heartbeats. I don’t know what thoughts are in his head. He used to be open with me. He’d tell me what he was thinking and planning even when I didn’t want to hear it. Now he just lowers his gaze back to Lee and asks in a completely neutral tone, “Why were you there?”

  Because Kyol was hurt. But I won’t say his name out loud again. Instead, I tell Aren, “The elari ambushed a group of swordsmen.”

  He unsheathes the dagger that’s on his left hip.

  “You know about the false-blood,” he says as he carefully cuts off the bandage Kyol wrapped around Lee’s ribs.

  “Lena told me,” I say, watching Aren place his hand over the gash in the human’s side. Lee doesn’t budge, not even when one of Aren’s chaos lusters darts across his rib cage.

  Oh, crap.

  “Is he dead?” I ask, squatting next to the couch. “I’m going to kill him if he is. He’s not, is he?”

  “No,” Aren says quietly. “He’s not dead.”

  Is that a smile on Aren’s lips? I stare at his mouth while he heals Lee, but the more I look for any slight bending of his lips, the more I doubt what I thought I saw.

  He must feel me watching him. His head starts to turn my way, but then, he stiffens. His jaw clenches with what I’m certain is determination, and he locks his gaze back on Lee.

  “Aren—”

  “I’m finished,” he says quickly, rising.

  I stand, too. “Can we talk?”

  “No.”

  His response is so terse, it feels like I’ve been punched. “No?”

  “There’s nothing . . .” His words fade when he looks at me again. He seems agitated, torn, and I hate that he’s this distressed.

  “This is about the life-bond?” I ask. He doesn’t answer for a long time. He just stands there, staring at me with apprehension in his silver eyes.

  “If it weren’t for that . . .” He swallows. “If it weren’t for that, I’d never leave your side.”

  I give a short, sharp laugh as my stomach does a somersault. “If you think I’ll let you go afte
r saying that, then the In-Between must have screwed with your head.”

  “I—” He snaps his mouth shut, shakes his head at himself. “Then I didn’t mean it.”

  There’s a slight smile on his lips, and finally, his eyes are lighter, less serious. I want to kiss him again. I want our arms wrapped around each other, our bodies pressed close, but when I take a step toward him, he takes a step back.

  “McKenzie.” He retreats another step. This time, an infuriated squeak cuts through the air.

  Aren nearly falls onto the couch in his attempt to get off of Sosch’s tail. The kimki squeaks again, then he darts out from underfoot, leaping straight from the floor to my chest.

  “Sosch!” I yell, staggering under the weight of the fifteen-pound furball. “Sosch. Down!”

  He moves to drape himself across my shoulders, his tiny claws pricking my skin.

  “Sosch.” Aren’s mouth splits into a grin as he regains his balance. My balance is still off, though. I steady myself on the edge of my secondhand breakfast table, then bend down to Sosch’s bowl of Goldfish.

  “Here.” I hold one up to his mouth. He devours it and the next two I give him. “Now down. Perch.”

  Sosch jumps off my shoulders, stops at my feet, then raises his front legs off the ground. Balanced on his hind legs, he stretches up just past my knees.

  “Perch?” Aren asks, staring as the kimki eats two more crackers.

  I nod. “It’s different from ‘sit.’ I thought about using ‘stand,’ but ‘perch’ is cuter.”

  “Cuter?”

  I frown at Aren, not getting the tone in his voice. He’s not quite annoyed. It’s more like he’s . . . offended?

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  “You taught him . . . tricks?”

  “To perch and sit and roll over, yeah.”

  He shakes his head. “You can’t teach a kimki tricks.”

  “Obviously, you can.”

  “No, you . . . you just don’t. They’re kimkis, McKenzie. They’re not”—he waves his hand as he searches for the right word—“pets.” He almost chokes on that last word.

  “It’s not a big deal, and you do it all the time when you tell him to jump on your shoulders.” I grab another Goldfish, then order, “Up.”

  Sosch leaps to my outstretched arm, then back to my shoulders.

  “That’s different. I wanted him to come with me, not to perform. This is . . . It’s . . . It’s . . .”

  I’ve never seen Aren like this, so flabbergasted. It’s funny, and I’m tempted to see if Sosch will start swinging his head back and forth when I say “dance,” but he’s still working on that trick, and so far, he’s only done it when I play Matchbox Twenty.

  But I don’t tell Sosch to dance. Instead, I help Aren out. “It’s sacrilege?”

  “Yes!” Aren says, grabbing onto the word. “Sacrilege. Kimkis are endangered and wild. They do what they want, and sometimes their desires line up with yours, but . . .”

  He fades off when Sosch nuzzles his furry head under my chin. Aren’s eyes are still wide, still astounded, and I think maybe even a little . . .

  I grin. “You’re jealous.”

  Aren’s gaze locks on my mouth. He’s confessed to loving my smiles. He’s told me he thinks they’re rare, like a magic that went extinct during the Duin Bregga, but they were only scarce because we were enemies, and we were fighting a war.

  “Jealous of a kimki?” The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Never.”

  “Of me,” I say, stepping toward him. “I’ve stolen your pet.”

  “I told you”—he reaches up and glides his hand down Sosch’s long back—“they’re not pets, nalkin-shom.”

  Nalkin-shom. Shadow-witch. The title should infuriate me, but it doesn’t, not when it comes from his lips, and especially not when his voice is deep and gently teasing.

  “If I knew all it would take to get you here was Sosch,” I say, “I would have sent a ransom note weeks ago.”

  His smile makes chaos lusters ricochet through my stomach. He’s standing close, so he can pet Sosch, and his cedar-and-cinnamon scent makes warmth flood through me.

  “I’ve missed you,” I say.

  His silver eyes meet mine. “You make me lose my focus.”

  “Good.” I smile.

  His head lowers toward mine, and his jaedric cuirass moves as his chest rises and falls beneath it.

  My skin tingles. I tilt my head slightly as I lean toward Aren, not figuring out that the sensation is a warning until after a fissure cuts through the room. Kyol steps out of the slash of light with Naito, and the warmth that filled me half a second ago instantly chills.

  And just like that, I’ve lost Aren. He moves away, and I swear even Sosch lets out a sad sigh.

  SEVEN

  “DID EVERYTHING GO okay?” Aren asks, turning his back on me. I focus on Naito, too, almost thankful for the distraction. Almost. I’d be more thankful if he and Kyol had waited at least a few more minutes before fissuring here.

  “No losses,” Naito answers, but his face is dark when his gaze locks on Lee, who’s still asleep. Naito walks to the couch, then smacks his brother on the head. “Wake up.”

  Lee’s body jerks, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

  Naito grabs a fistful of his bloodstained shirt and yanks him off the cushions. Lee moves again, this time more alert than before, but I don’t think he realizes where he is or what’s going on until Naito slams him against the wall. I wince when I hear something metallic jiggle in my neighbor’s apartment.

  “Is Caelar working with the false-blood?” Naito demands, inches from Lee’s face.

  “What?” Lee grabs at Naito’s hands.

  “Is Caelar working with the false-blood!”

  “I don’t know,” Lee says, trying to shove his brother away. Naito has my complete attention now, too. If he’s implying what I think he is, this could be majorly bad news.

  “Why was he in Bardur?” He slams Lee against the wall again.

  “I don’t fucking know!” Lee yells. This time, he twists out of Naito’s grasp.

  “Hey!” I step between them before this fight gets louder. “If one of my neighbors calls the cops, I’m screwed.” I nod toward Lee. “He says he hasn’t talked to the remnants.”

  “And you suddenly believe everything he says?” Naito demands.

  “Of course not,” I say, but Naito still looks like he’s about to kill his brother. I completely understand the sentiment, but I seriously do not need a dead body in here.

  “What happened in Bardur?” Aren asks. He’s leaning against my breakfast table now, looking relaxed and unruffled. Someone could tell him an army just fissured behind him, and he’d shrug it off and come up with a crazy plan to counter the hiccup.

  “Nimael was there,” Naito says, some of the tension finally draining from his muscles. “So was Caelar. They were meeting in a silver-protected warehouse in the middle of the city.”

  “Who’s Nimael?” I ask.

  “We think he’s the false-blood’s second-in-command,” Aren tells me. I meet his eyes, uneasiness churning in my stomach. A month ago, Lena was worried about Caelar finding a Descendant who could rival her bloodline. If he presented an alternative ruler to the high nobles, they might have considered that fae over her. But Caelar never found someone willing to rule, and he lost so many fae in his last-ditch effort to retake the palace that he and the remnants aren’t as much of a threat now as they were before.

  But if he joins forces with a false-blood . . .

  I glance at Kyol. He knows Caelar well. They were colleagues back when the king was alive, and Kyol respects him. He’s always said Caelar wouldn’t support a false-blood. Does he still believe that? Neither the life-bond nor Kyol’s expression gives any indication of how he feels.

  I turn back to Aren. “You think Nimael is the second-in-command or you know he is?”

  Sosch hops up onto the breakfast table.

  “If he’s not h
is second,” Aren says, sliding his hand over the kimki’s back, “he’s close to it. He’ll be able to give us information on the false-blood.” He looks at Naito. “I take it you weren’t able to capture him?”

  Naito shakes his head. “He double fissured. I didn’t pinpoint his location accurately enough.”

  The last part is said with more than a hint of aggravation in his voice. It’s directed at himself, I think, but I can’t help feeling responsible on some level. If I’d been there, chances are, Lena’s fae would have caught Nimael before he was able to open a second fissure and escape. The maps I draw when I read the shadows are incredibly accurate. That’s why Aren risked abducting me from my college campus a few months ago—the rebels almost never escaped when I was there to track them. Fae who are physically fit can fissure over and over again as long as they don’t move more than twenty or thirty feet from their original location, but if they fissure farther away than that, it takes them almost a minute to recover enough to disappear into the In-Between again. That’s plenty of time for the fae who see my maps to fissure to their location and capture or kill them.

  “Nimael knows we’re after him now.” Kyol’s level voice cuts into my thoughts.

  “He’ll go underground,” Aren agrees. “Fortunately, that means we still have a chance.” He hops off my table. “I’ll find him again.”

  I’ll read his shadows for you. I press my lips together to hold the words back. I’m not available to help. I have a job, and I’m supposed to like the normal life I’m building for myself. I don’t need to screw it up further by shadow-reading again.

  But then, I’ve never been able to turn my back on the people I care about either.

  “It will probably take me a few days to learn anything,” Aren says to Naito. “You should get some rest.”

  Naito nods, then turns to me, and asks, “Where’s Glazunov?”

  Glazunov. Right. One catastrophe at a time.

  “My bedroom,” I say, giving Lee one last pissed-off glare before I walk to the door and open it for Naito. He strides past me, straight to the bed, then draws a dagger from its sheath on his right hip. Glazunov is still awake and furious, but Naito doesn’t waste a second. He grips his dagger high up on the hilt then slams the pommel into Glazunov’s temple. The vigilante head whips to the left, then he lies there, completely still.