The Shattered Dark

by Sandy Williams

  Hison leaves the street, taking a narrow path between two tall stucco buildings. The shadow-reading should be simple. This is the type of assignment I was given almost all the time when I worked for the Court. It’s safe. The target never even knows I’m there unless something goes wrong.

  Like something went wrong back in Spier.

  “You trust Hison?” I ask.

  “Not at all,” he replies. Then, “Here’s Trev.”

  Trev must have either known where we’re going or seen us turn down this path. He jogs toward us, carrying a white cloak. Maybe that’s what took him so long. Most of the fae’s cloaks are dark colors—deep blues and various shades of gray and black. This one will help me blend in with the snow.

  Aren takes it from him. He runs his hands over it twice before he opens its folds and places it around my shoulders.

  I very nearly moan. It’s like being tucked inside a blanket taken directly from the dryer.

  “God, I love you…you’re magic.” Shit. That was a bad stumble. Humans throw those words around so casually, but I don’t know if he knows that, and I’m not ready to tell him I love him, not while we’re fighting a war and not while our relationship is so new and unstable.

  He pulls my hood over my head. Keeping a grip on the front edges, he pulls me close.

  “Careful, nalkin-shom,” he whispers conspiratorially. “I might think you’re starting to like me.”

  I’m grateful he’s making light of my slip. My shoulders are defrosted enough that I manage a shrug. “I might not hate you quite as much as I used to.”

  He smiles, then lets go of my hood to run his hands over the cloak again. A new wave of warmth envelops me. Seriously, fae magic is pretty awesome sometimes. I could melt inside this cloak. It’s heavy enough to block the wind and it has huge, wide pockets on the inside that I can slip my arms into.

  Aren’s palm glides down my back…and stops just above my waistband. That’s where the dagger he gave me should be. It seems like forever has passed since I left the Vegas suite, but that’s where the dagger is, uselessly parked on my dresser. Unless the maid called the authorities.

  “It’s Sosch’s fault,” I mutter.

  Aren lifts an eyebrow as if to say, “Really?” There’s an entertained glint in his silver eyes that makes my stomach flip again.

  He unhooks a short scabbard from his belt. “Lena’s not going to be happy when she learns you’re depleting the armory.”

  He lifts the back of my shirt to slide it—

  “Cold!” I squeak as soon as the scabbard touches my skin.

  “Oops,” he says, sliding it into my waistband, but he’s grinning. He sobers a second later, though. Softly, he asks, “You’re okay?”

  I pull the cloak more tightly around me. “Yeah, this is warm enough. Thanks.”

  “No. Are you okay with being here? In Rhigh?”

  I’m not sure what he’s asking. He knows Thrain was the false-blood who pulled me into the Realm. Does he know Thrain held me here? I don’t see how he could. This was only one of Thrain’s bases, and I don’t think Atroth or any of his fae went around telling others this is where they stumbled across me.

  Trev—I almost forgot he was here—clears his throat, then mutters the warning, “Hison.”

  “Is there a problem?” Hison has doubled back and is standing only a few paces away.

  Aren focuses on the high noble and says, “Lena expects her humans to be taken care of. McKenzie’s well-being is my priority. I want her out of the elements.”

  “It’s not much farther,” Hison practically spits. It was so much easier to work for the fae when I didn’t realize just how much some of them hated me.

  It takes less than a minute to reach our destination, a small, detached home near the city’s marketplace. I can’t see it from here, but that marketplace is on the river. That’s where the gate is, too. Kyol fissured me through it when he stole me away from Thrain.

  I’m uncomfortable being back here, but I don’t let it show. I follow Hison and Aren through the door and into the living area. The room is dark, lit only by the moonlight coming in from a window, but I can still make out the blue silk shimmering overhead. It’s a common fae custom to pin thin drapes to the ceiling. They’re soft and light, moving like waves when we walk beneath them. They’re supposed to be relaxing, but I still feel tense, which is stupid. Thrain is dead. Dead, dead, dead.

  Unless Naito is right and banek’tan do exist.

  I don’t know why I let that thought creep into my mind. I’m 99.9 percent certain no one can bring fae back from the dead.

  “Is this close enough?” Hison asks. He’s standing in front of a window.

  “It’s close enough,” Aren answers. He motions me forward. “The fae will come out of that door.”

  That door is barely ten feet away. It’s just across the narrow street and nearly hidden behind the snow-covered branches of a leafless bush, but it won’t be a problem to draw the fae’s shadows; the problem will be to do it without the fae seeing me.

  “This is fine,” I say, taking the pen out of the spine of the sketchbook tucked under my robe. Now that we’re out of the weather, I’m much warmer. I don’t take my hood off, though. If a chaos luster flashes across my face when the fae steps onto the street, he might figure out this is a setup.

  Hison orders his assistant, the one with the name-cord, to go. From what I understand, he’s to check on the fae prisoner, then “accidentally” leave a door unlocked.

  I sink down to one knee beside the window and wait.

  Aren squats beside me. “Trev and I will fissure after him.”

  That will leave me alone with Hison and his guard. Lovely. “How am I getting back to Corrist?”

  “I shouldn’t be gone more than a few minutes,” he says. He looks directly at me. “McKenzie—”

  The door across the street swings open. I don’t have time to see the fae’s face; he disappears into his fissure the instant he steps outside.

  I flip open Naito’s sketchbook, rest it on my knee, and start sketching. I draw three thick, wavy lines at the top of the page. It’s the Daric Ocean. I frown at the shadows, scratch down a few bottomless triangles. It’s the same mountain range, too. The fae didn’t fissure to the exact location Aylen did, but it’s close enough to be extremely coincidental.

  I flip to the next page, narrow down my map. He’s close to a winding street on the west side of the city. He might even be on it, but I’m not 100 percent sure. I wait for the shadows to shift, see a thin dark line appear in the center of my vision. An intersection. I mark an “x” where the shadows tell me he exited, then turn to Aren.

  “He’s gone to Eksan,” I say. “I just drew—”

  Trev fissures out.

  “Thank you.” Aren rests his hand briefly on my bent knee before he rises.

  “Aren—”

  “I’ll be back soon,” he says. Then he disappears into a slash of white light.

  ELEVEN

  I’M ANNOYED. so annoyed, I don’t get drawn in by Aren’s shadows. I get that he needed to go, but it was obvious I was trying to tell him something. Trev had already left. Would it have killed Aren to wait five seconds? I’m sure it’s just a coincidence—Eksan is a huge city—but it’s possible there could be a connection between the remnants and Aylen. Between the remnants and Lorn. He called Aylen an “associate of an associate.” That could mean anything.

  “What do we do with this?” Hison’s guard asks. She’s staring at me.

  I’m so close to saying something because, really, what are the consequences if they learn I speak Fae? Hison will be pissed at Lena for letting me learn the language, but he’s already not happy I’m here in his world.

  I look at the spot where Aren disappeared. How long until he gets back? He said “soon,” but if the fae didn’t fissure directly to the remnants, Trev and Aren will have to follow him. And then, there’s always the chance the fae will double fissure—that’s how Aren ev
aded us for so long. Toward the end, we had a second shadow-reader standing by at a gate. After I mapped the fae, one of Kyol’s men would fissure to that human, then take him or her through the gate to the location I sketched out. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but we did come closer to capturing Aren that way.

  That’s probably why he started fissuring more than two times. It’s an impressive talent. After traveling a substantial distance, most fae have to wait two or three minutes before they’re able to enter the In-Between again.

  “Jorreb will come back for her,” Hison says. “If she didn’t lead him into a trap.”

  “You think she’s feeding information to the remnants?”

  Okay, so maybe this is why I don’t want them to know I can speak Fae. People are loose with their tongues when they don’t think I can understand them. Also: what the hell? I’ve been working my ass off for the rebels.

  “It would explain why she tolerates being near the protégé of a false-blood.”

  I stare down at the sketchbook still propped on my knee. I retrace one of my marks, clenching my teeth together so I don’t say anything. Sethan wasn’t a false-blood. Lena isn’t either. They’re Descendants of the Tar Sidhe just like Atroth was. I confirmed that with more than one former Court fae after we took the palace.

  “Humans don’t care about false-bloods,” the bodyguard says.

  “This one does.”

  I can feel Hison’s gaze. He’s waiting for me to look up. If I don’t, I think it will be suspicious, so I raise my eyes from the sketchbook and meet his. I’m through with letting fae intimidate me.

  “What?” I stand, so my demand has more of an impact.

  Hison doesn’t look away. “Did you understand Jorreb’s conversation with her?”

  “Some of it. He told her why she is here,” the bodyguard tells him.

  “No mention of Thrain?”

  The name makes my blood turn cold. No, no, no. Kyol killed him—I saw his soul-shadow—and banek’tan do not exist. Thrain is dead. Aren would tell me if he wasn’t.

  But Aren did say Lena shouldn’t have sent me here. Is this why?

  “You speak Fae.”

  Hison’s statement pulls me out of my near panic. I shake my head, clearing my mind, and focus on the high noble. My thoughts obviously showed on my face, but Thrain in Fae is the same as Thrain in English. His conclusion that I speak his language is a guess.

  “What about Thrain?” I ask.

  The bodyguard translates what I said. Hison’s eyes narrow. He looks directly at me when he says, “Jorreb is his protégé.”

  Aren? It takes everything in me to look confusedly back and forth between the two fae. Inside, though, I feel sick. Is it true? Hison could just be trying to get a reaction from me, but this could explain why Aren asked if I was okay in Rhigh. If he’s connected to Thrain, he could know Thrain kept me here.

  Hison takes a step closer. “You do understand me, don’t you?”

  I furrow my brow further. Then my skin tingles. A second later, Aren steps into the living room. I let myself give in to the urge to stare at his shadows because it’s an excuse not to meet his eyes.

  “That didn’t take long,” Hison says, sounding disappointed. “Were you successful?”

  In my peripheral vision, I see Aren nod. “He led us to a home where three others were meeting. They’ll be taken to Corrist.” He turns to me. “We can go now, McKenzie.”

  I should win an Oscar. I meet Aren’s eyes, and I smile. “Back to the suite or to Corrist?”

  Maybe the smile is too much. His gaze drops to my lips, and his brow wrinkles slightly as he frowns. “Corrist, if that’s okay.”

  “It’s great,” I tell him cheerily.

  “Your shadow-witch isn’t as terrifying as the stories make her out to be,” Hison says.

  Aren glances at the high noble. “That’s because she’s not your enemy. Lena will contact you if we learn anything from the fae.” He takes my arm, and I’m thankful for the protection the cloak offers against his touch. I can’t deal with any chaos lusters right now.

  “I heard Thrain discovered her ten years ago,” Hison calls after us. “Is that true?”

  Aren tenses. He turns his head to the side but doesn’t quite look over his shoulder. “I’ve heard that as well.” He reaches for the doorknob.

  “It’s a shame Atroth stole her from you,” Hison adds.

  Aren looks down at me. My face is expressionless when I meet his eyes, and that’s all he needs to know that I know.

  “I didn’t know her then,” he says, then he opens the door.

  “CAN we talk about this?” Aren asks, keeping pace by my side. That pisses me off even more than I already was because I’m walking as quickly as I can. If he were human, he wouldn’t be anywhere near me. I don’t want him near me right now.

  “I didn’t know you then,” he says, when I don’t respond. “I swear I never saw you. I broke ties with Thrain about the same time he took you.”

  “So you claim.” I stuff Naito’s sketchbook into one of the big pockets on the inside of my cloak. The snow is beginning to fall faster, but I’m too angry to feel the bite of the air.

  “I’ve never lied to you, McKenzie,” Aren says. “Never.”

  “And I’m supposed to take your word on that?” I stop at the end of our narrow, curvy passageway and peer both ways down the main street. Two cloaked fae look our way. They’re breaking curfew. Technically, so are we. I bury my hands in the pockets of my cloak, trying to preserve what little warmth they have left.

  “The gate is to the left,” Aren says.

  The two fae watch as I turn that way. I return their stares and, surprisingly, they drop their gazes. Even with the occasional edarratae flashing across my face, I don’t think I’m very intimidating. Most likely, Aren’s glaring at them over my shoulder. He’s just behind and slightly to the right of me, walking through the night fully armored in jaedric. His sword, sheathed at his left hip, is easily accessible. He could kill both men before they throw aside their cloaks to get access to their weapons.

  “That’s the shadow-witch?” the shorter of the two fae asks. The other doesn’t respond; he just backs away. Which is ridiculous, considering I’m on the opposite side of the street from them.

  I just shake my head and keep walking. I try not to think, because when I do, I either flash back to ten years ago or think about the fae—the fae I barely know—who’s trailing me. Aren was Thrain’s protégé. It’s so hard to believe, and not just because my heart breaks a little when I think about the connection. Anyone who was associated with Thrain should be mentally unstable. They should go from calm to irate in two seconds flat. They should issue threats, dole out punishments with their fists, and be abusive both mentally and physically and…

  The scar on the side of my neck throbs, and I freeze. It’s the remains of a horrible moment, when Aren and I were still on opposite sides of the war, when he threatened me…Maybe Aren is like Thrain. Maybe I’ve just been too blind to see it.

  “I’m not a mistake, McKenzie,” he says softly, stopping beside me. His voice is soothing, reassuring. My chest tightens, and a warm, tingling sensation rushes through me. That scares me. I’ve told myself to take this relationship slowly, but my heart refuses to listen. I’m growing too attached to him too quickly. I shouldn’t be on the brink of falling in love with someone I know so little about. I shouldn’t want to believe every word he says. That’s what happened with Kyol. I loved him so blindly and so completely, I put my life on hold. I never questioned anything he told me, and I regret that so much.

  I swallow down a lump in my throat. “You should have told me about him.”

  “When?” Aren asks, and for the first time, impatience creeps into his voice. “Including today, I’ve seen you four times since we took the palace, McKenzie. Four.”

  “That’s not my fault.” I start walking again, but he grabs my arm.

  “You’re not being fair,” he says.
>
  “Of course I’m not,” I yell, turning toward him. “You’re as bad as Kyol was about not telling me the complete truth.”

  His nostrils flare. The comparison hurts. I’m almost sorry I made it—almost—but I’m sick of people withholding information.

  I meet his gaze. “Anything else you want to confess?”

  That gets under his skin. The silver in his eyes seems to sharpen, and he takes a step forward, pressing his body against mine so that I have to move back.

  “The complete truth, McKenzie, is I’d do anything for you, but you ask for nothing. You won’t confide in me. You won’t rely on me. You’re so preoccupied trying to decide if you can trust your feelings that you won’t consider giving in to them.”

  I back against a stucco wall. He’s breathing hard. So am I, and I have to admit it’s not only because I’m hurt and angry. There’s some truth to his words. I don’t trust my feelings for him, but there’s good reason for that. Learning about his connection to Thrain proves it.

  I put my hands on his chest to push him away. He doesn’t budge. Instead, his grip on my arm tightens.

  “Let go, Aren.”

  He shakes his head. His eyes are narrowed.

  “Seriously, let go.” I twist this time, trying to slip free, but his arms go around me, pulling me more tightly against him.

  “Aren—”

  “Shh,” he says. Then, when I keep struggling, he looks down at me. “You can be angry, McKenzie, but don’t be careless. Listen.”

  I don’t allow myself to relax in his arms, but his hearing is better than mine, so I turn my head to the side and listen. At first, all I hear is his heartbeat. It’s a steady, almost hypnotic thumpthump. Thumpthump. But then I hear something else. A raised voice. A shout. A crash. It’s all coming from the direction we’re heading.

  “I thought there was a curfew,” I say.

  “There is,” he answers. “Stay close.”