I yank my gaze away to scan my surroundings. I think there are mountains to my right, but I don’t get a clear look because Aren’s hand locks on the back of my neck.
“I told you not to turn.”
“I wasn’t looking at the shadows!” His fingers hurt. He must have found a pressure point because I’m on my knees in an instant.
“I’m trying to be kind to you, McKenzie, but I will not allow you to learn anything that might hurt my people.”
“I’m sorry,” I say because my left shoulder is going numb. I stare at his scuffed boots and remain as still and docile as possible. His hand relaxes but remains on my neck. I can feel him staring. After a long silence, I risk a glance up.
His silver eyes turn a mirthless, steely gray as he appraises me, and fear shimmies down my spine. His words really sink in now, and I’m afraid he’s starting to think keeping me alive isn’t worth the risk.
“Good,” he says with a nod that tells me he knows I understand how precarious my situation is. He takes my hand and helps me to my feet.
“This way.” He gestures to a path that might loosely be considered a trail. “We have a long way to walk.”
Because I’m exhausted, it takes a hell of a lot of effort not to ask him why he didn’t just open the last fissure directly to our destination. I have to enter a fissure at a gate, but I can exit anywhere, as long as I have an anchor-stone imprinted for that location. Besides, I think I know the answer to my question. He’s paranoid. That’s why he took me so quickly through three gates, and that’s why he’s watching me now like I might suddenly grow eyes in the back of my head and see the shadows behind us. I want to tell him I’m not that good at my job—the shadows are too old, too faded, for me to read—but I keep my mouth shut.
I glance at the sky as we walk and wonder if we could be in California or maybe Oregon. There’s a two-hour time difference between my home near Houston and those states, but no, that distance isn’t enough to account for the sun. It’s on its way up, not down, so we can’t be on the West Coast. I don’t think we can be anywhere in the western hemisphere.
Great. Just great.
Critters skitter in the underbrush as we follow the pseudotrail. Aren stays close by my side. I want to ask about Kyol. I know he could have escaped if he tried, but he’s never abandoned me when I’ve needed him, and I can’t shake the feeling that he died for me.
My steps falter. I bite my lip, forcing myself to focus on that pain instead of the fear gathering in the pit of my stomach. I don’t want Aren to learn how much the king’s sword-master means to me. I don’t want him to know how much I mean to the sword-master.
Grimacing, I duck under a low-hanging branch. Hiding my feelings isn’t anything new; I should be used to it by now. Kyol and I aren’t supposed to want each other. We’ve both tried not to. We’ve tried to keep our relationship professional, to touch only when necessary, but Kyol’s stronger than I am. He’s the most honorable man—human or fae—I’ve ever met, and he was honest with me from the beginning: we’ll never have a happy ending. Even if he doesn’t lose his life fighting for his king, the laws of the Realm keep us from being together.
I know I need to move on. No woman in her right mind would wait ten years for a man to become more than just a friend, but that’s the thing about love—it makes you do stupid shit. I live for the moments when Kyol’s control breaks, the moments when we’re alone and we kiss, and when I can pretend everything is right in both our worlds.
God, what if we never have another moment like that?
When the trail ends, I force my worry aside. Aren and I step from the woods into a clearing that’s about the size of a football field. Enough trees are scattered about the glade for their outstretched branches to create a fairly solid canopy above us. Sunlight flickers through the leaves, tossing shadows over dirt, trampled grass, and a broken wooden sign. The paint on the sign is cracked and faded, but I’m pretty sure it’s welcoming visitors to the illegible name of the guesthouse that’s just ahead. It’s a three-story structure with a peaked roof and brown trim crisscrossing its once-white walls. Cracks zigzag up its side and the whole place looks weakened by age, but I can imagine what it might have looked like in its youth. There’s a certain storybook feel to it. More precisely, there’s a Hansel and Gretel feel to it. Hmm.
I look back at the dilapidated sign and scrutinize the barely there words. It’s not exactly welcoming visitors to the guesthouse ; it’s willkommen-ing them to the gasthaus.
I stop suddenly and turn to Aren. “Germany? Seriously?”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Why not?”
He places his palm on the small of my back and urges me forward. Maybe I should count myself lucky he isn’t upset I’ve learned what country we’re in, but honestly, it’s not like we’re in Luxembourg, which is about the size of the average mall in Texas. If I’m ever in trouble, I’m supposed to call Paige, my best friend—okay, my only friend—and tell her where I am. She doesn’t know the fae exist, but she’s met Kyol. She’ll pass on my message if I ask. Problem is, even if she passes it on today, it would take the Court months to search all the remote areas of Germany. Aren and his rebels would be long gone before they found me.
Speaking of the rebels, there are more than a dozen here. It’s a decidedly strange sight—medieval, I guess I should say—but it’s a sight I’ve become somewhat used to over the years. They’re dressed in typical non-noble fae fashion. Men and women both wear white or pale-brown tunics over dark pants that are stuffed into black boots. A few wear armor similar to Aren’s. It’s made from the bark of a jaedric tree. The Court treats theirs with a substance that darkens and shines it, but the rebels don’t. Theirs is dull and splotchy. Small drawstring pouches are tied to the weapon belts cinched around their waists. They’re the same kind of pouches as the one I have stuffed into my backpack, which I haven’t seen since Aren knocked me out. Those pouches hold anchor-stones the same as mine does.
The fae notice me and a whisper passes through the camp. When their silver eyes meet mine, they end their conversations. Pretty soon, everyone’s staring. No one’s muttering a syllable.
Blue lightning flashes over their skin, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles. These people despise me, especially the trio sitting on logs several paces to my right. Swords lie in scabbards on the ground at their feet, and two of the men’s shirts are stained red. They’re the attackers Kyol engaged when they tried to block my escape. At the time, there were six of them. Some didn’t survive. That bothers me even though it shouldn’t. Those deaths are their own fault. When I track fae for the Court, Kyol always tries to capture our targets. He only kills if it’s necessary. These rebels made it necessary when they attacked me.
“Aren!” A female voice shatters the silence. She closes the inn’s front door, then hurries down the porch steps, and the entire camp is suddenly in motion welcoming Aren back. It’s clear everyone here respects him, and I have to admit he has a certain amount of charisma. I watch him grin and shake hands, and though I don’t understand what’s being said, I get the impression he’s shrugging off what he’s just done. That’s irritating. Abducting me might not have been difficult, but there will be repercussions. I’ll make sure of it.
The woman who called Aren’s name rushes forward and throws her arms around his neck. He returns her embrace, but turns his hips away in a safe-hug. It’s a platonic hug between friends, though I’m positive she wants it to be more. With shells braided through her gold-blond hair and stone bracelets clinking together on her wrists, she’s beautiful. And important, too, if her clothing is any indication. She’s dressed in a bright blue tunic and clean, snug-fitting pants. The material looks expensive, like only-affordable-to-nobles expensive, and her collar and the tunic’s flowing hem are adorned with chips of gemstones. Everyone notices her. Aren does, too, I’m sure, but maybe he has a prettier girl tucked away somewhere?
While he’s distracted with his homecoming,
I experiment with a small, almost insignificant step backward. No one seems to notice, so I retreat another inch. I can’t outrun the fae. I guess I’m hoping I can put some distance between me and the camp before anyone figures out I’m gone, but I don’t make it one full stride before Aren turns. I freeze and don my best innocent expression.
“This is the nalkin-shom,” he says to his audience.
I frown. I’ve never learned the fae’s language—humans aren’t allowed to—but I’m pretty sure what he called me is an insult.
“You didn’t kill her,” the pretty female says. She scrutinizes me with obvious contempt. I don’t like her either, and it’s not just because she’s beautiful. The only reason she spoke in English was to unsettle me, to let me know that killing me had been a very real option. The reminder does bother me, but I manage to keep my chin up and glare.
“This is Lena, daughter of Zarrak,” Aren says to me. “She’ll show you to your room.”
Her scowl deepens. “She gets a room?”
“Yes. Make sure it’s one on the third floor. She needs to get some rest before we decide what we’re going to do with her.”
“You mean, before you decide if you’re going to kill me.” A moment passes before I realize I spoke those words out loud.
Aren smiles. “And, Lena, make sure the room’s not near one of the oak trees. I think our nalkin-shom has an affinity for jumping out of windows.” He winks at me. “Enjoy your stay, McKenzie.”
“Come on,” Lena snaps as Aren unbuckles his weapon belt and walks toward a trio of waiting fae. I consider ignoring her until she folds her slender but toned arms across her chest and raises an eyebrow, looking all too ready for a fight. We might be close to the same height and weight, but I’m pretty sure the daughter of Zarrak can kick my ass—I’m pretty sure all the fae here can.
THREE
NEAR AS I can tell, the camp is divided into two groups: those who want to kill me and those who want to use me. I’d like to say a majority is taking my side, but it’s not even split down the middle. Two-thirds of the fae voted with Lena, who seems to be the biggest advocate for my death.
I’m standing on the inn’s front porch with the rebels staring up at me like I’m on some kind of auction block. The sun’s almost gone, and I have to squint to make out the faces in the growing darkness. I know better than to ask them to turn on a light, though. Not only can fae see better than humans in the dark, but I highly suspect they’ve had someone cut off the electricity to the inn. The room Lena shoved me into for twelve hours was stripped bare of everything except a rickety old bed. Not even a lightbulb was left in the single socket in the ceiling. They gutted the house of human technology.
Honestly, I’m surprised they risked transporting me in a vehicle last night. Even if the van was the most basic model, it was a complicated piece of tech, and tech screws with a fae’s powers.
They call what they do amajur. I call it magic. Almost all fae are able to manipulate the atmosphere—that’s how they create fissures between our worlds. Others can create illusions, animate small, nonliving objects, suppress sound, control the elements . . . Everyday things we do on Earth with our technologies, they do in the Realm with their magic. The thing is, because of human influence, some of those magics have become extinct. Fae are no longer able to build gates or glimpse the future. Other magics like healing and empathy are endangered. That’s part of the reason why the Court is at war with the rebels. Aren and his people ignore the laws against bringing human artifacts and culture into the Realm. King Atroth has to take action to protect the fae’s magic.
I refocus on the lynching party. Oddly, I’m more annoyed than afraid. Maybe it’s shock. Maybe it’s foolishness. Or maybe it’s Aren. He’s sitting on a wooden bench a few paces to my right with his boots propped on top of the porch rail. He’s on the “use me” side of the debate, and though he hasn’t said a word in my defense—he hasn’t said anything since this trial began—I figure his vote has to weigh more than the others’. I hope it does, at least.
Lena says something in their language and the fae go quiet. Seconds tick by. As the silence stretches, my discomfort grows.
“It’s decided, then,” Lena says in English, laying a silver-eyed glare on me.
My heart slams against my chest. Tension gathers in my shoulders and my leg muscles tighten, ready to run, but nobody moves. I think that’s a good sign. A majority may have voted to kill me, but maybe no one wants to do the deed.
The scowl on Lena’s pretty face deepens. She unsheathes a dagger from the leather scabbard at her hip, climbs the porch steps, and holds the weapon out toward Aren. “It needs to be done.”
She doesn’t have the guts to do it herself. I think she’s a coward for that, but I’m also relieved. Maybe these people do have some type of moral compass. I imagine it’s a hell of a lot harder killing someone in cold blood than killing them in the middle of a fight; not to mention it’s wrong. The Court wouldn’t do this.
Aren doesn’t look like he’s going to accept the dagger. He’s still lounged back on the bench, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes locked on me. I return his stare while I wait with the rest of the fae for his decision.
He takes his boots off the rail, leans forward. My heart drops when his gaze shifts to the weapon in Lena’s hand.
No. Surely this is a ploy. He isn’t going to kill me. He needs me. He’s just trying to scare me into cooperating. Right? Right?
When he takes the dagger, I dig my fingernails into my palms to keep my hands from shaking.
“Sure you don’t want to read the shadows for us?” Aren asks. None of his usual mirth is in his voice. He’s completely serious. He’s going to kill me if I don’t do what he wants.
“Trade me,” I blurt out.
He cocks his head to the side and his eyes leave mine to travel slowly down to my feet and then slowly back up. The tiniest smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“How much do you think you’re worth, nalkin-shom?”
“She’s stalling,” Lena interjects before I can answer. “We can’t let the Court have her back.”
Damn right, I’m stalling. She would be, too, if she were surrounded by people who wanted to slit her throat.
“Maybe we can get Roop and Kexin back,” Trev speaks up to my left.
“Or maybe Mrinn,” another says. Others chime in with more suggestions. There’s no doubt I’m valuable—few humans have the Sight; fewer still have the ability to read the shadows—so maybe this will work. I let out a pent-up breath and imagine my chance of survival cranking up to 30 . . . 40 . . . hell, maybe even 50 percent.
Lena looks at the fae gathered on the lawn. “We don’t know if any of them are alive.”
“The Court doesn’t know she’s alive,” someone says. It’s a good point, and I think about recommending they take a picture of me to send to the king, maybe with me holding the Frankfurter Times or whatever the hell the local paper is called.
I snort. Like they have a camera here. Even if they did, no one would dare touch it.
Aren leans forward, rests his forearms on his knees, and clasps the hilt of the dagger between his hands. The world’s waiting on his decision. Again. Must be nice to have that much influence.
His face is expressionless when he stands. I feel cold and detached, like I’m someone else watching the end of my life play out. I’m half a second away from a desperate, destined-to-fail escape attempt when Aren says, “Care to make a wager?”
I blink, then frown. “Wager?”
He hands the dagger back to Lena. “Yes. A wager.”
Okay. I’ll play this game. For now. “Depends on what you’re bidding.”
His smile is full of mischief. “There’s only one thing you’re interested in, nalkin-shom. I’m willing to offer it.”
I pause, consider a snarky response, decide against it. “You’re offering me my freedom?”
He crosses his arms over his chest and leans a shoulder ag
ainst the porch column. “If you can map one of my fae to within a hundred feet, yes.”
A hundred feet. Shit. That’s accurate. I’ve done it before—twice, in fact—but I’m pretty sure luck played a role in both of those readings. My luck has sucked these last twenty-four hours. I doubt I’ve had a sudden change in fortune.
“What do you want if I can’t do it?” I ask, though I know what his answer will be.
“You’ll shadow-read for me,” he says. He’s in all-out mirthmode now, and it’s getting under my skin. Even though he knows my reputation, he’s certain I can’t do it. For good reason, too. The best shadow-readers usually map their targets to within three, four hundred feet. I routinely do it in half of that. That’s why I’m an asset to the Court. When a fae fissures to the location I mark, he’s almost always within arrow-range of his target.
Lena steps forward. When Aren doesn’t look at her, she touches his elbow. “Even if she’s half as good as the rumors suggest, we can’t trust her.”
That’s true. I don’t know why he’s willing to make this bet. Does he think I’m less likely to send him into an ambush this way? Like if I lose a wager, fair and square, I’ll willingly work for them, and not pull any tricks?
It doesn’t matter. If there’s a chance to earn my freedom, I have to take it.
“If I lose, I’ll read one fissure.”
Aren’s eyes don’t leave mine. “You’ll read as many as I need.”
“Two,” I offer.
“All of them until I’m satisfied, McKenzie.”
I fold my arms. “If you’re going to be like that, then I’m back to offering one.”
His perma-smirk doesn’t waver. “I’m offering you your freedom.”
“You’re asking me to hurt the Court.”
“They’re not your people.”
The Shadow Reader Page 3