Damn it, time was supposed to prove these feelings were just a crush.
“What’s his name?” I ask because my mind will start contemplating what-ifs if I don’t focus on the real reason Kyol is here.
“Betor, son of Jallon.”
Déjà vu hits me so hard my head aches. No. This can’t be déjà vu. I can predict what happens next.
“Is he worse than Thrain?” I hear myself ask.
“Not yet. We hope to capture him before he organizes another attack.” Kyol doesn’t meet my eyes. There’s no inflection in his voice.
“You don’t want my help.”
“No.”
“Then why did you come?”
“ Atroth thought I could convince you to map a few fae. I’m to tell you that you won’t be in any large-scale battles. You’ll be used . . . covertly?” He looks up. At my nod, he continues. “When we learn the location of one of the rebels, my swordsmen will attempt to arrest him. I’ll escort you, and if the rebel fissures out, you will map his shadows.”
It sounds safe enough. It’s better than being used to see through fae illusions in a full-on confrontation.
“I can do that,” I say.
Kyol’s hands tighten on his knees. “When Thrain found you, you had to help us. But this false-blood doesn’t know who you are. This isn’t your war. If you help us, it’s because you choose to and . . . and, McKenzie, there can be nothing between us.”
I close my eyes. That’s not what I want to hear. I want to hear that there’s a chance the king might change his mind or make an exception.
“I’m sorry,” Kyol says as he rises.
I force a smile and stand as well. “It’s no problem. I get it. I’m probably better off dating my own kind, anyway.”
“Yes,” he says, peering down at me.
We’re standing closer than we should. We both know it, yet neither one of us takes a step back. Kyol brushes my hair from my face, lets his fingers linger alongside my cheek, and without conscious thought, my chin tilts up.
Time slows.
Our lips meet.
It’s supposed to be a last kiss, and if we were both human or both fae, it might have been, but the moment before we separate, chaos lusters explode through me. The jerk of his body, his sudden inhalation, tells me he feels them, too, and instead of moving apart, we move closer. So much closer.
One kiss turns into two, two into three, then there’s the brush of his tongue and I can’t concentrate enough to count. He cups the back of my neck—gently, as if my humanity makes me fragile—but if this is the last time we touch like this, I don’t want to hold anything back.
I wrap my arms around him when he would pull away, and another strike of lightning ricochets through us. That’s the end of his restraint. When he kisses me now, it’s like being caught in the gale of a storm. I’m completely swept away as he lowers me to the couch, as his hands slide up my arms, as they drop to my hips, then slip under my shirt.
Something happens with the chaos lusters. With our chaos lusters. We’re on Earth but white bolts of lightning sear across my body. They tangle with his, and a fire sizzles through us.
Both our lips are parted, our breaths shallow. He knows what he’s doing; I try to act like I do, too, but the intensity of the chaos lusters build, and I’m not sure I can handle this.
He must see that moment of uncertainty in my eyes. “You’re untouched?”
A part of me realizes this is a dream, and if it’s a dream, I should be able to change my response.
I can’t. I hear myself tell him yes, hear him say he can’t take this away from me. I protest, but he smoothes down my clothes with an apology and a light kiss on my cheek. His fingers slide from my skin, and the heat of his lightning fades away. It feels like a part of my soul fades, too. I’m still breathing hard, but the air I draw in is cold and empty. When he fissures out, I want to be angry. I want to hate him for his self-control, for leaving me when I’m craving more than his touch, and for not being a typical, human male. But I don’t hate him. If anything, his restraint makes me love him more.
YOU’D think the agony stabbing through my right arm would eclipse any discomfort caused by my bed, but there’s a spring or a knife—I’m not entirely sure which—digging into my spine. I’m unwilling to shift away from it. My arm might be splinted and wrapped in strips of cloth, but the slightest movement sends me careening toward the edge of consciousness. I don’t want to fall asleep again. I can’t stand the loneliness that descended at the end of my dream.
Hours pass. My muscles stiffen and I grow bored of staring at the ceiling. The cracks zigzagging through it make me frown. I shouldn’t be able to see them, not with the door closed and the window boarded up. Slowly, I turn my head to the right and find the source of the room’s light: an upside-down mason jar sitting on the floor. Bright swirls of white and blue mists battle for dominance within the glass confines. That’s how the fae light their world after dark. Of course, they don’t usually use mason jars. The Realm’s glassmakers make lamps, wall sconces, and hanging orbs that the fae can light with a touch of their magic. That’s all fine and good if you’re fae. If you’re human, not so much.
I experiment with lifting my head a few times. When that’s tolerable, I bend my knees until my feet rest on the mattress. This puts more of my weight on my spine, though, so I finally try to scooch ever so slightly to the side.
I squeeze my eyes shut as pain shoots down my arm. God, running was a bad idea. What made me think I could escape? The fae outnumber me. They’re faster and more familiar with the terrain. Even if they didn’t have magic, I’d have little hope of slipping away.
The throbbing in my arm slowly fades. I think I’ll feel better if I sit up, so this time, I go all in. I hold my breath, spin my feet toward the side of the bed, and use my good arm to push up.
Nausea grips me as the room spins. I focus on breathing. Sweat breaks out on my forehead as a chill creeps into my bones. Panic’s edging in on me, making my chest ache, my throat burn. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be involved in this war. I was going to get out of it. If the rebels had waited just three days, I would have graduated and retired from the Court. Aren’s shadow-witch would have faded to a myth and I’d be safe. Safe and unhurt.
I swallow back my emotions and force myself to deal with the pain radiating up my forearm. After a few minutes of deep breathing, the room settles.
Okay. So the escape attempt didn’t work. I can’t give up. I’ll just have to plan my next move better. I’ll have to—
The door clicks. It opens inward and Kelia enters. She’s carrying a waterskin and a second magically lit mason jar. When she sees I’m awake, she crosses the room to stand in front of me.
“That was a stupid thing you did.”
“Yep,” I manage, though my voice sounds strained.
“You’re lucky Aren was adamant about you being kept alive.”
Lucky? Lucky would have been me escaping. Or me not being captured in the first place.
Kelia pauses, cocks her head to the side. “How’s your arm?” “Feels great.”
She mutters some Fae word I haven’t learned yet and then reaches into her pocket. “Hold out your hand.”
Lifting my good arm takes a hell of a lot of effort. The tendons in my shoulder are tight and I feel weak, like I’ve swum for hours in a pool and now have to bear my full weight again. Kelia drops two pills onto my open palm. Even they feel heavy.
“I don’t think ibuprofen’s going to help,” I tell her.
“These are a bit stronger than that.”
My gaze returns to her and I lift an eyebrow. “Robbing pharmacies now, are you?”
“A few pills won’t be missed,” she says dismissively.
I pop them into my mouth and Kelia hands me her waterskin. When I nearly drop it, she helps me tip it back. I swallow the pills, not really caring what they are so long as they ease the pain in my arm.
“Thank you,” I say when
she takes the skin away.
“If you’re thankful, don’t try to escape again.”
I snort. “Sure. No problem.”
Her eyes narrow as she leans forward to set her mason jar down, but her glare lacks real scorn. I think we’re both trying to hate each other. And we’re both failing.
The creak of the door opening draws both our attentions. I hear Kelia suck in a breath and then she’s suddenly across the room and in the newcomer’s arms.
“Naito!” she cries out.
I blink a few times. I try not to let my mouth hang open, but she’s kissing the guy and despite the sound of his name, he’s not fae.
Kelia takes a tiny step back, but keeps her hands on the man’s chest, touching him like he might not be real. Now that they’re not lip-locked, I note his disheveled black hair and the sharp planes of his face. He’s at least half Asian, but 100 percent human.
Kelia kisses him again, longer, more deeply this time, and a chaos luster flickers from her face to his, shimmying down his neck to disappear under the bloodstained collar of his shirt.
“What happened?” she asks. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay,” Naito says. “The blood’s not mine.”
She falls into his arms again. He holds her tight, but his eyes are locked on me. I’m too stunned to look away. He’s human, she’s fae, and I can’t help but wonder what would happen if Kyol joined the rebellion. Could we be together then? I want him more than anything, but I’ve never asked him to abandon the Court. Would he if I asked?
Guilt spikes through my chest. I’ve no right to ask that. No right at all.
Naito eases Kelia back a half step, then runs his hands down her arms. When he reaches her wrists, he stops, scowls, and drops his gaze to the watch I let her borrow.
“What the hell is this?” he demands.
She hops back like she’s been stung. Her right hand darts to cover her left wrist. “It’s nothing.”
“We’ve been over this,” he says. At least, I think that’s what he says. Apparently, I’m not the only human the rebels have taught to speak Fae. He continues scolding her, but his words come too quickly now for me to follow. Kelia’s lip twists into a pout, but she lets him unlatch the watch from her wrist.
He crosses the room and holds it out to me. “Yours, I presume.”
I nod, still a bit dumbfounded.
He tosses the watch onto my bed. “Don’t give that to her again. That or any other tech.”
I don’t know whether to be annoyed for Kelia’s sake at his overprotectiveness or to find it endearing. Honestly, she shouldn’t have touched my watch, let alone wear it. A pale circlet of blue shades her wrist as if her skin’s been bruised, though the coloring is too phosphorescent for that. Most likely, such a simple piece of tech won’t do lasting damage to her magic.
Naito’s still watching me. I think he’s waiting for a response until he says, “So. You’re Aren’s shadow-witch.”
I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. “I’m not Aren’s anything.”
“Sure.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I heard you’re better than the rumors.”
“I’m better than you.” When the words slip out, I suppress a grimace. I shouldn’t have said that, even if it’s undoubtedly true.
“What makes you think I read the shadows?”
“Why else would you be here?” I can’t help but look at Kelia when she steps to his side.
“Maybe I just have the Sight,” he says, intertwining his fingers with hers.
“Maybe.” I’m not jealous of the two of them. I’m not.
Kelia’s hand tightens around his as she peers up at him. “What happened?”
His smile fades and he looks suddenly weary. “The Court’s arresting fae who sympathize with us, hoping they’ll have information on her.” He nods toward me. “The people they took didn’t know anything, but Aren stepped in anyway. We freed most of them. Almost captured another one of Atroth’s shadow-readers, but the sword-master showed up.” His gaze settles on me. “The son of Taltrayn isn’t happy he lost you. He’s personally leading the attacks against our people.”
“Your people?”
“I’m as much a part of the rebellion as you’re a part of the Court,” he says, pausing to study me. “But I think my people might respect and include me more than yours respect and include you.”
“I get plenty of respect.”
“But they don’t include you, do they? Don’t tell you their plans or the consequences of what you do for them. They’ve even forbidden you to speak their language.”
I raise my chin, trying to appear confident. It’s not an easy thing to do with a broken arm and bruised body, but his criticism gets my hackles up. “They’ve never locked me in a room and threatened my life.”
“Just because you don’t know you’re a prisoner doesn’t mean you aren’t one.”
“And your injuries are your fault,” Kelia tosses in.
I throw her a quick glare before returning my attention to Naito. “The Court takes care of me. It takes care of the Realm. It doesn’t burn families to death behind silver-painted walls.”
Naito’s nostrils flare at the reference to Brykeld, but he doesn’t say anything, so I press on. “It doesn’t hide in the homes of innocent fae or starve people to try to get its way.”
His eyebrows rise. “Starve people?”
“That’s what happens when you attack the gates. You’re disrupting commerce. Merchants are afraid to travel because of you.”
“You think we’re starving people?” He throws back his head and laughs. “You believe everything the Court tells you, don’t you?”
Oh, big mistake, buddy. Nothing sets me off like a condescending laugh. Not that I can do anything about it but simmer from my roost on my bed, but I’ll be damned if I ever help these people. Aren is responsible for the massacre at Brykeld, and I’ve seen the consequences of the rebels’ other actions. Their sporadic attacks on the gates have forced merchants to hire guards or journey solely by road to reach their destinations. The cost of that is passed on to the rest of the Realm, and not all the fae can pay the higher prices. Those who can’t, go days, sometimes weeks, without food.
“We’re not the reason people are going hungry,” Naito says when his laughter subsides. “People are going hungry because of Atroth and his taxes.”
“Taxes he has to charge to protect his people from Aren,” I retort. “False-bloods have always hurt the Realm. Your leader’s no exception.”
“Aren’s not a Descendant of the Tar Sidhe. Sethan is.”
“Look,” I say. “The lords of the provinces voted for King Atroth. He is a Descendant—nobody disputes that—so unless you have some aversion to democracy, he’s the rightful king.”
His expression darkens. “This isn’t America—”
“No, it’s Germany,” I interrupt, suddenly tired and more than a little cranky. “ And if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”
He shakes his head. “Aren should have killed you.”
So much for getting sympathy from my fellow human. The rebels have completely brainwashed this guy.
He says something in Fae to Kelia. She responds, but I’m suddenly too distracted to decipher their words. Aren glowers in the doorway. Edarratae flash across a tensed jaw, briefly erasing the shadows on his face. They don’t lighten his mood, though. I can feel him seething from across the room. He strides forward, his hand strangling the hilt of the sword at his waist. He’s holding himself back. Barely.
“Leave,” he barks. He’s staring at me, but it’s clear he’s talking to Naito and Kelia. I want to beg them both to stay, but Naito takes Kelia’s arm. They’re walking out of the room already, leaving the door open by only a tiny crack.
Okay. Stay calm. There has to be something I can do or say to get out of whatever he plans to do to me. Should I apologize for trying to escape? Offer to read shadows for him? That’s why he’s kept me alive so far, for that an
d my knowledge of the Missing Gates, but giving in seems shameful. Kyol wouldn’t give in. He’d resist as long as possible, then . . .
Aren pulls a knife from his belt.
. . . or maybe he’d think me a fool for not doing whatever it takes to stay alive.
I open my mouth to make an offer that might buy me more time, but my words catch in my throat. Pain strikes through the right side of my rib cage when I cough, trying to clear an airway suddenly constricted with fear. Aren crouches down in front of me, silver eyes locked on mine.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Despite his low growl, he’s gentle when he slides the knife’s blade through the bandages wrapping my fractured arm. I suck in a breath when the splint and strips of cloth fall to the floor. It hurts, but not as much as it would if I hadn’t taken Kelia’s pills.
Carefully, Aren wraps both his hands around the break and awakens his magic. I grit my teeth to hold back a scream. Fire. That’s what his touch feels like. Hot, molten fire. If I weren’t staring at my arm, I’d swear my flesh was turning black and crisp beneath his fingers.
When the agony increases, my left hand darts out to grip Aren’s shoulder. I dig my nails into his muscle, squeeze my eyes shut. Instinct begs me to shove him away, but I’ve been through this before. King Atroth has three healers in his Court, and I almost died that first year I read the shadows, trying to track down the false-blood Thrain.
The pain vanishes. Oh, yes, the arm still aches, but the fire’s gone and I’m able to breathe again.
Aren’s hands are still on me, though. I can’t help but notice his knuckles are swollen and dirty, the skin over them broken. Blood, sweat, and dirt invade a deep gash running from his wrist to his elbow. He needs to take care of that. Before it becomes infected.
He finally releases my arm, and then lays his hand on top of mine, which still clings to his shoulder. I loosen my grip and pull back, my fingers sliding out from under his.
The Shadow Reader Page 7