“Hurry!” Lorn’s voice breaks through the blackness. A second later something intangible breaks. It feels like the snapping of a cord. The tension in the air shatters and the temperature plummets. A deep rumble vibrates through the tunnel.
Aren stops running. He shoves me against the wall, pressing his body against mine and tucking my head under his chin.
It’s going to cave in on us. Whatever magical trip wire Lorn activated, he did it too soon. The ground lurches beneath my feet. My knees buckle. I cling to Aren, praying he has some kind of magic that can save us as the thunder grows louder and louder.
He swings me away from the wall. Something slams down on my shoulder. I stumble and lose Aren as I fall. When the ceiling hails down, I cover my head and pray.
An eternity passes before the quake subsides. I’m skinned up and bruised, but still alive. Nothing’s broken.
Rocks skitter across the ground. I have no idea which way I’m facing, but it has to be Aren making his way to me. I consider playing dead until I choke on a breath. My lungs are so filled with dust and micro-debris it feels like I’m coughing up an avalanche.
Aren kneels beside me. “You hurt?”
“Yes,” I force out between coughs.
Maybe his ears are ringing as badly as mine because he says, “You’re fine,” and lifts me to my feet. He starts to lead me down the tunnel, but my cloak drags me backward.
“I’m caught.”
“Take it off.” He unhooks the clasp holding the cloak together and shoves it off my shoulders. I look down when it falls and see an edarratae flash over my forearm. Short sleeves in Lyechaban. Not the greatest idea.
“I can’t go out like this.”
He tucks my hand against his side. “Just stay close.”
I have no choice but to follow. My lungs itch, my shoulder aches, and I feel so beat-up the heat of the edarratae spiraling from me to Aren doesn’t bother me.
“Watch your step here,” he says, and I’m hit with déjà vu. I’ve done this before, stumbled along blind and hurt, depending on someone else to get me to safety. Kyol’s always taken care of me, but little by little, Aren whittled away my faith in him. That shouldn’t be possible. I know Kyol—I’ve always trusted him—and he . . .
He refused a life-bond because of me.
Guilt cuts through my gut, sharp as a dagger. It’s this Stockholm syndrome. It’s totally screwing with my common sense, making me doubt things I’ve always known to be true. Everything will be better as soon as I get away from Aren.
I hold tight to his arm as I trip. Since it’s sudden, I almost take him down, too. He catches me before I hit the ground. I turn in his arms, sliding a hand behind his neck and letting my other hand drop to the ground.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
God, his lips are close. A part of me doesn’t want to do this, but as soon as my fingers find a loose rock, I swing it toward his head.
He curses. Blind in the darkness, I swing again. This time, he catches my wrist.
“Stop,” he snarls.
He might be pissed, but so am I. “You lied to me. Deliberately lied!”
“I didn’t know he refused it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I didn’t know!” He shoves me away.
“You’ve manipulated me from the beginning,” I accuse.
Somewhere to my left, he laughs. “I’ve manipulated you? I’ve kept you alive and safe. I haven’t hurt you. I haven’t lied to you. In a few days, you’ve learned more about this world and this war than you have the entire time you worked for the Court. Kelia’s taught you our language. I’ve saved your life. I’ve healed you. You repay me with nothing.”
“You kidnapped me!”
“I should have killed you!”
There’s so much emotion in his voice, I swallow back my retort. I’m not sure if it’s all anger. Is he hurt? I only hit him once. Maybe he was injured when the ceiling caved in? I refuse to believe the undertone of pain is from anything else. He feels nothing for me. And I feel nothing for him.
He sighs. “I can’t let the Court have you back, McKenzie. If you want to live, stay by my side.”
He pulls me forward, and I stumble along in the dark, trying to convince myself I have no reason to feel guilty. Aren hasn’t killed or tortured me only because he needs my willing cooperation. I’m useless as a shadow-reader without it. I’d lie, I’d stall, I’d fissure the rebels into a trap. But shouldn’t he know by now that I’ll never turn against the Court? There’s no reason to keep me alive anymore.
Chaos lusters mark a shadow ahead. Naito. Before we reach him, a sharp shrrip cuts through the air. Kelia steps out of the fissure, tosses a sword to Aren. She hands another one to Naito, saying, “Hurry. The Court fae are coming.”
“Lena?” Aren asks.
“She’ll fissure back with help.”
We’re only a few steps from the end of the tunnel. A faint light from above allows me to see Naito’s and Aren’s silhouettes and the wooden ladder climbing the wall beside us. Naito goes up first. I follow, grimacing each time a chaos luster flashes over my hands and arms. By the time I slide out a narrow crack in the rock, I’m shaking. I know better than to expect the street to be free of Lyechabans.
A fissure opens to my right. I recognize Aren’s scent, the warmth of his touch, as he steps out of the light and helps me to my feet. Squinting, I take in my surroundings. We’re on a narrow strip of land between the city and its river. Behind us, shops and residences are built almost on top of each other. Vendors have opened kiosks along the bank. I’m able to translate most of their shouts. Fortunately, they’re selling their fish and produce, not pointing fingers at me and Naito. Yet.
Aren pulls me in front of him. I stumble forward, toward another group of merchants who are standing with their carts and cirikith, beasts of burden that look like a cross between a horse and a stegosaurus with small, opalescent plates as skin. Their bridles and the carts they pull are inlaid with imprinted anchor-stones to ensure nothing gets lost in the In-Between when they fissure. We’re close to the front of the line where a thick band of silver plating covers the ground. The merchants have to pay a toll to cross the silver and reach the semicircle of bare earth, right on the river, where the gate is located. That’s where the inspectors wait. When one of them looks up, looks right at me, I suck in a breath.
The next instant, his attention snaps to his left. A dozen fissures rip through the air just beyond the band of silver. Rebels charge out of the light, swords drawn and bellowing. A second wave appears behind them with Lena in the lead.
I’m astounded when the merchants don’t run. They always run, saving their hides by abandoning their wares and cirikith. The rebels have been successfully attacking gates like this for years, but maybe the merchants have finally had enough of being caught up in the cross fire. Only a few of them flee. The rest draw their weapons and move between their carts and the approaching rebels.
“Sidhe,” Aren mutters under his breath. One glance at him, though, and it’s clear he’s not worried about a bunch of merchants with swords. I follow his gaze behind us, down a street that leads toward the city center. The Court fae—about two dozen of them—sprint toward us. All at once and midstride, they open fissures and disappear.
“Go!” Aren shoves me forward. I skid across the silver plating. Fissures open up behind me—the Court fae are reappearing—and metal rings against metal.
Some of the king’s swordsmen run by to intercept the rebels. As I push up to all fours, a second wave arrives at the edge of the silver. Then there’s a third wave. Lena is in the midst of the chaos, vanquishing every Court fae who encroaches within the reach of her sword. Bodies drop around her. Some enter the ether before they hit the ground. Their soul-shadows float up and mingle with others. So many others. The bank looks like it’s covered in fog.
Anxiety pools in my gut. I peer over my shoulder, looking for Aren. He’s outnumbered, but okay. No, he’
s more than okay. In seconds, he fells two of his opponents, turns, and blocks an attack from a third. Holy hell, he can fight. He’s surrounded by soul-shadows, too, and I realize there’s a damn good reason why this rebellion has lasted so long: its leaders wield swords almost as well as the king’s sword-master.
The sword-master. I climb to my feet and search the faces of the fae as they rush by, but I don’t see him. There’s too much chaos for me to recognize anyone.
“To the gate, McKenzie!” Aren yells. He’s stepped onto the silver.
“Watch out!” The warning escapes my lips as a bleeding fae on the ground pushes up to an elbow and swings his sword at Aren’s ankles. Aren jumps over the path of the blade and then plunges his sword into the fae’s gut.
“Go!” Aren orders.
Frozen, I stare at the dying fae until he disappears and the white mist of his soul-shadow rises into the air. What did I just do? My warning killed him. I killed a Court fae. I back away from my crime, clench my hands into fists so they don’t tremble.
Someone runs into me. Then someone else.
“Tchatalun,” a voice whispers. The word means “defiled one” but it’s practically synonymous with “human.”
“Tchatalun,” the merchant says again, louder this time. I leap back when he swings at me, realize he’s holding a dagger only when he strikes again. Aren kills him before he can cut me a third time. Numb, I stare down at the red stain growing across my stomach.
Aren’s hand is there a second later, slipping under my wet shirt and flaring with magic. Lena comes to his aid, fighting off fae as he heals me. He eases me closer and closer to the gate, but there are too many people closing in on us. When a fae lunges toward us, Aren shoves me toward a merchant’s cart.
I lose traction on the silver underfoot and land hard on my side. Pain, white-hot and nauseating, shoots across my middle. My stomach’s not completely healed. Gritting my teeth, I ignore the wound, crawl to the cart, and slide underneath.
It takes a moment to catch my breath. When I focus on the blood and chaos beyond the shadow of my shelter, I see him—Kyol, conquering his way through the rebels. A rush of emotion fires through me. I want to shout his name, to be at his side again, but I keep my silence because I’m afraid I’ll distract him. I don’t think he knows I’m here. If he did, he’d be searching past the fae he’s fighting, looking for me near the gate or the edges of the battle to make sure the rebels don’t take me away from him. Instead, he wears an expression of cold indifference as he cuts through his opponents. It’s a mask. He shuts off his emotions when he fights. I think Atroth and I may be the only ones who know how much the killing bothers him, but Kyol will do anything, slay anyone, for his king.
He’d even kill Aren.
I don’t know why the thought pops into my head. Maybe it’s because my stomach hurts and needs healing. Maybe it’s the Stockholm syndrome reasserting itself. Or maybe it’s because . . . because I don’t want Aren to die. Whatever the reason, I find myself searching the throng, seeking his tall frame and wild, disheveled hair.
I find him close to Kyol. Too close. They’re fighting practically back to back. If Aren turns a few degrees to his left and Kyol turns a few degrees to his right, they’ll see each other. They’ll attack each other. And one of them won’t survive.
It’ll be Aren who’s struck down. I’m sure of it.
Only two clashing men separate them now. One of those men is Naito. He hasn’t made it to the gate and, holy crap, his sword cuts through a Court fae’s defenses, cleaving deep into his cheek and jaw. I don’t know if the swordsman felt it, though. The blow itself was hard enough to snap his neck. The fae’s body crumples. It’s replaced by his soul-shadow a second later.
“Naito!” Kelia screams a warning.
Another Court fae swings his sword at the human. Aren turns, intercepting the blade before it finishes its arc.
“Go!” Aren shouts.
Naito sprints toward the gate, toward Kelia, who’s waiting for him in the circular area that’s free from silver. She dodges attacks while he closes the distance between them. When he’s almost to her, she dips her hand into the river. Stands.
A cry to my left. I turn in time to see Kyol pull his blade free from a rebel, in time to see him take three long strides toward Kelia. Her fissure splutters out when she staggers back and lifts her sword.
“No,” I whisper.
She deflects Kyol’s sword, but doesn’t duck under his fist. It slams into her face. Naito’s there the next instant, screaming. Kyol effortlessly parries the human’s enraged attack. By the time Kelia hits the deck, Kyol’s disarmed Naito. Within seconds, he opens a gated-fissure, wraps his arm around Naito’s neck, then vanishes into the slash of light.
“No,” I whisper again.
“Naito!” Kelia screams.
Aren skewers his opponent, turns toward Kelia, sees her crawl to her knees and stare helplessly at the twisting shadows. But she can’t read them. She doesn’t know where to go.
I do.
With a start, I look away, but Aren’s already seen me.
The next minute passes in a blur. Before I can scramble out from under the merchant’s cart, Aren takes hold of me. He pulls me out, holds me down on my hands and knees, and grabs a handful of my hair, wrenching my head back so I’m staring at the shadows.
“Read them!” he orders. He takes the paper, the map I started in Lorn’s basement, and unfolds it on the ground.
I shake my head.
“Now!” He jams a pencil into my hand. When a Court fae rushes us, Lena leaps into his path, thrusting her sword into the man’s gut.
I don’t move, don’t even flinch, when the body drops down beside me and disappears. I won’t read the shadows. I won’t send Aren after Kyol.
“Either she maps them or you kill her!” Lena snaps, deflecting another fae’s attack.
Aren raises the bloody edge of his sword to my neck. “Don’t make me do this, McKenzie.”
My breath empties out in a quick puff. No. He healed the gash across my stomach—or started to, at least. He’s not going to kill me now. He’s bluffing.
I close my eyes so I don’t see any more of the twisting shadows.
Aren yanks on my hair. “Look, damn you!”
His blade slices into my neck. My eyes snap open.
“I’ll do it,” he snarls into my ear.
The metal presses deeper. I’m too terrified for it to hurt, too surprised to manage a protest or a plea. Warm, thick liquid bleeds down my throat.
“Read them!”
I stare at the shadows. My hand moves. I don’t know what I’m doing until my map’s scale changes.
Red splatters on the paper, marking the edge of a forest on the west side of the Derrdyn Mountains. Kyol’s there. My reading is accurate enough for Aren to reach him before he fissures again. I can save my life with just one word.
Another drop of red hits the map. I don’t feel the blade at my neck, just the warm wetness that proves Aren is willing to kill.
He might be willing, but I’m not.
It’s suicide, my next action, but I carry it out nevertheless, ripping my shadow-reading in two. Seconds later, I’m engulfed in darkness.
FIFTEEN
I HAVE TO be dead. People die when their throats get slashed. They drown in their own blood. I’m pretty sure I’m not breathing. I’m cold, numb, and I don’t hurt anymore.I’m not breathing. I’m cold, numb, and I don’t hurt anymore.
IT’S oppressively heavy here. Vaguely, I remember the bite of the In-Between, but I don’t know how I got from the merchant’s cart to the gated-fissure or who took me through it. All I know is I’m not where I was before. I’m walking next to lightning. Stumbling next to it, really. My coordination is shot. I’m weak and tired. And cold. Why can’t I get warm?
The lightning holds out a hand. Something warm presses into my palm. It’s not enough to keep me going, though. My knees buckle. This time, I’m carried into the ic
e.
LUCIDNESS returns slowly, sane thought by sane thought. I realize my hand is pressed to my neck. I feel the cut beneath my fingertips. The blood’s almost dry now, but I don’t dare move. I’m afraid of opening the gash again. I have images of my throat splitting apart, of feeling my windpipe whistling red spittle. But Aren must not have cut deeply enough to sever whatever tissue protects my airway. Any more pressure, though . . .
We’re in a suburb of Vancouver, somewhere called Lynn Valley. I must have overheard the fae name this place when we fissured here. I honestly can’t remember. Shell-shocked, I think they call this. But we’re definitely in my world. Only the fae have chaos lusters on their skin, and the house in front of me with its shingled roof, arched windows, and white siding is definitely Earth architecture.
“You need to rest.” A voice to my left.
I slowly turn my head toward Sethan, see him standing behind Aren. I’m sitting against a wooden fence. So are a dozen hurt fae. Aren moves from one rebel to the next, laying his hands on them, easing their pain and healing their injuries. Even from this distance, Aren looks exhausted, and I wonder how long he’s been at this. From the slump of his shoulders and his shakiness when he rises, I’d say he’s trying singlehandedly to heal everyone here.
Everyone but me.
He looks my way. Our eyes meet. The weariness in his gaze changes just perceptibly, growing heavier with something that might be a plea. My throat suddenly hurts, inside and out, and I glance away.
Too quickly.
The backyard spins. I close my eyes a moment, willing the world to settle.
“HEY.”
Someone nudges my leg. I force my eyes open, see a fae in jeans and a white sweater squatting in front of me. At first, I think it’s Kelia, but no stones are braided into this girl’s hair. Plus, her eyes are unnaturally dark, and something feels off about her. When a chaos luster flashes across her face, I realize what that something is. The lightning is pale, so pale it looks almost white, not bright blue like a normal fae’s. She’s a tor’um, a walker. Born that way, I presume, because she doesn’t look crazy.
The Shadow Reader Page 16