The Sharpest Blade

by Sandy Williams

  He chuckles.

  I glare at Aren before turning my attention back to Glazunov. He’s backed himself against the wall again and is dragging air into his lungs. He overexerted himself. I would have gotten free from him on my own eventually. I might have lost some hair in the process, but I didn’t need saving.

  “I see you’ve made a lot of progress with him,” Aren teases.

  I ignore him as I squat down a safe distance from the vigilante and meet his eyes. “Lee said you’re in charge of the vigilantes now and that you helped create the Sight serum.”

  “And he and his little friend, Paige, are going to die,” Glazunov says. Apparently, he has enough strength to sneer. “Yes. What a pity.”

  I do my best not to let his words affect me. Aren never lets his enemies affect him. He makes it look easy to shrug off their hate-filled words. It’s not.

  “You’ve given the serum to other humans. To vigilantes,” I say. “You want them to survive, don’t you?”

  I’m watching his face carefully, looking for some sign of compassion or remorse, but he just stares at me as if he’s imagining strangling me. Gentle questions aren’t going to get answers from him. He was Nakano’s second-in-command. You don’t rise to the top of an organization like his by compromising on your beliefs. Glazunov hates the fae and any human who associates with them.

  “We have ways of making you cooperate,” Aren says. His arms are loosely crossed, and he’s standing beside me all cool and relaxed. It’s a calculated indifference, though. His posture is saying he’s in control and that Glazunov is so insignificant he could squash him with his thumb.

  My heart thumps in my chest, and my need for information wars with my conscience. Firmer methods of persuasion are common in the Realm. I don’t like that fact, but I like the idea of the serum killing Paige, Lee, and other humans even less.

  “Look,” I say. “Lee is talking to the person who created the serum.” Talking to is a stretch—I imagine he’s abducting Charles Bowman the same as he did Glazunov—but I’m trying to find a painless way to get the information out of Glazunov. “We’ll find a way to fix it, but we need to know who’s taken it. We need to know if you’re still giving it to people.”

  “We have magics that can make you talk,” Aren says, taking a too-casual step forward. “You won’t like my methods. I suggest you not make me use them. It would be . . . uncomfortable for you, and the outcome will be the same either way.”

  “I won’t tell you anything,” Glazunov says, but he doesn’t look as certain as he did before. He’s pressing his back against the wall, putting as much space as possible between him and Aren.

  “You’ll tell us everything,” Aren says in a level, confident voice. “You’ll tell us how you developed the serum. You’ll tell us who knows about it and who’s taken it. You’ll tell us what makes it fatal and how to cure the humans who’ve already injected it.”

  “And you’ll tell us if you’re selling it,” I put in.

  Glazunov’s gaze locks on me, surprised, I think. But I have a sinking suspicion I know the answer to that last question. The elari in Tholm said the serum was being sold. Maybe there was a tiny bit of truth in that accusation. The serum is being sold, but not by Lena. It’s being sold by the freaking vigilantes.

  “You can go roast in hell,” Glazunov says.

  Aren steps forward, then crouches down a couple of feet in front of Glazunov. “You’re going to start answering our questions now.”

  The vigilante’s nostrils flare. “You’re going to have to kill me.”

  Aren’s cold laugh raises goose bumps on my skin. “No, we won’t do that. After all, you don’t kill the fae you manage to capture.” A pause. “Yes, we know what you do to them. Your experiments. We want to learn more about you, as well, and we’re always looking for a disposable human to dissect.”

  I bite my tongue to keep from calling bullshit right there. The fae always go out of their way to protect humans. Well, most of the fae do. Aren’s bluffing.

  “Tell us how the Sight serum kills,” I say, putting a gentle plea into my voice. The look I give Glazunov says that he can trust me. I’m with him and want to help him.

  Glazunov shakes his head. No loud, profanity-laced outburst. I think he might be breaking.

  “This is Jorreb,” I say, indicating Aren. “He has an . . . interesting magical ability. He can pry the information we want from your mind. I don’t want him to have to do that. It will hurt. You may not survive it.”

  Those are the words Aren said to me the first time I met Lorn. They nearly broke me. Never mind that it turned out that Lorn’s mind-reading magic doesn’t work on humans, no one knew it at the time. I believed the rebels would get the information they wanted out of me one way or the other. Glazunov looks like he believes it, too. His gaze flickers to Aren.

  This is going to work. If I didn’t know Aren, I’d be terrified of him.

  “My patience is running thin,” Aren says.

  “You have to talk if you want me to help you,” I say.

  Glazunov stubbornly clenches his teeth together, but sweat glistens on his forehead.

  Quicker than I can follow, Aren grabs the vigilante’s forearm. Glazunov squirms and the first signs of true terror shine in his eyes as he stares at the lightning on his skin, lightning he can suddenly feel.

  “What’s wrong with the serum?” I ask.

  Panic crawls across the human. He tries to pry Aren’s hand off his arm, and he starts shaking and scratching as if cockroaches are crawling over his skin.

  I frown. I’m almost certain Aren’s not using any magic. Tiny edarratae would be flickering across his hand if he was, but there’s only an occasional flash of light when one of Glazunov’s . . . Oh.

  I almost laugh. It’s Aren’s touch, the enticing, delicious heat of it, that’s freaking the vigilante out.

  “Let go!” Glazunov screams.

  “It’ll get worse the longer he touches you,” I tell him calmly. “What’s killing the humans? How do we cure them?”

  Glazunov’s body lurches and a sob escapes him. “Please!”

  A bright bolt of lightning strikes up Aren’s arm.

  “How do we cure them?” I demand.

  “You can’t cure them!” Glazunov screams. His shoes slide across the smooth ground as he tries to embed himself in the stone wall.

  “That’s the wrong answer,” Aren says, grabbing the vigilante’s other arm.

  “No. Listen. You can’t fix it because it is fixed,” he wails. “The serum is already fixed!”

  TWELVE

  AREN RELEASES THE vigilante’s arm. I’m not sure if he’s just ready to stop touching Glazunov or if he believes him. I’m not sure if I believe him. It’s too easy an answer to a life-or-death problem.

  “You’re sure?” I ask, making my voice icy.

  Glazunov curls into a ball, his left cheek pressed against the stone wall. “We changed the formula three months ago.”

  The knots in my stomach loosen a fraction. Paige has had the Sight for around two months. I’m not sure when Lee injected the serum, but I think it was relatively recent as well. They might both be okay.

  “So, if someone injected the serum in the last couple of months, they’re going to live?”

  Glazunov’s gaze flickers my direction. There’s the slightest hesitation before he answers, “Right.”

  Aren hears the pause, too. He leans forward, staring into Glazunov’s eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

  A muscle in Glazunov’s cheek twitches.

  “Tell us the truth,” Aren says, reaching toward the vigilante’s neck.

  “I am telling the truth,” Glazunov says too quickly.

  Instead of strangling the vigilante, Aren merely draws his finger down the side of Glazunov’s neck. It’s not anything close to a caress or gentle touch, but Glazunov throws himself on the floor, trying to get away from him. Aren grabs his arm, flipping him to his back.

  “Okay. Oka
y, okay, okay!” Glazunov shouts, fists swinging wildly. When Aren merely stands over him, Glazunov splutters out, “We still have the old formula. Had the formula.”

  “Keep talking,” Aren says.

  “Some of the vials are missing.” He sucks in a shallow breath. “We don’t know where they went or who injected them. Only a few of us knew of the serum’s side effect.”

  “Death is a side effect?” Angry, I step to Aren’s side.

  Glazunov looks at me. “They took a pledge to eradicate the fae. They’ve lost people they love to the heathens. They all knew this wouldn’t be an easy or bloodless fight. You know it, too. Think about what you’ve lost. Your family, your future, your freedom. You’re their slave, but you could be free again. We can help you.”

  What the hell?

  Aren looks at me, a small smile playing across his lips. “I think he’s trying to recruit you, nalkin-shom.”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “Their magics have erased your good judgment,” Glazunov continues. “We can restore it. We can cleanse you.”

  That sounds entirely unpleasant.

  “The serum,” I say, returning the conversation to where it’s supposed to be. “Is there a way to tell which one someone injected?”

  Cautiously, Glazunov sits up. “I don’t know.”

  “Does anyone else know?” I ask. I haven’t checked my e-mail or voice mails in more than a day, but maybe Lee’s found Bowman or another vigilante and is trying to get in touch with me now.

  “Maybe,” Glazunov says. “You’ll have to talk to them.”

  “Next question,” Aren says. “Who is selling the serum?”

  I glance at Aren, but he keeps his eyes locked on Glazunov. I keep quiet and look at the vigilante, too, holding my breath as I wait for his response. In terms of the fight against the false-blood and his elari, the answer doesn’t matter. They already believe Lena has something to do with the serum. But in terms of the fae’s status on Earth? If the vigilantes are selling the serum to any random human who will pay . . . That could be a problem.

  Glazunov’s expression darkens. “With Nakano dead, we were running out of cash. Selling the serum was discussed as a new revenue channel.”

  “Discussed?” I ask.

  “I told them we weren’t going to sell it,” Glazunov says. “That should have been the end of the conversation.”

  “But it wasn’t?”

  He shakes his head. Lena is going to be so pissed.

  “Who decided to sell it anyway?”

  Glazunov shrugs. “Any of them. All of them. I don’t know.”

  I believe him. He doesn’t know, and he’s pissed about that fact. He was Nakano’s second-in-command. He’s supposed to be in charge now, but he can’t keep his people in line.

  Aren and I ask him a few more questions—where can we find the person selling the serum, how much was produced, where is the research stored and backed up—but his responses aren’t very useful. There’s a reason Lee decided to go after another vigilante: Glazunov is a dead end.

  When we run out of questions, we start to leave, but Aren stops beside the open door, turning back to look at Glazunov.

  “One last thing,” he says. “You’re going to start eating. If you don’t, I’ll come back and spoon-feed you myself. Do you understand?”

  Glazunov doesn’t answer, but he goes still, indicating he does understand.

  Aren steps out of the cell and closes the door. He stands there looking at me as the guard locks it. He’s tense—I’m not sure he knows what to say—and that’s when I suddenly become aware I haven’t showered in almost two days, and I’m wearing the same clothes I walked across the Realm in.

  Well, isn’t this an awesome way to show him what he’s trying to push away.

  He comes to some decision, and tension whooshes out of him in an almost visible cloud.

  “That ended up being a surprisingly effective coercion technique,” he says.

  His tone is light, and his movement as we walk down the row of cells is easy, languid. He’s always hid his troubles behind his devil-may-care smiles and his nonchalance, but I know him well enough to see through the façade now. He’s uncomfortable around me.

  I tilt my head to the side. “You are very good at seducing people to your way of thinking.”

  He laughs. “Too bad it doesn’t work on high nobles and elari.”

  “You didn’t get anything else out of the fae captured in Tholm?”

  “No,” he says. When his smile fades, I hate myself for asking the question. “We’ve captured other elari in the past few weeks. The false-blood doesn’t trust easily. None of them have known his name let alone his location.” A guard opens the door at the end of the corridor, and we leave the quiet cells behind us. “What made you think the vigilantes were selling the serum?”

  “Nothing really,” I say. “It just bothered me that the elari knew a serum existed. I couldn’t get it off my mind and . . . Well, this doesn’t exactly disprove that Caelar is working with the false-blood, but the elari could have stumbled across the information somewhere else. Lorn, maybe.”

  “Hmm,” Aren says. I’ve never heard a hmm so devoid of inflection.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  I step in front of him, blocking his path. He manages to stop before he touches me. He even takes a step back, putting more distance between us so that we don’t accidentally come in contact.

  “Lena sent you down here, didn’t she?” I ask. Then, realizing how stupid the question is, I say, “Don’t answer that. Of course she did. You wouldn’t have come knowing I was there unless you were forced to.”

  “I passed her in the hall,” he says, confirming my words. “Hison wanted to meet with her.”

  “Hison.” His name puts a bad taste in my mouth. “You’re running errands for him now?”

  Aren stiffens. “No.”

  “What’s going on with him?” I ask.

  “It’s nothing.” He steps around me.

  “Then why are you talking to him so much?” I demand, turning. “Is he blackmailing you?”

  “I said it’s nothing,” he fires over his shoulder.

  “That’s bullshit, Aren.” I grab his arm, and he spins so quickly I stagger back a half step.

  “Here.” He slaps something into my palm. “I came to give you that.”

  I look down. And stop breathing. It’s Kyol’s name-cord. He gave it to me years ago. I kept it in a jewelry box in my old apartment, and the last time I was there, I slid it into my pocket, intending to give it back to him. But the remnants came after me. We were trying to figure out who they were and what had happened to Paige, then I fell through the ice in Rhigh, trying to get to the city’s gate. That’s the last time I had the name-cord. Aren saved me. He brought me back to the palace.

  And stripped me out of my wet clothes. He must have found it then.

  “You’ve had it all this time?” I look up, suddenly angry. “Were you waiting for the right moment to throw it in my face?”

  “If I wasn’t here, you’d be with him,” he says. The words sound more like a question than an accusation, but I take them as the latter.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” I say, taking a step toward him. “If you weren’t here, I’d be dead. If you weren’t here, I’d still be blind and working for a king who cared only about staying in power. Years would pass, and Kyol would keep pushing me aside anytime our ‘relationship’ became too real for him.”

  “But if I died—”

  “I still”—I emphasize the word with a fist to his chest—“wouldn’t be with him. I can’t. I would always wonder if the life-bond manipulated my feelings for him.”

  He catches my hand against his chest. Kyol’s name-cord digs into my palm.

  “But if you weren’t so stubborn,” he says softly, “you could make it work. Even with the life-bond.”

  “I want to make it work with you,” I tell him. “Even with the life-bond.”


  “McKenzie.” The word sounds more like a sigh than my name. I lift my free hand to the side of his face.

  “I love you,” I say. Then I slide my hand behind his neck and feel his resistance melt away.

  He initiates the kiss, bending down to slant his mouth across mine. I’m addicted to his scent and his touch, to the way his arms encircle me, pulling me against him, but mostly, I’m just addicted to him. He’s a light in all this darkness. He’s strong and caring, and he’s sacrificed so much for Lena and the Realm. He makes me happy, and I want so much to make him happy, too.

  His tongue flicks across mine, and I draw him closer.

  “McKenzie,” he murmurs as he trails kisses along my jaw. When he nips my ear, lightning explodes through me, sending tendrils of pleasure through my scalp and down my neck. I stuff the name-cord into my pocket, then trail my hands up his chest. He’s not wearing jaedric. His muscles are firm and chiseled beneath my palms.

  “I want you,” I whisper, and he murmurs something indecipherable into my ear.

  Chaos lusters flash across my skin. They’re becoming so frenzied, they’re skipping to his mouth and hands, anywhere and everywhere our bodies touch.

  I tug on Aren’s arm to pull him . . . I don’t know where. I draw in a breath, trying to figure out where we are, trying to think. Trying not to think. The corridor we’re in is empty. It might not stay that way for long. Someone could interrupt us any second.

  “Aren.” I tug again.

  He’s not budging. His hands are locked on my arms, holding me in place as he takes my mouth again, and that’s when I realize something’s . . . not wrong, exactly. It’s just not completely right.

  It takes another long, languorous kiss to identify the problem. Aren’s not completely into this. Oh, he’s kissing me. He’s kissing me, and I’m kissing him, and it’s hot and delicious, but he’s holding back, not willing to cross the line with me.

  I want to eradicate that line. I want to obliterate it, rip it into pieces, then burn all the frayed ends to ash. This is the same damn line I’ve treaded for a decade.

  My hands move back to Aren’s chest, not to admire his body, but to push him away. When I manage to get a few inches of space between us, I say, “I don’t want your half-assed kisses.”