The Sharpest Blade

by Sandy Williams

  “Hey,” Naito says. “No . . . No . . . Hotel. No.”

  He hangs up the phone. I watch him return to the living room, and that’s when I notice the others are staring at me.

  “You contacted the vigilantes?” Aren asks.

  I nod. “I found their Web site, so I sent them an e-mail.”

  “Were you going to tell us about this?” Lena demands.

  “I just found out this morning,” I tell her. “I set up a fake e-mail, used a fake name. I don’t even know if they’ll respond.”

  “If they do, you have to meet with them,” she says. “We need to find out where they’re keeping the serum and—”

  She breaks off. A second later, I hear what she does: the garage door grinding open. Nick’s home. He was gone for more than a few hours.

  Our conversation stops there. When the door to the garage swings open, Kynlee comes in first. She looks at me, then her gaze goes to the living room. She grins like she’s happy to see the fae. When Nick steps into the kitchen behind her, he glowers like he’s not.

  “You all can stay the night,” Kynlee says, all but bouncing on her toes. “I can go to the Realm Saturday.”

  I meet Nick’s eyes. He just shakes his head like he’s lost a fight, tosses his keys on the counter, then walks through the living room without one word to Lena and the others.

  “You guys hungry? I’ll order pizza.” Kynlee grabs the phone, completely oblivious to the worry she’s causing her dad.

  NINETEEN

  DURING DINNER, KYNLEE interrogates the fae. She directs her questions to Lena at first, probably figuring a woman will be more likely to give her the answers she’s looking for, but Lena’s responses are dry and short. It’s Aren who gives Kynlee the information she wants, and he’s up-front with her, telling her exactly how tor’um are treated in the Realm—and how Lena plans to change that.

  Lena plans to change a lot of things, and as Aren describes fae society and how it’s become more and more segregated over the years, with the upper classes collecting privileges and favors while tor’um, imithi, and the weak are pushed to the side, I once again see the lighthearted but rebellious and cunning Aren, who draws people to him with his reckless smiles and crazy, convoluted schemes. It’s easy to see why the rebels were able to stir up such a strong opposition to the old Court.

  In the decade I worked for King Atroth, no one, not even Thrain, gathered as much support as the rebels did. They made Atroth tighten his fist over the Realm, raiding people’s homes without cause and interrogating individuals who had no knowledge of the rebels’ plans. Atroth’s actions actually strengthened the Zarraks’ case for a change of regime. But even if they hadn’t, the rebels would have still been a thorn in the king’s side. Sethan was a diplomat. He gathered support with honesty and reason while Aren recruited fae using pure charisma. He makes people want to be on his side.

  Kynlee giggles at something Aren says, and he smiles at her. It’s a genuine smile. He seems to like talking to the girl. His tone is teasing and protective, like he’s talking to a kid sister, but I think Kynlee might be developing a crush. I can’t blame her at all.

  A little pang settles in my chest. We’ve passed the halfway point of my ultimatum. Aren has less than thirty-six hours to choose to be with me. I’m aware of each minute that ticks by; he doesn’t seem to be aware of any of them.

  I turn away so I don’t have to see him laugh, and my gaze settles on Nick. He’s listening to Aren and Kynlee’s conversation from a barstool in the kitchen. The fact that he hasn’t interrupted Aren or sent Kynlee off to bed makes me think he appreciates Aren’s honesty. Aren hasn’t sugarcoated anything.

  A warm movement of air tickles the back of my neck. I reach up to rub away the sensation, but my hand encounters something cool, wet, and whiskery.

  I look over my shoulder, expecting to see a cat, but instead of a fluffy feline, a silver-furred kimki stares back at me. My mood cranks up a notch when he drags himself over my shoulder. I reach up to scratch behind his ears, then I stand, keeping him balanced where he is. The last time I saw Sosch, he leaped into Kyol’s fissure at my apartment. I’ve missed the furball, and I’m grateful he’s here now. He always seems to know when I need cheering up.

  My muscles are still sore, so I pull him off my shoulder and into my arms as I leave the living room. I need a few minutes alone, so I head to the darkened sunroom. It’s not until I enter the room that I notice Lorn is here. He’s sitting in a wicker chair in the corner.

  “Finally coming to apologize?” he asks. Blue bolts of lightning dart across his small, smug smile.

  If I weren’t already sinking down onto the sofa, I’d leave. But my sore and bruised body won’t let me stop my descent, so I press my lips together to keep myself from saying something I’ll regret. The truth is, I don’t really feel like I owe him an apology. I accused him of prolonging and profiting from the war. He’s admitted to the latter, and while he might not have been the fae who slaughtered the Sighted humans in London, he certainly hasn’t been forthcoming about his role in the war. Hell, the false-blood had to almost kill him for Lorn to even admit that he’s talked to him.

  But I swallow back all the words I want to say and force out an apology. “I’m sorry, Lorn.”

  His smile widens. “Ah, so the shadow-witch does want something from me. How intriguing.”

  “I was just apolo—”

  “No need to deny it, my dear,” he interrupts. “Everyone wants something. Perhaps I can provide it.”

  I glance away, shaking my head out of disbelief more than denial. Lorn can’t help being a jerk sometimes.

  After a quick look back into the living room to see that Aren’s still talking to Kynlee, I turn back to Lorn. There are several questions I want to ask him, like how to block out a fae on the other end of a life-bond, but I definitely don’t want Lorn learning I’m linked to Kyol. So I settle on my other question.

  “I need to know if Lord Hison or anyone else is blackmailing Aren.”

  Lorn laughs way too loudly. “I’ll answer that one for free: no.”

  “No?” I echo. “Are you sure?”

  “Very sure,” he says. “He can’t be blackmailed. Trust me, I tried. Don’t look so surprised, McKenzie. How do you think he became known as the Butcher of Brykeld so quickly? His only fault in that massacre was ordering the wrong person to create a distraction while he attacked his real target. I’d already made threats to hurt the rebels’ cause by marring his name if he didn’t do a few favors for me, so when he continued to refuse”—Lorn lifts his hand in a what-was-I-to-do gesture—“I had no choice but to stretch the truth a little.”

  “And you wonder why we questioned your role in the war? I still don’t know if we can trust you.”

  “Oh, you most assuredly can now,” Lorn says. “I want the false-blood dead. I want his head in a bag and his body rotting in the sun.”

  The casual delivery of that last part makes my skin crawl. Lorn isn’t joking, and he’s not being unusually cruel. Severing a fae’s head is the only way to prevent the body and soul from entering the ether. It’s a cruel punishment, but without seeing a corpse, the only way to tell if a fae has truly died is by finding a fae who can sense the other side. That magic is extremely rare, though, and the fae has to have personal contact with the person who’s passed on.

  “You helped him in the past, though,” I say to Lorn. “The only reason you’re here now is because he learned you could find me.”

  His eyebrows go up in feigned offense. “And people accuse me of being egocentric. He didn’t turn on me because of you. He turned on me because I refused to kill my cows.”

  What? I give him a skeptical look.

  “I told you many of the Taelith’s elari are from Lyechaban,” he says. “He has to appease them, give them a good show so they think he hates humans as much as they do. But when he ordered me to destroy everything Earth-made that I’ve brought to the Realm, I very politely told him he c
ould go rot in the Barren. Apparently, he took offense at that.”

  “How surprising,” Lena’s flat voice comes from behind me. Sosch hops off my lap when I turn and see her standing just inside the sunroom.

  “I assure you,” Lorn says, “I was quite surprised. If I’d known he planned to—”

  “You would have still made a deal with him,” Lena cuts him off. “I’ve known you a long time, Lorn. Your insistence on putting a price on everything is the reason you’re here. You strike bargains with everyone you meet, manipulating as much of an advantage as you can from them. You gamble on every rumor, every shred of information you learn, and it has caught up with you.”

  In short, his shady dealings have finally bit him in the ass.

  “My dear,” Lorn says, lounging back in his wicker chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Let’s see if this fits.” She strides into the room. “You met the false-blood months, perhaps even years, ago. You provided him weapons and silver and information. He provided you with tinril. Everything went smoothly for a time, then the Taelith returned, this time asking you for something you weren’t willing to give.”

  “Your cows,” I put in.

  “You weren’t able to charm your way out of business with him, and since you weren’t cooperative, he tried to send you to the ether.”

  All signs of amusement have disappeared from Lorn’s face, so I’m guessing Lena’s summary is close to the truth.

  She faces me, almost completely turning her back on Lorn. “Paige?”

  “I called her a little while ago,” I say. “She didn’t answer. I left her a message to have her phone in her hand at noon tomorrow. I’ll try her again then.”

  She looks annoyed by the delay, but she doesn’t voice her thoughts out loud. She turns back to Lorn, then she demands he tell her every detail of every meeting he’s ever had with Caelar and the false-blood. She’s confident I can get Paige to make a meeting between her and Caelar happen. I’m less so, but she calls in Aren and Kyol, insisting we come up with a strategy for gaining his allegiance, whether he’s now allied with the false-blood or not. By the time we call it a night, my muscles have almost completely locked up on me, and I’m agitated by everything. I head to the media room, taking with me the sleepshirt, pillow, and blanket Kynlee left out for me.

  I’m dead tired, so I strip to my undies, then, groaning when I force my stiff arm muscles to move, I slip Kynlee’s sleepshirt on over my head. She’s smaller than I am—it barely covers my ass—but I’m anxious to get out of my bloodstained cargo pants and T-shirt. I’m going to have to arrange some kind of clothing allowance; I think I’ve ruined half my wardrobe in the week since I returned to the Realm.

  I toss the pillow Kynlee gave me onto the end of the couch, then pick up the blanket.

  “I’ve been ordered to heal you.”

  Aren’s voice startles me. I look over my shoulder and see him standing in the doorway, his edarratae bright and captivating in the dim lighting. Haphazard and sexy, that’s how I’d describe him, and I want so badly for him to be here because he chooses to see me, not because he’s been ordered to.

  “I’m fine,” I say, turning back to the couch and unfurling the blanket.

  “Taltrayn mentioned blisters and bruises.”

  “You don’t want to be here, Aren.”

  “He outranks me,” he says. “And he’ll know if I don’t heal you.”

  “He’ll get over it.” I start to sit on the couch, but Aren crosses the room and grabs an end of the blanket. I try to jerk it free, but he doesn’t release it, and that makes the material slide across my sensitive palms. I hiss as I let the blanket go.

  “Just give me your hands.” He grabs them, turning my palms up, and when he presses his fingers against the raw skin, my mind flashes back to two months ago. I’d just slid down a rope made from sheets, and he insisted on healing my damaged skin. I resented his touch then, the hot lick of his chaos lusters that made me want to lean into him. I resent it now, too. If he doesn’t want me as much as I want him, then I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to think of the warmth of his mouth, the kiss of his edarratae, or the subtle but drugging scent of cedar and cinnamon that makes me want to melt in his arms.

  I clench my teeth together and stare at his chest because I refuse to get lost in his eyes.

  My palms mend quickly, but Aren doesn’t move away. He slides both his hands up my arms, finds the bruises on my right wrist and the ugly one just hidden under my left sleeve. A pleasant burn runs through me.

  God, I want him.

  I thought Aren’s chest would be a safe place to stare. It isn’t. It’s rising and falling with his breaths, and all I want to do is slide my hands up his body. I want to kiss his neck and linger until his chaos lusters pool beneath my lips.

  He drags himself back a step, and, finally, I look up. He quickly looks down, tilting his head slightly then—

  “Sidhe, McKenzie.” He drops to his knees in front of me, his palm pressing against my right calf.

  “Ow!” I say, kicking his hand away.

  He grabs my leg again, this time flaring his magic. “He’s supposed to protect you, not injure you.”

  “He’s teaching me to protect myself.”

  “Which will be hard to do if you can’t walk or hold a sword.”

  “Careful,” I say. “You almost sound like you care.”

  He peers up at me. “I never said I didn’t care.”

  I cross my arms, look away, and stand rigidly, waiting while he heals me. When he’s finished with my calf, he starts to rise, but then he spots another injury: the deep bruise on my upper, outer thigh. Slowly, he slides his hand up my leg. The lower hem of my sleepshirt lifts slightly as he places his hand over the bruise. His palm is hot. I’m hot.

  “Please tell me this is the last one,” he murmurs, his hand easing upward a fraction of an inch.

  “There’s another,” I say quietly. “It’s higher on my left side.”

  Slowly, he rises. He looks almost afraid when he meets my gaze. “How much higher?”

  “Upper ribs.”

  He draws in a breath as if he’s steeling himself, then he lifts my sleepshirt. It slowly, softly slides up over my hips and stomach. His hands are level with my breasts. He should be able to see the bruise now, but his silver eyes never leave mine.

  A heartbeat passes. Two. Then three. He lifts the sleepshirt over my head, then his hungry gaze rakes over me. My body thrums as if it’s wrapped in edarratae.

  “Sidhe,” he breathes out. “You’re . . .”

  He closes his eyes, shaking his head as if he can get the image of me out of his mind. That’s the last thing I want.

  I grab his hand, slide it down my body until it rests over the deep bruise on my side.

  His eyes open. He nods as if I’ve asked him a question, then he pulls his hand free from mine.

  He drops to a knee again then focuses intently on my injury. He places his palm against it. Then I feel him shake.

  Before I can ask him if he’s okay, he slides his hand around to my back and presses his mouth against the bruise.

  His magic flares and, holy hell, my legs nearly buckle. I have to lock my knees to stay upright.

  He moves his lips, sending his healing magic into the upper part of my injury. I’m dying to fist my hands in his hair, but I settle for his shoulders, afraid of pushing him too far, too fast. I can feel how tightly he’s coiled. He’s holding himself back, giving himself the smallest taste of me.

  His lips slide to my stomach. Another taste.

  His mouth moves higher. A lick, just under my breast.

  I’m trying to hold myself still—I don’t want to pull him out of the moment; I don’t want him to stop—but my body gives a tiny buck, and he freezes. His breath is warm on my breast, and I want him so badly, I ache. I bite my lower lip, silently pleading for him to continue.

  Suddenly, his hands leave my body. He st
ands, taking a half step away from me.

  Damn it, damn it, damn it.

  I wrack my brain for something to say, some way to pull him back to me, but he just stands there staring at me as if he has no fucking idea what he’s doing.

  “Aren—”

  He moves, his mouth taking mine in a brutal, bruising kiss.

  Fire explodes through me, ricocheting in my stomach and sending a hot, molten heat downward. I grab his shoulders again because I’m not going to let him go. I dig my fingers into the muscles of his back and part my lips, inviting him to deepen the kiss.

  He does, tasting me. I moan and press closer.

  He grabs my hips as he pulls my lower lip between his teeth. His bite surprises me, sending a sharp jolt of pain or pleasure—I’m not sure which—through me.

  I gasp a second later, not from Aren’s nip but from the alarm vibrating through my life-bond. But I can’t stifle the need building inside of me, and quickly, Kyol catches on. I feel him vanish from this world, feel a wall fall between us. I should be concerned about him, considerate of his feelings, but Aren’s scent is intoxicating, and I can only think of him.

  I fist my hand in his shirt, slide it up.

  “I want this off you,” I say. I slip my fingers under his weapons belt. “This, too.”

  “Yes.” No hesitation. No protest. He’s mine.

  He loops his arm around my waist, swinging me around. The back of my legs hit the couch. Aren pulls off his shirt, drops his belt to the floor, then moves over me. My gaze is locked on his chest, then on a bright bolt of lightning that zigzags across his perfect abs. Perfect even with a deep scar cutting between the muscles. My fingers find a new one on his shoulder, then I slide my hands to his face, pull him closer.

  I can’t lose you, I want to say, but I kiss him instead, my hips rising to press against his.

  He’s still wearing his pants. I tug at them, kiss him harder.

  He breaks the kiss, separating from me just enough to gaze into my eyes.

  The light from his chaos lusters reflects off my skin, and my heart thunders in my chest. This is the brink, the one I’ve stood on too many times to count, and I can practically hear Aren’s thoughts demanding for him to stop.