“She should know where she’s from,” Kyol tells him.
“She’s from here, now.”
“Kyol,” I interject gently, my tone saying to drop the subject. He does, but he seems agitated. I don’t think that’s just because he thinks Nick is wrong. Something’s on his mind.
“Lorn’s still asleep?” I ask.
He nods. “For a few more hours, at least.”
I look at Nick to see if he’s going to protest our staying here longer. He’s already been more accommodating than I expected, especially considering the fact that he’s worried someone might try to take Kynlee away from him.
Stone-faced, he tosses his empty mug into the sink.
“I have to go to work for a while,” he says. “I’ll be back before Kynlee gets home from school. Make sure you’re gone by then.”
He grabs his keys off a hook by a door on the other side of the kitchen. After he disappears through it, I hear the grinding rumble of a garage door opening.
I take a sip of my coffee as silence descends between Kyol and me. I want to tell him about Paige’s message and the Web site I found, but he feels so . . . I’m not sure how to describe him. Exhausted, yes, but it’s more than that. Soul-weary maybe. I don’t want to burden him with more bad news.
On the other hand, we already suspected the vigilantes were selling the Sight serum. This just confirms Glazunov’s words. And as for Paige’s message . . . It’s still possible Caelar isn’t working with the false-blood.
“Tell me,” Kyol says, staring down at the granite countertop.
I grimace. Of course he’d feel my turmoil. Proximity makes it difficult to hide our emotions from each other. That’s why I’m aware of his mood even though his wall is in place.
“You first,” I say.
His silver eyes meet mine, and it takes everything in me to not react to his familiar, stormy gaze. It feels like a cord is pulling on my heart.
Kyol draws in a slow breath as he looks away.
“It’s nothing,” he says.
“Nothing?” I ask, that heart-cord snapping in annoyance. “Well, then. Nothing is on my mind either.”
“McKenzie—”
“Are you trying to protect me from something?”
“No.”
“Because I can handle it, Kyol. I’ve always been able to handle it.”
He swivels on his barstool, facing me fully.
“There is nothing specifically wrong,” he says. “I swear it.”
“Then what’s wrong generally?” I ask, not dropping the subject.
His jaw clenches. So does mine. I’m pissed at Aren for this same reason. Something is wrong with him, but he doesn’t trust me enough to tell me what. It’s ridiculous for me to have this problem with Kyol, too. There’s no reason to withhold information from me after everything we’ve been through.
I slide off my barstool, start to leave, but Kyol grabs my arm.
“I’m worried about you, McKenzie.”
I look down as lightning circles my elbow. I’m mad enough that the lick of heat doesn’t make me want to move closer to him.
“That’s it?” I ask, letting doubt slide into my voice.
He releases my arm, then reaches for something beside the counter. When he turns back to me, he’s holding two dull swords with familiar red handles.
I barely suppress a sigh. Maybe I am what’s bothering him. God knows I’m not as good at hiding my emotions as he is, and he’s never had a life-bond before either. This is as new to him as it is to me. I’m probably stressing him out with my chaotic mood swings.
“Please,” he says, holding one of the practice swords out for me to take.
Even though my anger is quickly disappearing, I cross my arms over my chest. “Are you going to be an ass when I get tired?”
After a brief pause, he says, “You learn more quickly when I’m an ass.”
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.
A few minutes later, we’re in Nick’s backyard. I insist Kyol be visible in case one of the neighbors gets nosy, so he takes off his jaedric armor. He wears it so often, always prepared for an attack, that I’m sure he feels naked holding a sword without it, but his black pants and shirt can pass as human made.
“And if someone sees the swords?” Kyol asks, raising his blade between us.
“We’ll tell them we’re with the SCA.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“Society of Creative”—I fake a direct attack, swing down toward his left leg—“Anachronism.”
He blocks my wild move with ease and counters with an unnecessarily hard hit to my ribs. “Practice the forms. No wild swings.”
Wild swings are for the untrained. He told me that at least a dozen times between Tholm and Corrist. Wild swings rely on luck not expertise, but isn’t that the whole point of my training? I need to be good enough to be lucky because, God knows, if I end up in a sword fight with a fae, I’m going to need a huge dose of luck to survive it.
Besides, Aren gets away with wild, messy swings when he fights. It’s not that he isn’t trained, but sometimes, being unpredictable can create an advantage.
“Your focus is elsewhere.” Kyol hits my practice blade so hard, I nearly drop it.
I grit my teeth and tighten my grip on the red hilt. Right. Focus. I can do that.
Within minutes, my skin glistens with sweat. It’s frustrating considering Kyol isn’t even breathing hard.
“You need to leave Vegas,” Kyol says, swinging at my left thigh.
“Aren’t I supposed to be focusing?” I ask, blocking his attack. But I knew he’d bring this conversation up.
“You can’t return to your apartment.”
“I—” His blade arcs toward my head. I fall on my ass, avoiding a concussion. “Jesus, Kyol.”
He squats in front of me. “Good. Next time, roll away from your opponent. Roll to your feet.”
He offers me his hand. Is this his attempt to not be an ass? Or is it a trap?
My eyes narrow, and just in case, I get to my feet on my own.
“You’re doing well, McKenzie.”
I keep my guard up, still suspicious. “Are you patronizing me?”
“No,” he says, stabbing toward my stomach. I block his attack and turn sideways, making myself a smaller target.
“It takes fae years of training to develop muscle memory,” he continues, launching another attack, this time a low one aimed at my knees. “You’re developing it within hours. And you’re quick.” A jab toward my left shoulder. “Quicker than you used to be.”
I get what he’s saying, and even though this can be seen as a positive thing, the implication makes me uncomfortable. What else has the life-bond changed? And are all the changes for the better?
Kyol senses the dark path my thoughts are taking, so I give him a small smile, and say, “Good thing I’m bonded to the Realm’s best swordsman.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up ever so slightly.
“Is that a smile, Lord General?” I tease. “While you’re in the midst of a fight? Sloppy.”
I feign an attack at his midsection, but dodge around his block, balling my off hand into a fist, which I aim at his jaw. The move is smooth and natural, and the blow would probably hit if Kyol weren’t the best swordsman in the Realm. But he knocks my fist with his elbow and somehow manages to clip my chin in the process.
Ow.
I step away from him, reach up to rub my jaw. I yelp instead, seeing his sword arcing toward my calves. No time to block it so I try to leap over it and—
Fail. His blade hits so hard, he knocks my legs out from under me. I land on my right shoulder, my sword pinned beneath my body.
A twinge of guilt moves through the life-bond, but Kyol extinguishes it quickly.
“You were supposed to block that,” he says, kneeling in front of me.
“Yeah,” I snap. “I kind of figured that out.”
I sit up, then pull up my pants
leg to look at the injury. Our swords are dull, but I expect to see a gash in my leg anyway. There’s not one. Just an angry red line that’s beginning to turn purple.
“Is it broken?” Kyol sets down his sword, then runs his hand over my calf.
“I’m not that brittle,” I say. I mean the words to be angry—an accusation of sorts—but his hand is warm, and a bright blue bolt of lightning skips to my skin.
Touching opens our bond completely, and Kyol’s lust rushes into me. I rock back, dizzy with the intensity of it, and my body flushes with heat.
It’s just magic, I tell myself. This feeling isn’t real. It isn’t. It isn’t. It isn’t.
Kyol meets my gaze. His hand is still on my calf, desire is still rocking through him.
I want another chance.
He doesn’t say those words out loud, but his emotions are screaming them.
I pull my leg away from him, and some emotion akin to hurt moves through the bond. It’s barely noticeable beneath the want, but it makes my throat burn. I can’t do this. I can’t keep hurting him.
“Kyol—”
“Again,” he says, grabbing his sword as he stands. A thick wall drops between us, silencing his emotions.
Swallowing, I get to my feet. I try to build my own wall. I try not to let him feel my frustration and angst, my regret that I can’t say the words he wants to hear. I focus completely on the moves he teaches me. My muscles remember them, even a few forms he hasn’t taught me yet, like the slight twist to my wrist I need to slip through his overly slow defense. I let my mind go blank, focus only on the movements of my body and his. I watch his eyes, the set of his shoulders. My peripheral vision is attuned to his sword. I block a third of his attacks, which is a huge improvement from the last time. His blows hurt when they hit home, but it’s a dull pain that I can shove to the back of my mind.
Circle and attack. Follow up. Parry.
I’m drenched in sweat, but I keep going, keep concentrating on the rote movement of my body and the soreness in my muscles.
Dodge a high swing. Counter with a low one.
My worries fall away, and I let my subconscious take over until Kyol lowers his sword, his eyes closing.
“There,” he says, tension pouring out of him.
I’m so, so tempted to attack while he’s vulnerable, but I haven’t felt him this relaxed since he formed the life-bond with me.
“There?”
He opens his eyes. “That’s how I keep my emotions from you.”
I frown. “How?”
“If I concentrate on the forms, on mine and my opponents’ movements, everything else falls away. That’s what you’ve just done, and it’s . . . peaceful.”
“You block your emotions when you’re not fighting, too.”
“I have decades of practice,” he says. “I’m able to re-create the emptiness. Most of the time.”
I nod slowly. “I’ll work on it.” I’ll work on it every second of my existence until I’m able to keep him out.
I raise my sword, ready to re-empty my mind.
“We’re finished for today,” he says.
“I have a few more minutes left in me.”
Before I have time to even blink, he disarms me. My sword flips once in the air and lands in his left hand.
“We’re finished for today,” he says again, this time looking pointedly at my hands.
I glare down at them, too, angry that they didn’t hold on to the sword. Then I see the blisters. Apparently, my emotions weren’t the only thing that I faded out. I blocked out the pain, but now that I see how red and agitated they are, they hurt. So does every part of me that Kyol hit, which is basically everywhere.
“I didn’t know you were available for lessons, Lord General.”
I turn toward the back porch. Lorn is there, leaning against a column. I wouldn’t say he looks great, but he doesn’t look half-dead anymore.
“I have a few fae who could use your expertise,” he says, when we approach.
Kyol doesn’t bother answering. He turns to me, tells me he’ll be back soon, then he fissures out.
My gaze locks on his shadows, and I itch to draw them out. I haven’t attempted to shadow-read since Tholm. The earlier worry I had about the bond bringing negative changes circles through my mind again. I wasn’t able to identify Nimael’s location, and I should have been able to. I need to sketch out a map again.
But Kyol’s heading back to Corrist. I don’t need a map to tell me that. As soon as the shadows completely disappear, I head inside.
Lorn tsks as he follows me in. “No thanks for saving your life?”
If I thank him, it’ll imply I owe him a debt, so I follow Kyol’s example and ignore him. I walk to the kitchen and turn on the faucet to wash my hands. Holy crap! The blisters burn.
“You at least owe me an apology, don’t you think?” Lorn says, hovering behind me.
At least he’s back to his usual, haughty self. And he’s found clothes. I don’t know how Nick is going to feel about Lorn raiding his closet, but the black slacks and white button-up shirt fit Lorn’s personality. The shirt is wrinkle-free and crisp, the cuffs buttoned.
“Lena’s the one who arrested you,” I say. “I just told her my suspicions.”
“Lena is a beautiful, vindictive chessra.”
I don’t know what that word means. Something not flattering, I’m sure. And I don’t see how she’s vindictive. She and Lorn worked together against the Court. They’re basically partners. On the other hand, Lorn isn’t the most altruistic person in the world. I’m sure he’s done something to piss her off.
I shut off the faucet, grab a towel, and carefully pat dry my hands. “The fae you had me track in Nashville—Aylen. She fissured to Eksan. That’s where I tracked a remnant to a day later. It was too big a coincidence to ignore.”
He scowls. “Lena arrested me based on that?”
“Not just that,” I say. “You gave her the tip about Paige being in London, didn’t you?”
“Of course, I did. That was our deal. I found her for you. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“How did you know she was there?” I ask.
His expression doesn’t change, but something about him gives me the impression that he’s feeling a little less jovial than a moment before.
“My sources told me,” he says.
“Your ‘sources’?” When he doesn’t respond, I say, “The Sighted humans who worked for Atroth were there. They were dead. And the remnants received an anonymous tip saying that I’d be there. It was a setup.”
He presses his lips together, then says, “That is a little incriminating, isn’t it?”
I raise my hand in a there-you-have-it motion.
“So, do you want to tell me who Aylen is? Why you needed me to read her shadows?”
“In a moment,” he says, turning to look out the window as three fissures rip through the backyard.
EIGHTEEN
WE TAKE OVER the living room, Lena sitting on the edge of a sofa chair while Lorn lounges back in another one with a glass of cabus in his hand. Without so much as a hello to me, Aren drags in a chair from the kitchen. That gets on my nerves. He could at least acknowledge my existence, but he straddles the chair and drapes his arms over the back, all carefree and relaxed.
“Are the breakers in the garage?” Naito asks me, as I take a seat on the couch. He fissured in with Kyol, Lena, and Aren.
“I think so,” I tell him, and he leaves to go find them. Lorn’s edarratae are still slow and erratic, and Lena’s and Aren’s look slightly agitated, too. Kyol’s are steady, though, flashing only occasionally across his face and forearms. He sits at the opposite end of the couch, his mental wall holding back his emotions.
I make an effort to establish my wall, but it doesn’t work very well. I keep looking at Aren. He never looks at me.
The electricity clicks off. I stare down at my hands, which rest gingerly on my knees. Hison has to be blackmailing Aren. I hav
e to find out what he’s holding over his head. I don’t know how I’m going to do that, though. It’s not like Hison will just hand over the information.
My gaze locks on Lorn, a connoisseur of information. If he doesn’t already know what Hison has on Aren, he could find out, I’m sure of it. I just have to find the right price to buy it from him.
“Well,” Lorn says lightly, when Naito rejoins us. “This is a familiar gathering. Are we making plans to lay siege to a high noble’s manor?”
“The false-blood,” Lena says, obviously not entertained by Lorn’s cavalier tone. “You met him. Tell us what you know about him.”
“I know that I want him dead.”
“My patience is thin, Lorn. Give me details.”
“Patience?” He smiles. “My dear, you’ve never had anything of the sort.”
I think he’s trying to get under her skin. Why, I don’t know. She saved his life. He owes her. There’s no need to antagonize her, especially now. Healing him wore her out. The circles under her eyes are darker than they were a day ago. She deserves a break.
“You were going to tell me about Aylen,” I say, before Lena snaps.
Lorn looks at me. He raises his glass of cabus in a small salute, as if he knows exactly why I’ve spoken up. “Yes, Aylen. I had you read her shadows because I believed she was selling information to my competitors.”
“Was she?” I ask.
“She was,” he says, drawing out the last word in a way that makes it clear she’s no longer capable of doing so. Sent to the ether, I imagine. Lorn didn’t become lord of the Realm’s underworld by letting people cross him.
“You could have just told me that,” I say. “Or told Lena when she questioned you.”
“I never had the chance to question him,” Lena says. “The high nobles forced me to release him within a day of his arrest.”
“The false-blood,” Kyol says. The hilt of his sword—his real sword, not the practice one—is clasped between his hands. “You gave McKenzie’s location to him. You spoke with him.”
“I wouldn’t call it a conversation,” Lorn says. “But, yes, I’ve met him and his elari. Aylen wasn’t selling information only to my competitors. She sold it to the Taelith as well.”
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