“The Taelith,” Lena says, her lips twisting as if the title puts a bad taste in her mouth. “Who is he?”
Lorn sets his glass of cabus down on the side table and leans forward. “He is our nemesis, my dear.”
Lena stiffens. I’m not sure why. If Lorn sees the false-blood as his nemesis as well as ours, it’s a good thing. It means there’s a better chance he’ll help us.
“I need a name,” Lena says.
“I didn’t learn a name.”
“Then tell me how you met him. Tell me something, Lorn.”
“Even my patience is growing thin.” That’s from Aren, who’s been silent until this moment. He’s still sitting backward in his chair, arms draped across it in a way that makes him look sexy and rebellious. He still won’t look at me.
Lorn leans back in his sofa chair and drags a finger around the rim of his glass. “I’m afraid I may have been inadvertently providing the false-blood with information. And supplying him with silver. And weapons. And—”
“Sidhe, Lorn!” Lena explodes to her feet. “Have you abandoned all reason and become an elari?”
Lorn sets down his glass as he stands, too, albeit much more slowly than she does. Kyol rises as a precaution. And a threat. Lorn’s gaze slides to him. He looks more annoyed than worried, though.
“I’ve always worked with false-bloods,” Lorn says. “It’s easy money, and they’ve always been ripped apart by the Court. They never had a chance of success, so why should I not profit from them? If I hadn’t provided aid to Sethan, your rebellion would have died within months of its inception.”
“My brother was not a false-blood,” Lena snarls. “I’m not one either. You’ve always known that. You shouldn’t be supplying anything to my enemies.”
“I should change my lifestyle and business practices to suit you?”
“Yes!” she hisses.
“I—” Lorn cuts himself off, shutting his mouth with a sharp click of his teeth. Seconds tick by. Neither of them backs down or looks away.
“Sit down,” Aren finally orders. He’s still relaxed, but his expression is much more somber than it was a minute ago.
Lorn gives in first, plopping into his chair and reaching for his cabus. Lena and Kyol sit next. Lena still looks tired and pissed.
Lorn takes a sip of his cabus and clears his throat. “As I said, the information I supplied was inadvertent. The majority of the Taelith’s elari come from Lyechaban. He’s taken advantage of their hatred of everything human and has made promises to cleanse the Realm.”
“Cleanse?” I ask. That word has been tossed around a lot all of a sudden.
“Cleanse it of everything that might weaken the Realm’s magic. That includes tor’um, human tech and culture, and, especially, humans. He’s particularly interested in capturing the nalkin-shom.” He looks at me. “You have a reputation. He wants you as an example. He’s promised his elari that he’ll skin and hang the shadow-witch.”
My gaze slides to Aren. For the first time, he looks at me.
“Maybe I’ve exaggerated your reputation a little too much,” he says.
“You think?”
Aren gives me a sheepish grin that makes me roll my eyes. It also makes my stomach do a flip.
He turns back to Lorn. “How many followers does the false-blood have?”
“More than he should,” Lorn says, “And they’re quite passionate in their support for him.”
“Why?” Lena demands.
“I imagine it has something to do with his magic. He’s a cacer. He has the ability to put people to sleep with a touch.”
My eyebrows go up. That’s an extinct magic. It hasn’t been around since the Duin Bregga.
“And he isn’t claiming to be a Descendant,” Lorn continues. “He’s claiming to be Tar Sidhe.”
Tar Sidhe? That’s ridiculous. The fae’s Ancestors lived centuries ago. The Realm’s been ruled by half-blooded Descendants ever since then.
I sit back, waiting for someone to laugh. When no one does, I look around the room. No one is moving. No one is making a sound.
Dread slides over me. It feels like someone’s punched me in the chest. Or rather, they’ve punched Kyol in the chest. It’s hard to breathe, and I wish Naito hadn’t turned off the breakers. I need the air conditioner—or at the very least a fan—to circulate the air.
“That can’t be true,” Lena finally says, either fear or exhaustion making her voice break. “The Tar Sidhe entered the ether thousands of years ago.”
“Or they created the ether thousands of years ago,” Lorn says with a shrug. “It all depends on which legends you believe.”
“But either way, they’re all dead,” I find myself saying. The Duin Bregga, the war that erased most of the fae’s history, was fought about five thousand years ago. That’s when the Tar Sidhe disappeared, and that’s when many of the fae’s magics became extinct or endangered. Other than that, my knowledge of the Realm’s ancient history is sketchy at best.
“Yes, they’re dead,” Lena snaps. “Fae don’t live five hundred years, let alone five thousand.”
“Of course they don’t, my dear,” Lorn says. “But if the Tar Sidhe created the ether, they have control of the ether. One might also think they have control over who enters and exits it.”
I’m suddenly aware of Naito sitting next to me. A month ago, the palace archivist convinced him he knew someone who could bring Kelia back from the ether. Naito wanted her back so badly, he believed the fae and agreed to help him escape the palace with Caelar’s brother, Tylan. It’s cruel for Lorn to bring up the possibility of fae returning from the ether again. He knows how much Naito loved Kelia.
“If that was possible,” Lena says, her voice flat, “all the Tar Sidhe would be here.”
“Would they? Or would they turn their backs on a world that’s become polluted with violence and human technology?”
“He’s not Tar Sidhe, Lorn,” Lena says.
He holds up his hands in a gesture of mock self-defense. “I agree. I’m only playing demon’s advocate.”
“Devil’s,” I murmur.
“I’m only telling you what the Taelith is telling his followers,” Lorn continues. “The elari believe he is Tar Sidhe. He’s not telling anyone his ancestry because, supposedly, he doesn’t have one.”
“He has to be related to someone,” Lena says. “He didn’t raise himself.”
“What if he grew up imithi?” I ask.
Lena looks at Aren.
“I would know about him,” he tells her. “We may not have family, but we band together for survival.”
“Maybe he was a loner,” I say.
Aren shakes his head. “If he didn’t have someone he trusted watching his back, he would have been killed. He has ties to someone. The problem is finding out who those ties are to when he may have murdered anyone who had knowledge of his past.”
“So, basically, you’re saying it’s going to be impossible to prove he’s not Tar Sidhe.”
“It’s going to be difficult,” Aren says. “Not impossible.”
It might as well be. It’s not like the Taelith—or any fae for that matter—is going to submit to a DNA test.
“We need to find him so we can question him,” Lena says. “So far, Nimael is the only fae we know who might be in direct contact with the Taelith.”
“Are you so sure about that?” Lorn asks.
She gives him a cold glare. “And you, but for some reason I doubt you’d be willing to reconnect with him.”
“He’s always found me. I’ve never found him,” Lorn says. He sounds a little bitter about that fact. I’m sure it doesn’t make him happy that his network of spies can’t gather the information he needs. “I was referring to someone else who’s spoken directly to the false-blood.”
Lena’s brow wrinkles slightly. She doesn’t know who he’s talking about, but I do.
I let out a sigh, then say, “Paige left me a message. She wanted to talk about Caelar an
d the false-blood.”
Lena closes her eyes in a long blink. When she reopens them, she stares at Kyol. “We have to assume the rumors are true. They’re allies.”
The life-bond passes along his disbelief—no, his refusal to believe—that Caelar would join forces with the false-blood.
“I didn’t say they are working together,” Lorn chimes in. “I merely suggested that they’ve been in contact. You should talk to him.”
“I’ve made numerous offers to speak with Caelar,” Lena says. “He hasn’t responded. We’ve tried tracking him down with no luck.”
Lorn empties his glass of cabus, then sets it aside. “Perhaps he doesn’t want to meet with you because you’re still sending swordsmen out to kill him and the few supporters he has left.”
“If I don’t send fae after him, he’ll come after me again.”
“Will he?” Lorn asks. “Perhaps he’s just trying to survive now? Or, perhaps all he wants is Aren’s head?”
Lena’s gaze moves to Aren. Mine doesn’t. A decade ago, just after King Atroth took power, Aren exposed the fae Caelar was in love with to tech. Brene was in a position to become Atroth’s sword-master, but she succumbed to the tech, losing her mind when her magic broke. Caelar won’t forgive Aren for that. He’s a conservative fae, but if not for Aren’s involvement in the rebellion, I think he would at least be more open to a discussion with Lena. He’s angry King Atroth was killed, but he wants a lawful Descendant to be placed on the throne.
“Making Aren your sword-master might not have been your wisest decision,” Lorn says. “Your fragile position as would-be queen would be going better if he were out of the equation.” He looks at Aren. “No offense intended, of course.”
“None taken,” Aren says, deadpan. His gaze is on me. I can’t decipher his expression. It almost feels as if he’s trying to figure me out. But I already know about his past, and I’ve forgiven him.
“I need you to call Paige, McKenzie,” Lena says.
“She’s already tried to get him to talk to you,” I tell her.
“Make her try again,” she says. “I need to meet face-to-face with Caelar. Paige is the only human who’s allied with him. He needs her Sight to see illusioned fae, and that gives her some influence. She needs to convince him to meet with me. It can be in public. It can be here in this world.”
“Lena—”
“Make it happen, McKenzie.”
Her tone of command makes me swallow down my protest. If Caelar’s working with the false-blood, any meeting with him could be a trap, but Lena isn’t going to take no for an answer. A day ago, she asked if I was committed to her cause. I told her yes, and I meant it, so I just give her a curt nod as I stand.
And stifle a litany of curses. Holy hell, I hurt. In the short time I sat on the couch, my muscles locked up. They’re bruised and sore from sparring with Kyol. For no reason other than pride, I do my best not to let it show as I walk across the living room. I didn’t grab my cell phone when I fled my apartment with Lorn, so I have to use Nick’s landline.
I check my voice mail first. There’s one new message. From Lee. Just a “call me” and a click. Since the conversation with Paige is likely to be longer than the one with Lee, I dial him first. He answers on the first ring.
“It’s McKenzie,” I say.
“He committed suicide.”
“What?” My last conversation with Lee feels like it was ages ago. He left Glazunov with me because he wanted to talk to—I assume he really meant kidnap—the vigilante who was primarily responsible for developing the serum.
“He gave the serum to his son six months ago.”
Oh. Six months ago. That’s long before the serum was supposedly fixed. I don’t have to guess what happened to the son. He died, and apparently, his father couldn’t forgive himself for not being able to save him.
“I talked to Glazunov,” I say, then I give Lee a quick rundown of what the vigilante said, telling him the serum might not be fatal anymore and ending with the information that the vigilantes are now selling it.
“Christ, they’re selling it? It damn well better be fixed. How long ago did Glaz say they changed the formula?”
“Three months,” I tell him. “You injected Paige two months ago, right? When did you inject it?”
A pause. There’s road noise in the background, maybe the clicking of a blinker.
“Three months ago,” he says finally. “If I can get a vial of the old serum and one of the new, I can do some tests to see what changes it makes to our blood.”
“I might be able to help you with that. I sent an e-mail to the Web site. I’ll let you know if I get a response.”
“I’ll be at your apartment in an hour,” Lee says.
“Okay— No, wait. Not my apartment. It’s not safe there.”
“Where then?”
“Um.” It can’t be here. Not only is Nick likely to kick us out the second he gets home, but I don’t want Lee to know about Kynlee. Once we’re out of here, she and her father should get back to their normal lives.
There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn, see Naito holding out his hand for the phone. I give it to him.
“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 f
ae 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.
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