The Sharpest Blade ml-3

by Sandy Williams

  I reestablish my mental wall as well as I can under the circumstances, then decide to play dumb. “Whose attention? Who are you? What do you want?”

  The gun digs deeper between my ribs.

  “You’re here with Lee,” the man behind me hisses into my ear. “He hasn’t reported in to us in over a month. He’s been turned.”

  “Into a vampire?” I say, eyes wide and innocent. Is this guy really prepared to fire his gun? Everyone in the bar would hear it go off.

  The vigilante grabs the scarf around my neck and pulls it tight.

  “There’s fae with you,” he says. “Where are they?”

  I choke, then cough until he loosens the damn scarf. Kyol’s thoughts are focused on me. He’s not alarmed yet. I concentrate on my breathing, forcing myself to stay calm.

  “Okay,” I say, scrambling for some plausible explanation. “Okay. Yes, a fae fissured me here. I’m supposed to meet him tomorrow morning so he can fissure me back home. But I’m not here because of them. I’m here because of the Sight serum.”

  “You already have the Sight,” Briefcase Man snarls. He sets that briefcase on the sink and opens it.

  “Yeah, but Lee didn’t,” I say, still trying to buy time. “We heard it’s lethal, and we’re here to find out if that’s true.”

  The scarf tightens again. “Tell us where you’re supposed to meet the fae. Tell us what type of magics he has.”

  I cough again, more to buy time to think than because the scarf is too tight. Surely, Lee’s noticed me missing by now. I’ve been gone at least two minutes.

  “You need to start talking,” Briefcase Man says. He’s holding a vial of pale, yellow liquid in one hand and a needle and syringe in the other.

  Oh, this is great.

  “The Sight serum,” I say, eyeing the vial as he fills the syringe.

  “The Sight serum,” he acknowledges. “Some of it kills.” He pushes the plunger until a tiny droplet of the yellow liquid comes out. “Some of it doesn’t. I’ll let you guess which batch this is from.”

  My heart pumps a little harder. I might already have the Sight, but I have no doubt that the wrong batch of the serum will kill me just as it killed the others who injected it.

  Briefcase Man takes a step toward me. I could use some help right now, or even a good distraction. How is it possible that we’re in a bar, and no one’s so much as knocked on the restroom door?

  He takes another step. I’m going to have to risk it. Here’s to hoping the man behind me doesn’t really want to fire his gun.

  I slam my head back and drop my hand to the gun as I turn in my captor’s arms.

  There’s a loud crack—his nose breaking, not the gun firing—but the weapon won’t budge from his hand.

  I aim the barrel away from me, knee the guy in the groin then blindly swing a backhand behind me, expecting Briefcase Man to come for me.

  He’s there. My fist catches his neck instead of his face, but that works to my advantage. He chokes, giving me the second I need to lurch past him.

  He grabs my ankles before I reach the door. I catch the handle, manage to get it unlocked. Before I crash to the floor, I shove it open and yell.

  Briefcase Man yanks my leg. I twist to my back, see him lifting the syringe.

  Crap!

  I jerk out of the way just in time. The needle breaks against the floor, and I slam my heel into the asshole’s face. I get my ankle free, then scurry to my feet and out the door.

  The back exit’s the closest. Someone from the other direction asks if I’m okay. I’m about to scream, “He has a gun!” when I spot Aren behind the concerned human.

  I can’t see into the restroom from where I’m standing, which means the vigilantes can’t see me, so I force myself to laugh, then say to the human, “I went in the wrong restroom.”

  He gives me a slow nod, his expression saying I’m crazy for yelling and dashing out like I did. It’s a look I’ve grown used to in the last ten years.

  Aren presses his back against the wall and slides along it toward the open restroom door. I’m on the other side of the opening.

  “Two of them. One gun,” I say, just loud enough for him to hear.

  He nods once then, dagger in hand, he opens a fissure in front of the doorway and disappears.

  Silence. That’s weird. Inside the restroom is the only place he would have fissured.

  Cautiously, I peek in. Aren’s there, staring down at the two vigilantes who are still on the floor. Briefcase Man is clutching his bleeding nose. The other man—his nose looks broken, too—is clutching his privates.

  Aren looks up at me, surprise and appreciation and maybe a little something else in his silver eyes.

  My stomach does a flip.

  “The bond has a couple of other side effects,” I say, stepping inside the restroom and picking the vigilante’s gun off the floor before he recovers.

  Aren gives me a grin, then he looks down at the vigilantes again. “On your feet. Both of you. You’re going to walk out the back door without a word to anyone.”

  The gun’s safety is on. I leave it that way, then motion for the two humans to get up. Briefcase Man does; the other vigilante is still holding his privates. Surely, I didn’t knee him that hard.

  Aren grabs a handful of his shirt and forcibly pulls him to his feet. “Move.”

  I slip the gun into my waistband and cover it with my shirt. Then, after picking up the syringe and broken needle, I throw them into the briefcase, close it, and follow the others out.

  Trev, Lee, and Naito are in the back alley. So is another man. A human. Lee has the guy’s arm twisted behind his back. When he sees the vigilante who grabbed my arms in the bathroom, he gives a little snort.

  “Told you Harper was involved.”

  Naito glares briefly at his brother, then says, “Their car is parked a block away. Let’s get them out of here.”

  I hand the vigilante’s gun over to Naito, and we maneuver them down the alley. They walk without a word and without one ounce of resistance until we hit the main street. Harper glances at Briefcase Man, then, simultaneously, they run opposite directions.

  Running from the fae never works out well. Aren and Trev both fissure directly in their paths, taking them down to the ground and ending their escape attempt three seconds after they sprung it.

  “You’re going to go to your vehicle,” Aren says, loud enough for both vigilantes to hear him. “You can go there conscious or unconscious. It’s up to you.”

  Both decide to remain conscious. A few minutes later, Naito uses Harper’s keys to beep a black van unlocked. Lee searches it and, conveniently, he finds rope and a few pairs of handcuffs.

  Silver-plated handcuffs.

  I remember the question Harper asked earlier. He didn’t just want to know where to find my fae escort; he wanted to know what types of magic he could wield as well. At the time, I assumed they wanted to know how to defend against any attack the fae could throw at them. Now, I think I was wrong.

  I look at Harper. “You wanted to capture the fae.”

  He gives me a murderous look as Naito shoves him into the backseat. Naito uses a pair of handcuffs on the vigilante, slipping them behind something under the seat before hooking them to both of Harper’s wrists. Harper has to sit bent over and with his head practically in his lap. Not the most comfortable of positions, but he’s not going anywhere.

  “A few vigilantes want to use their magics,” Lee says, taking the briefcase from me.

  I watch him open it on the hood of the van. “Use them?”

  He nods. “You know how much money con artists make from supposedly healing the sick?” He glances at Aren. “Imagine what someone could make if they could really heal people.”

  “Except healers can’t heal diseases or genetic conditions,” I say. If they could, Lee and Paige wouldn’t have to worry about the Sight serum being lethal. Aren could heal the problem away.

  He shrugs and sorts through the briefcase. It�
��s filled with papers and several small, black cases. He opens one up while Naito handcuffs the other two vigilantes inside the van.

  Aren places his hand on the small of my back. “Trev and I are going to go back to Corrist.”

  Since the nearest gate is over an hour away by car, it makes sense.

  “Are we taking the vigilantes there?” I ask, turning to- ward him.

  “The high nobles are already complaining about the other one,” Trev says before Aren can answer. “Lena won’t be happy to have to make excuses for three more suddenly appearing.”

  The “other one” is Glazunov. We’re going to have to do something with him. We can’t just leave him in the Realm forever.

  “We can take them to my place,” Naito says, sliding the van’s door shut. “It’s a longer drive, but there’s a gate within walking distance. We can decide what to do with them and the serum when we get there.”

  “Vials from both batches are here,” Lee says, closing the black case. “There’s also a barbiturate that can knock a human out in a few minutes or a fae in thirty seconds or less if it’s injected.”

  Naito looks at his brother. “You spent a lot of time with Dad.”

  Lee’s mouth tightens. He closes the briefcase without a word.

  Aren’s hand is on my hip. He slides his thumb over it, back and forth in an absent caress.

  “See you at Naito’s then?” I say.

  He looks down at me, smiles, then nods. “Tonight.”

  I love hearing the promise that rides on his words.

  * * *

  BECAUSE of a wreck on the highway, it takes two hours to get to Naito’s house on the south side of Denver. Trev’s waiting for us. Aren needed to talk to Lena before he fissured back here, so he sent Trev to help us get the vigilantes inside. As soon as we secure them in the basement, Trev collapses on the couch.

  I don’t think he intends to go to sleep, but within two minutes, he’s out cold and snoring.

  An unexpected tendril of sympathy twists its way through me. While Naito and Lee hole up in Naito’s study, I grab a blanket out of a closet and lay it over the sleeping fae. I know he’s not the only one of Lena’s people who is tired—they all are—and I wish there was something I could do to help them get rest soon. But all I am is a reliable set of eyes and a shadow-reader. A shadow-reader who might have lost some of her skills.

  Quietly, I leave Trev and head to the kitchen. I haven’t eaten anything since we left Nick’s, and I’m sure Naito and Lee are hungry, too. I check the pantry for options, then the fridge. Apparently, Naito hasn’t been here in months. The milk is way past expired, and the leftovers in a plastic container are fuzzy and unidentifiable.

  I toss both into the trash and am about to open the freezer when tension spikes through Kyol. I pause with my hand on the door, tilting my head as if I can hear his thoughts, but he slams his mental walls into place, making himself the hard, unemotional soldier again.

  I open the freezer, look inside, but my thoughts are completely centered on Kyol. He feels . . . strange. I don’t understand what’s going on. He’s not fighting—I’m certain of that—so why is there a strand of horror woven into his emotions?

  My brain registers a frozen pizza in the freezer. I pull it out as I try to draw Kyol’s emotions across the life-bond. They’re faint behind his wall. I wouldn’t feel them at all if I weren’t concentrating on him.

  Another surge of emotion pounds through him. He shuts it down before I can identify it, but screw that. I won’t stay here wondering what the hell’s going on there.

  “Trev,” I call out, throwing the pizza back into the freezer.

  He doesn’t respond, and when I get to the living room, he’s still lying unmoving on the couch.

  “Trev,” I say again, stopping less than a foot away from his head. He turns his head to the side and lets out another snore.

  Really? Fae have better hearing than humans, and they’re supposed to be bad-ass fighters. You’d think they’d all be light sleepers, springing to their feet, ready to defend themselves at a moment’s notice.

  Maybe Trev is just that tired.

  “Trev!” I say, shaking his shoulder.

  Trev twists off the couch so quickly, he nearly barrels into me. He lets out a curse when he hits the ground, his nose inches away from the sword he left lying in its scabbard on the floor. He reaches for it, but I step on its hilt first.

  “Relax, it’s me,” I tell him.

  He looks up, still half-asleep, I swear. “McKenzie?”

  “I need you to take me to the Realm.”

  “What’s wrong?” he demands, waking all at once. He scans the living room as he jerks his sword out from beneath my shoe.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him.

  He rises, his gaze finishing its sweep of the room before resting on me. “You don’t know?”

  “I need to talk to Kyol.”

  Trev scowls. “It can wait until the morning.”

  “No, it can’t. I need you to fissure me there now.”

  “I’m sure Taltrayn is busy.” He sinks back down on the couch.

  “Something’s wrong, Trev,” I say, and when he looks up at me now, something clicks. I see it in his eyes, the suspicion.

  “How do you know?” he asks.

  When I don’t answer, he lets out a short, dry laugh. “The fae who were at the veligh when the remnants attacked said you’d died. I thought they were exaggerating your injuries and that the rumors of your resurrection were Aren’s doing. I never thought . . .” He shakes his head. “You’re sure something’s wrong?”

  I didn’t die—the life-bond kept me alive—but all I do is nod.

  Trev lets out a tired sigh, then rises. “Let’s go.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  WE’VE FISSURED INTO one of the safe houses Lena’s set up just outside the silver wall. Trev opens the front door and leads the way out.

  It’s early morning in Corrist. The first rays of sunlight are just beginning to smear the lower portion of the sky. The street is uncharacteristically crowded for the early hour, though, and no one looks like they just woke up. They look like they’ve been up all night.

  A shout rings out from down the street. The fae it came from has a sword in his hand. He raises it into the air and yells, “Cadig!” the same huzzah the fae were chanting after Lena burned the ledgers.

  “Are they still celebrating?” I ask Trev.

  “I’m not sure,” Trev says hesitantly. His hand is on the hilt of his sword. The chanting fae down the street isn’t the only one who has his blade out now. Others have joined him, yelling as they thrust their weapons toward the sky. “We need to get inside the wall.”

  I nod, already walking toward the wall of silver towering over the stretch of homes and shops in front of us. A narrow alley leads between an anchor-stone store and a cafe. We follow a trio of fae down the pathway and pass more than a few other people heading back our way. One of the latter locks his gaze on me. My chaos lusters are bright in the still-dark morning, especially with us eclipsed in the shadows of the alley. I return the fae’s stare, keep my shoulders straight and confident until the fae’s gaze falters.

  We emerge from the alley not far from the western entrance to the Inner City. Trev stays close by my side, so close, the lightning on my skin flashes erratically across my left elbow, threatening to leap into him at the slightest brush. But he’s not going to step away anytime soon. He might not be my biggest fan, but he’ll protect me with his life, and that’s something he might very well have to do. Something isn’t right in Corrist.

  It’s not unusual for the gates to the Inner City to be closed overnight, but it is unusual for so many people to be gathering in front of them this early in the morning. They should be opening soon, but I’m not even sure the fae want to go inside. The air buzzes with their shouts and chants and the low, constant murmur of a thousand conversations.

  My brow furrows as Trev and I make our way through the crow
d. It’s too loud and discordant for me to decipher what they’re saying. I ask Trev again if he knows what’s going on. He shakes his head, presses me forward. Most of the fae who see the lightning flashing across my face and arms back away, but a few of them don’t. They deliberately brush against me, agitating my edarratae and heating my skin. I grit my teeth and keep moving, trying to look as pissed and determined as possible to keep them from messing with me. And trying to figure out just what the hell everyone’s doing out so early in the morning.

  Before we reach the wall, a small, discreet door opens. The portcullis behind it is already lifted, and four armed fae step out. Trev and I reach the guards—who most likely spotted us the second we stepped out of the alley—and enter the Inner City without much trouble.

  The guards follow us in, closing the door behind them, then lowering the portcullis.

  Trev turns to the nearest fae. “What are they celebrating?”

  “The kingkiller has stepped forward.”

  Every ounce of blood drains from my face. My mouth goes dry, my chest tightens, and I’m cold. Colder than I was in the In-Between.

  “No,” I say. I mentally focus on Kyol, trying to break my way through his mental wall. He pushes back, and I can’t read him. I can’t rant or scream or rage at him.

  Not from this distance.

  I don’t remember the run through the Inner City. I only vaguely recall Trev shouting my name. My heart thunders against my chest, and the only thing I can focus on is stopping Kyol. I can’t let him do this. King Atroth was his friend. Kyol killed him to save me. He wouldn’t have done it otherwise.

  The plaza outside the palace’s main gate is just as packed as the area ringing the silver wall. When I reach the edge of the crowd, I falter for the first time. Yesterday, they were celebrating the burning of the ledgers. Today, they’re celebrating the pending execution of one of the most respected fae in the Realm. The fae are a fickle, violent people. I’ve always known that, but I’ve never before loathed them so much for it.

  The crowd parts in front of me. Not out of fear of a lightning-covered human but because I’ve picked up an escort along the way. Trev and half a dozen swordsmen make a path for me. I take it, striding through the mass of fae and reaching an open door just as the sun peaks above the eastern city.