AS SOON AS the door to my room closes, I waste no time stripping the sheets off the bed. I test their strength. Both are ratty but they’re strong enough to resist my attempts to rip them. Whether they’re strong enough to hold my weight, I don’t know yet, but I’m not sitting here for another twelve hours alone with my thoughts.
I walk to the window. My room faces a bright, full moon. Its light struggles through the treetops, mottling the surface of the picnic table. The rest of the lot is deserted. I don’t know if that makes me lucky or the rebels careless, but I plan to take advantage of the situation. Problem is, I’m three stories up and two sheets aren’t going to make a long enough rope.
I try again to rip the cotton. I don’t break a single thread. At least it’s stronger than it looks, but I need something sharp, something that will cut.
The bed is the only piece of furniture in the room. Kneeling beside it, I inspect underneath for anything that might snag the fabric. The mattress rests on a network of metal links. It’s too dark to see anything useful, so I pat around until I feel a loose link. I work it around until one end pulls free from the bed frame. Once that’s accomplished, I stab the metal through the center of one sheet, brace both my feet on the bed, lean back, and pull.
“Ha!” I gloat to the empty room when the sheet rips perfectly down the middle. I repeat the process with the other sheet, ending up with four halves. Tying each of these together, I take my makeshift rope to the window and peek out. Still no patrol.
I test each knot. When they all hold, I clamp down on a sudden surge of anxiety. I have to do this. I won’t wait around for Kyol to save me.
Kyol’s alive.
I close my eyes, silently say a quick prayer of thanks. Our relationship—if you can call it that—has been awkward these past few months. It’s my fault. I’m trying to be a normal human. I’ve concentrated on my studies. I’ve looked for a real job. I’ve even let Paige set me up on a number of blind dates. The guys have all been nice, and I’ve tried to like them—really, I have—but, so far, I haven’t been interested in a second date.
Frustrated, I shove open the window. Christ, it’s loud. It screeches like it hasn’t been opened in decades. I hold my breath and listen. No footsteps sound from the hallway; no voices shout from outside. I breathe again, but count to a hundred just in case. After one last scan of the inn’s yard, I tie one end of the rope around the radiator bolted beneath the window and then toss the other end outside. Even with the knots, it reaches almost to the ground.
It’s a heck of a lot harder climbing out than I imagined, and I’m not sure how to go about it without getting myself killed. I end up straddling the ledge, a difficult thing to do since the window isn’t that big. Slowly, carefully, I let myself slip down until my left leg, which had been inside the inn, pulls over the edge and scrapes down the side wall. I have no idea how much noise I’m making, but at this point, I can’t do anything about it.
I grab the rope with my right hand, then let go of the windowsill with my left. As soon as I do, I start falling. I tighten my hands around the sheet, but I’m sliding too fast. My palms burn until I hit my first thick knot and yelp—softly, so as not to draw attention. I glance up at the window, wonder if I should try to get back inside. Shaking my head, I decide against it, grit my teeth, then let the next sheet sear through my palms. I meet another knot. Then another.
There’s blood on the white cotton now. I’m still half a story above the ground when it hurts too much to hold on. I manage to land on my feet, but a sharp twinge of pain shoots through my legs and I crumple over. As I’m down on all fours drawing cold air into my lungs, it occurs to me just how big an idiot I am for trying a stunt I’ve seen done only on TV. I could have broken my neck.
But I didn’t, I remind myself. I’m alive. I’m outside. I’m alone.
Careful to keep my blistered hands off the grass, I push to my knees and stand. I wait a second for a wave of dizziness to pass—God, I need some sleep—then quietly move away from the inn.
Thump.
I stop, glance over my shoulder.
Aren. Shit. He must have heard the window opening after all and followed me down. He stares up at my makeshift rope, gives it a little tug, then turns his silver eyes on me.
“You’re certainly resourceful,” he says. “I must give you that.”
His hands don’t look sheet-burned. Mine are on fire. I try to hide them, try to appear unconcerned that he’s interrupted my escape attempt, but when he strides forward, I tense. What if I’ve made him change his mind? What if he thinks it’s too risky to keep me alive?
He doesn’t hit or scold me. He takes one of my hands between his and flares his magic. Blue lightning skitters down his arms and his palm is suddenly a warm compress against mine. After a few uncomfortable seconds, the achy warmth changes. It feels good now. So does the electric tingle pulsing toward my elbow. I allow him to touch me longer than I should, long enough for some of the jagged blue lines to leap from his skin to mine. They’re bright in the moonlight. I watch them pirouette around my forearm, very aware Aren’s watching them as well.
“Edarratae,” he says. “Chaos lusters.”
“I know what they are,” I tell him, trying to ignore the sensations the lightning, the edarratae, sends careening through me.
“You can let go.” I try to tug my hand free.
“You could have killed yourself.” He releases my right hand to take my left, carefully avoiding the watch strapped around my wrist. This palm isn’t hurt as badly as the other, but he heals the skin with another warm touch.
“That would have made Lena happy.”
His gaze meets mine. “Yes. Yes, it would have.”
I don’t like the way he continues staring into my eyes. It reminds me of Kyol and how mesmerized he always is by them. To me, they’re nothing extraordinary, just a plain brown color a few shades darker than my hair. My features are slightly different from a fae woman’s—my cheekbones aren’t quite as prominent, my nose not quite as sharp—but Aren’s not analyzing the rest of my face right now. I wish he would because the intensity of his gaze coupled with his chaos lusters triggers a warm, simmering sensation in my stomach. It’s not right to feel like this, especially not with Aren, son of Jorreb.
I break eye contact, willing my body to cool and berating myself for reacting to those soft silver eyes. I try to tug my hand free again. I need his edarratae gone so I can think clearly.
After another moment, he releases me. I fold my arms across my stomach without looking at my mended palms. Healing is an endangered magic, and it seems wrong that a killer should be gifted with that ability.
Aren motions toward the front of the inn. “Come, nalkinshom . We need to talk.”
I keep my feet rooted to the ground. “I have a name. You don’t have to insult me.”
“Insult you?” He cocks his head. “Nalkin-shom is one of the least insulting titles you’ve been given.”
I frown. “Titles?”
“Yes, titles. Nalkin-shom means shadow-witch. Lena prefers to call you traep-shom. Shadow-bitch. Some of the other names lose their sting in translation, but there’s also shadowscum, map-whore, kin-killer.” He pauses. A grin bends a corner of his mouth, and I swear moonlight twinkles in his eyes. “What? You didn’t know you have the reputation of a killer?”
“The Court captures most of the fae I track,” I say, trying not to let his smirk get under my skin.
“Fae children have nightmares about you.” He grabs my wrist, waits until his edarratae leap up my arm. “Parents tell them if they’re bad, the nalkin-shom will come for them in the night, sear them with her lightning, and drain them of their magic.”
My heart beats in time with the energy pulsing through me. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?”
“You’re the false-blood. If the fae tell stories to scare their children, then they’re telling them about you.” False-bloods are like cult leaders on crack. They gather a following of the gullible and disillusioned, then wreak havoc on the Realm, claiming to be the chosen progeny of the Tar Sidhe, the magically superior fae who ruled the provinces centuries ago. I’ve hunted down half a dozen false-bloods over the years, some more successful than others, but all of them violent. Aren’s the real monster here.
To my surprise, he chuckles. “Come, nalkin-shom. You need to meet someone.”
He doesn’t give me the opportunity to protest. He lets go of my wrist, places his hand on the small of my back, and ushers me forward. We round the corner of the inn. Either the rebels have all fissured out or they’re holed up inside the house, all except for Lena, who’s on the porch speaking to another fae. He’s new. I’d certainly remember if he was one of the onlookers during my sentencing. His blond hair is long and straight, falling over broad shoulders covered by a burgundy cloak. His tunic and black trousers look rich and clean, and the leather scabbard at his hip is in pristine condition, almost as if he’s never had to draw his sword. He’s either a criminal or a noble. Either way, he has access to tinril, the currency used in the Realm, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s the fae funding Aren’s rebellion.
He ends his conversation with Lena as we climb the porch steps.
“This is Sethan, son of Zarrak,” Aren says. Lena’s brother? I hate him already. “Have a seat, McKenzie.”
He places his hand on my shoulder, guiding me to the weathered wooden bench beside the front door. I sink down, partly to get away from his touch and partly because I’m so damn tired. My stomach growls a reminder that I haven’t eaten anything since a few hours before my final, and a headache pounds behind my eyes. The least the rebels could have done was given me a scrap of bread when they locked me inside that room.
The fae remain standing. I hate having to look up at them, but I cross my arms, lean back, and wait for Aren to speak.
“Tell us what you know about the Court.”
Even though my stomach twists into knots, I keep my gaze steady and—I hope—defiant.
“It’s your system of government,” I say, sticking with a universally known fact. Well, universally known in the Realm, at least. “It’s led by King Atroth, a Descendant of the Tar Sidhe, who was elected by the high nobles of the thirteen provinces. The king’s—”
“The king told you there are thirteen provinces,” Sethan interrupts. It’s not quite a question.
“He’s shown me maps,” I say, then immediately wish I hadn’t.
“What kind of maps?”
“Paper ones,” I snap. I know what he’s fishing for. He wants to know if gates were marked on those maps. That’s what this war is about, after all. Control of the gates means control of the Realm’s commerce. While fae may be able to fissure from whatever point they choose, they can’t drag along wagons full of goods unless they open their fissure at a gate. Anything more than what they can carry will be lost in the In-Between. Several decades ago—long before I first met Kyol—King Atroth’s predecessor began regulating their use, requiring merchants to pay a tax to fissure their wares throughout the Realm. The merchants didn’t like that, of course, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why so many have started searching for an alternative Descendant.
Sethan remains unperturbed. “How many gates were there?”
“None,” I lie. There were thirty-one, over a dozen more than are marked on the Realm’s public maps.
“Then why were you shown the maps?”
“For the same reason he”—I nod toward Aren—“probably shows maps to his shadow-readers: geography.” I needed to memorize the Realm’s provinces and regions. Without knowing the name of a place, my maps might as well be random scratches on a page. I have to say the name of the region out loud for the magic to lock in, and for the fae I’m with to be able to fissure to the location I mark. It’s the one teensy bit of magic that shadow-readers like me can claim.
Lena pushes off the wall. “She’s lying. She knows where the Missing Gates are. She’s used them.”
“I’ve used the Provincial Gates,” I tell Sethan. I’m not sure why I feel like I have to explain myself to this fae. He’s important—of that, I’m certain—but why haven’t I heard his name before?
“We monitor the Provincial Gates,” Lena says. “We would have abducted you long before now if you used only those to travel.”
I keep my expression neutral, trying not to give any indication that she’s right. The Realm used to be made up of hundreds of small kingdoms, each with its own gate, but three thousand years ago, almost all of those gates disappeared in the Duin Bregga, a brutal war that translates roughly into “The Dissolution.” According to Kyol, the Missing Gates were said to be destroyed, but there were always rumors that some of them remained, and that the locations had just been wiped from the minds of the fae using a magic that’s extinct today. When one of King Atroth’s aids, with the help of a silverflushed kimki, stumbled upon a gate not marked on any map, those rumors were confirmed. Ever since then, Atroth has been searching for—and finding—other Missing Gates.
“If you want to extend your life,” Lena says, taking a step toward me, “you’ll give us those gates.”
“Lena,” Aren cuts in. Then he speaks in their language. She fires something back. Calmly, he speaks again. Whatever he says, she’s obviously not happy about it. Sethan barely has time to move out of the way before she yanks open the front door and storms inside, grumbling a litany of what I’m betting are fae curses under her breath. Most likely, they’re directed at me.
Whatever. I’m glad to see her go.
Sethan turns his attention back to me. “I’m truly sorry you’ve been brought into this war. We never wanted to involve humans, but Atroth made it necessary when he began employing your kind against us. His shadow-readers, you in particular, have almost destroyed us. We had no choice other than to take you away from him.” He pauses, his silver eyes boring into me as if he can read my thoughts. He can’t. Telepathy isn’t one of the endangered magics; it’s one of the extinct and forever lost ones. “We would like your help, McKenzie. And we’d like to help you.”
“Help me?” I snort. “The only thing I need from you is permission to leave.”
“And allow Atroth to continue using you?” He shakes his head. “That’s not an option.”
“What if I agree not to work for the Court again?”
Sethan’s brow wrinkles as if he can’t comprehend my question. His eyes narrow and he studies me. I hope he can’t read my expression. I hope he sees my offer as the biggest concession I can make and not as something I’ve been planning to do for several weeks now. Next Saturday, the day I was supposed to graduate if I hadn’t flunked my final exam—and I’m certain I did flunk it—I planned to announce my retirement to the Court. Avoiding the Realm and everything fae is the only way I’ll be able to live a normal, human life, and in anticipation of my degree, I filled out an application for an entry-level editor position in a suburb outside of Houston. I made plans to make new friends, to join a book club, to go to movies and concerts and clubs and all the other places normal people have time to go, but that’s not going to happen now, not unless I escape these fae and discover some way to convince my professor to let me retake my final.
Thinking about escape makes me turn my attention to the dark forest. A gentle breeze blows, and I half expect Kyol to step into the clearing, a silent, deadly figure in the night. A little tug of longing pulls at my heart.
Aren speaks over the rustling leaves. “She thinks they’ll let her go.”
I shift my gaze to the false-blood. “Of course they’ll let me go. They’re not the ones who’ve kidnapped me. They’re not the ones who are trying to blackmail me into working for them. I’m free to leave whenever I want.”
Aren gives Sethan a pointed look. “See.”
“See what?” I demand.
“Your ignorance.” He grins as if he’s just delivered the punch line to a grand ol’ joke. He crosses the porch and rests a hand on the knob of the front door. “Talk to her, Sethan. Then tell me what you decide.”
The door clanks shut behind him. My stomach twists and turns, but this time, I’m not sure if it’s because I’m starving or because Aren’s left me alone with an unfamiliar fae. It makes no sense, I know. Aren’s the man who’s abducted me, who’s brought me halfway across the planet, and who’s responsible for the massacre at Brykeld. The thing is, other than knocking me unconscious to keep me quiet in the engineering building, he hasn’t hurt me. In fact, he’s been almost kind. He could have—probably should have—ripped into me for my escape attempt. Instead, he healed me.
Sethan leans against the rail. “Aren thinks the Court has misled you. He thinks if you learn the truth of this war, you’ll work with us.”
“I already know the truth.” The knots in my stomach tighten. I’m not completely delusional. I know how easy it would be for the Court to mislead me. I don’t speak their language. I don’t understand their politics. I know only the history that’s been told to me. But I’ve seen what these rebels have done and Kyol . . . Kyol wouldn’t be on the wrong side of the war. He’s a good man, and even though I want him to be more, he’s a friend. Has been for the last ten years. He couldn’t have faked every moment he’s been with me.
“The king’s told you there are thirteen provinces,” Sethan says. “He’s lying. There are seventeen. I’m sure he’s also told you we want complete control of the gates. We don’t. We want equal access to them and reasonable tariffs.”
Who is this guy? “You could have discussed that with Atroth years ago—he gave you the chance—but all Aren’s concerned about is taking the Silver Palace. False-bloods are power-hungry like that.”
Sethan gives me a smile that he probably intends to be patient and pleasant, but I find it patronizing. “Aren doesn’t intend to sit on the throne, McKenzie. I do.”
I sit very still, trying to keep the reverberations of shock from making their way to my face. Sethan is the false-blood, not Aren? The king has no clue about this. If he did, Kyol or Lord General Radath would have had me searching for him every time we hunted a rebel, just in case he was around.
“I’m not a false-blood,” Sethan continues. “The Zarrak bloodline is purer than Atroth’s. Other fae’s are even purer than mine, but they have all been killed, appeased, or made tor’um.”
Tor’um is a word I know. It translates roughly to “walkers,” a derogatory name given to fae who don’t have enough magic to fissure. Most fae who are that weak are born that way, but some lose their magic later on in life. When they do, they don’t exactly stay sane. Scary thing is, the numbers of both are on the rise. Even with Atroth regulating the Realm’s gates, he’s been unable to reverse the slow decline of the fae’s magic. Despite laws against it, fae take human plants, animals, sometimes even technology, into the Realm. The big problem is that there are literally hundreds more gates on Earth than there are in the Realm. The Court doesn’t have enough soldiers to guard them all, so some merchants have set up shop in my world to avoid taxes and regulations. Those fae don’t care what they fissure into the Realm so long as they make a profit.
“You don’t believe me,” Sethan says.
“That you’re a Descendant of the Tar Sidhe or that you have a stronger claim?” I’m not sure what to believe, but I sure as hell am interested in finding out more about him, Aren, and the rebellion. This can be my last hurrah before I retire. I’ll do a little espionage, plan a little escape, report my findings to the king, then get myself a job and a real life on Earth.
I keep my gaze steady. “If either of those were true, the high nobles would have voted for you to become king.”
“They would have if all seventeen provinces had been permitted an opinion.”
“Nine of the thirteen voted for Atroth,” I say, even though I’m not sold on the seventeen province thing. “Do the math. He still would have won.”
“The high nobles would have voted differently,” he says, confident. “There are two sides to every war, McKenzie. The king has told you only one version of our conflict’s origins.”
And you’re only telling me your version, I want to point out, but a deep, repetitive banging distracts me. I scan the clearing, see nothing. It sounds like it might be coming from inside the inn. Sethan doesn’t appear concerned about it, and I wouldn’t care much either except for the fact that my head pounds with each erratic beat. I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to find some relief.
The front door opens and Aren reemerges carrying a leaflined basket of fruit and cheeses topped by a circle of flatbread. He holds the basket out. It takes all my effort not to wrench it from his hands and dig in. The Realm’s fruits are decadent—more luscious and sweet than any Earth-grown apple or melon I’ve ever tasted—but I force myself to fold my hands in my lap.
He frowns. “You haven’t eaten anything in almost a day.”
“I don’t know what you put in it.”
His laugh startles me. “You’re incredibly stubborn, nalkin-shom .”
“My name is McKenzie.” I manage to refrain from rolling my eyes, but this nalkin-shom crap is getting old.
Aren pops a purple slice of fruit into his mouth, holds the basket out again. I stare at it, my stomach rumbling.
“Do I need to try the cheese as well?” he asks.
When I realize it doesn’t make sense to poison me, I heave a sigh and take the basket. He doesn’t have to be devious if he wants to kill me. A knife across the throat would do the trick and none of the rebels would complain. Most likely, they’d celebrate.
My fingers bring a wedge of soft white cheese to my mouth. It touches my tongue, triggers my taste buds. If Aren and Sethan weren’t watching me, I’d sink back against the bench and moan. The cheese is absolutely delicious, but then, in my half-starved state, I’d be content even with the bitter-bark the fae are so fond of.
I chew and swallow and reach for another wedge, ignoring Aren’s satisfied expression as he turns to speak to Sethan in Fae. I tear a strip off the flatbread and fold it around an orangetinted cheese. Before I finish that one, another is on its way to my mouth. I save the fruit for dessert and try to slow my pace. Even so, I devour the whole basket in a few minutes. Now, if I could just get some sleep, I’d feel so much better. Even a fiveminute nap would be heavenly.
The two fae finish their conversation as I set aside the basket. Sethan doesn’t look happy.
“I trust your judgment, Aren, and I hope you’re right. McKenzie.” He gives me a shallow bow before he trots down the porch steps. I watch him walk into the forest. A blink of light indicates he’s fissured out. Unfortunately, his shadows are unreadable behind the foliage.
“I’ve bought you an extension on life,” Aren says, leaning against the porch column. His casualness and the intensity in his silver eyes make an odd combination. I don’t like the way he’s observing me. I like even less the way the moonlight glows behind him, making him seem mysterious, almost debonair. When he doesn’t say anything else or look away, I shift on the wooden bench.
“Okay,” I say slowly, because the silence needs to be broken. “Do you want me to thank you?”
“You’ll help us eventually.” He sounds so certain.
I shake my head. “No. My allegiance is to Ky—King Atroth.”
He smiles a little. “I’ll earn your trust.”
“I’ll doubt everything you say.”
He chuckles, pushes away from the column, and crosses the porch to stand in front of me. He takes my right hand in his. As he pulls me to my feet, I make the mistake of looking into his eyes. This close, I can become lost in them, especially with the heat of his edarratae traveling up my arm. He dips his head, staring down at me with mirth on his lips.
“You will be an interesting challenge.” He draws a finger along the line of my jaw and lightning floods inside me, shooting down my neck and into my core. I’m lost for a moment, unbalanced, and burning with a need I’m afraid to identify.
Finally, Aren steps back. He opens the front door. “Come, nalkin-shom. I’ll tuck you in.”
When at last I regain my composure, I give the bastard my coldest glare. For some reason, he finds my defiance amusing.