The Shadow Reader (2 page)

Read The Shadow Reader Online

Authors: Sandy Williams

Tags: #Romance, #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Contemporary

BOOK: The Shadow Reader
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“Where should I go?” I ask after the door thumps shut.
“The River Bend.” He seizes my arm and pulls me after him. God, he’s really worried. Just how close are the rebels? I scan up and down the hallway, but there’s only one other person in sight, a student asleep against the wall, newspaper pillowed under his head. I wish I could be oblivious like him, but I can’t. If the rebels don’t kill me on sight, they’ll use me to hunt down the Court’s officers one by one, just like I’ve hunted them down over the years.
My skin tingles again. I tense, then relax when three fae wearing the Court’s
jaedric
armor join us, stepping through fissures to take up position around me. Escape would be easy if I could travel through one of those strips of narrow light, but I’m only human. I can’t use a fissure unless it’s opened at a gate and a fae escorts me through: not if I want to survive the trip.
Kyol speaks to his soldiers in their language. They nod, acknowledging his orders, and we set off down the hall. I shove my worry aside and hurry to keep up with their quick strides, telling myself everything will be okay, Kyol will take care of me. He
always
takes care of me.
Outside, a faint orange and pink haze smears the lowest portion of the sky. The growing darkness triggers the campus lights. They clank on, illuminating the faces of the students sitting on cement benches or walking alone or in groups of two or three. Even after dusk, this part of campus is always crowded because of the library. The River Bend Gate is about a mile northeast of it, past the construction for a new engineering building.
I hitch my backpack up on my shoulders. It’s not heavy. I left most of my books at home and brought only the essentials: my English Lit notes, sketchbook, cell phone, and the small, drawstring pouch that contains a handful of imprinted anchor-stones. I’ll need the latter to pass through the gate unless Kyol gives me a new stone to use.
I jog to keep up. When students start to stare, I try to free my hand from Kyol’s. It’s not completely unusual to see someone run across campus, but my gait is awkward because he’s pulling me, and I’m sure they’re wondering what the hell I’m doing with my arm.
“Kyol,” I whisper.
His gaze darts to the humans who don’t see me holding his hand; they see me clutching wildly at the air. His jaw clenches before he lets me go. “I’m sorry,
kaesha
.”
I catch my breath.
Kaesha.
It’s a term of endearment he calls me only when we’re alone. I don’t think he knows he said it—there’s no hitch in his stride as he leads me across the courtyard—but if his soldiers overhear, if they report back to the king . . .
An unnatural wind cuts through the previously still air, rustling through the trees and skittering a soda can across the cement. The hair at the nape of my neck stands on end and goose bumps prickle across my skin. The rebels are here. They’re watching. They’re hiding. They’re—
Arrows whistle through the air. Light erupts around me as the Court fae vanish into their fissures. The arrows disappear when they touch the light, too, swallowed up by the In-Between. Only one hits its target: the shoulder of a fae who reacted an instant too late. With a grunt of pain, he escapes through his fissure. He’s the only one who doesn’t return. The others reappear with reinforcements as the rebels release another barrage.
“Go!” Kyol shoves me forward, but I spin to run back to the English building. No way am I running across the open courtyard.
More arrows fire through the air. I don’t see if any hit the fae—I’m struggling to get past Kyol—but I hear the sound of more fissures opening. Each time the bright lights slash through the atmosphere, it sounds like someone’s ripping a thick cloth in two. Add to that noise the fact that my heartbeat is thudding in my ears, and I almost don’t hear Kyol’s words.
“You must make it to the gate, McKenzie. You must!”
Instinct screams for me to get inside the building, but I trust Kyol with my life, so I stop fighting and glance over my shoulder. Arrows still fly through the air. A few seconds after they leave the rebels’ bows, they’ll become visible to normal humans, so if a fae misses his target or doesn’t hit a fissure, people will see the bolts embed in trees or the ground or skidding across the cement. None of the students are reacting, though. The rebels are being careful.
I take a small step forward. Some of the Court fae have fissured to the rooftops to fight; others remain on the ground, darting in and out of their fissures in smooth, defensive dances. They’re drawing the rebels’ attacks, but it’s a long way to the gate. They’ll tire before I get there. Some of them might die.
Kyol
might die.
“I’ll be fine,” he says, reading the concern in my expression. He cups my cheek in his hand. “As long as you’re safe, I’ll be fine.”
I bite my lip and nod. Of course he’ll be okay. He’s the king’s sword-master. He can take care of himself. Besides, the fae will need me if any of the rebels are illusionists. Only a human with the Sight can see through that magic.
Ignoring the stares students throw my way, I take a deep breath, grit my teeth, and run. Kyol and I have worked together for ten years—we’re tuned in to how the other moves, how we think and react—so when a rebel charges straight toward us and Kyol doesn’t turn his way, I know he can’t see him.
“Ten o’clock. Now!” I say.
Kyol swings as ordered, forcing the rebel to parry. Touch breaks a fae’s illusion, so as soon as their weapons clash, Kyol can see him. His blade cuts into the rebel’s arm three moves later, but it’s not a killing blow. The illusionist fissures away.
Kyol returns to my side. I flinch when an arrow almost hits him, flinch again when another one whizzes past my face, disappearing into another Court fae’s fissure. I want to duck and dodge the rebels’ attack, but that will slow us down and draw even more attention from the humans. I’ve already lied my way through one psychiatric evaluation; I don’t think I can lie my way through another.
We sprint past the library. Ahead, a metal fence blocks off the construction site to the new engineering building. I veer left to go around it, but a wall of fissures forms in my path. Six fae appear. All rebels.
I tell Kyol their number. None of them must be hidden by illusion because he doesn’t hesitate. His blade carves through the air as he charges the rebels, but he can’t occupy all six at once. Two of them break away from the others and move toward me.
I turn and run. To hell with going around the fence. I leap up and grab its top. My tennis shoes struggle for a foothold in the metal links, and the wire cuts into my palms. I manage to pull myself over the top, but I land hard on my right hip. Ignoring the sharp burst of pain, I scurry back to my feet and sprint forward again. When a fissure opens in front of me, I almost run into it, but Kyol steps out, stopping me. Saving me.
He extinguishes the fissure and then shoves me behind him. Metal clanks against metal as he takes on my pursuers. I dash under the exterior scaffolding and through the doorless entrance to the engineering building. The construction company’s already erected the interior walls on the first floor. I run through what will be the common area, almost make it to the other side, but five fissures open in a semicircle in front of me.
Five rebel fae appear. I’m no military genius, but this is clearly an ambush. I’ve been herded here, lured like a sheep to the wolf’s den.
“McKenzie.”
Even if the fae in the center of the group hadn’t spoken, my attention would be riveted to him. He’s tall, taller than Kyol, but not as thickly muscled, and his silver eyes, while intense, have a lighter, livelier hue to them. He’s wearing a poorly made, dark
jaedric
cuirass over a once-white tunic, loose gray pants, and scuffed black boots. His golden-blond hair looks like it’s been chopped off with a knife or, perhaps, the sword in his hand. Despite his haphazard appearance, he’s confident, he’s alert, and he’s completely focused on me, his prey.
“McKenzie Lewis.” A bolt of blue lightning flashes down his neck. He cocks his head slightly. A moment later, his sword-point dips and
something
changes in his posture.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
I follow his gaze down to a dark stain on my purple cami. I press a hand against my stomach. It’s warm, wet.
“ Are you hurt?” the rebel asks again.
No. I’m not. I don’t know where the blood came from. No one’s touched me. No one but Kyol . . .
Kyol.
Oh, God. He’s hurt.
I spin toward the exit, trying to get back to him, but two rebels move to block my path, their swords held ready to strike.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” the fae’s leader says. “I’d like to talk to you.”
He takes a step toward me. I take a step back.
“Look.” He sheaths his sword, then holds his hands out, palms up like he’s harmless.
Screw him. I won’t let them take me. I sprint for my only remaining escape route, the metal staircase in the building’s northeast corner.
My backpack bounces as I run up the steps. I reach the second floor before I hear the rebels coming after me. I pause to consider my options, realize I have none.
“Shit!” I have nowhere to go but up, and once I’m up, I’ll have nowhere to go at all. I sprint to the next floor because I don’t know what else to do. I can’t turn around. I can’t stop. They’re right behind me.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
My legs are burning by the time I reach the fourth level. I can’t make it up the next flight of stairs so I run across this floor instead, watching my feet as I step over stacks of two-by-fours and through the wooden frames of the building’s future walls. The sun’s set. It’s dark, but I’m able to make out the outline of a piece of machinery in what will eventually be a hallway. I duck down behind it, praying I’m out of sight in time.
Soft footsteps walk across the cement.
My hair clings to my face and neck. I swipe it out of my eyes and search for some way out of this. There’s an opening at the end of the hallway for what I assume will be a floorto-ceiling window. An orange plastic safety fence runs across the gap, and seven or eight feet away from the edge of the building is the white, moonlit arm of a tower crane.
Seven or eight feet.
Can I jump that?
“You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”
I flinch at the voice. He’s close. He knows I’m here.
I grit my teeth and refuse to panic. I don’t think the rebels will kill me immediately. They’ll try to use me. They’ll try to turn me against the Court, make me read the shadows. They probably won’t hurt me until they’re certain I won’t cooperate. I should have a few seconds to make my move.
I wipe sweat from my face and focus on the crane outside the building.
Seven or eight feet.
I
have
to jump that.
I don’t give myself time to second-guess my decision. I sprint the distance to the plastic fence, scramble over it—
“No, wait!”
—and jump, but the rebel grabs my backpack.
I slip. I scream.
My fingers tangle in the plastic fence.
I fall.
I hit the side of the building and keep screaming.
My throat’s raw by the time I realize I’m not dead. I’m hanging between the third and fourth floors, holding on to the plastic fence like my life depends on it because . . . well, it does.
A chuckle draws my attention upward. The damn fae peers over the edge, looking all jolly and relaxed.
“I can’t believe you held on,” he says.
The moonlight highlights the planes of his face, and even though I’m dangling three and a half stories above the ground, I’m suddenly more pissed than afraid. I don’t recognize him, but my gut tells me who he is: Aren, son of Jorreb, the false-blood who’s determined to overthrow the king. And he’s laughing at me.
The plastic fence stretches. My fingers cramp, but I’m determined to hang on forever if it keeps me away from the killer above.
Something snaps loose from the wall and I drop another foot.
“Whoa, easy there. Easy,” Aren says.
“Back off!” I mean to yell the words, but they come out as a hoarse croak. I know I should be begging for his help, but a part of me believes Kyol will rescue me. I choose to ignore the part that believes he’s dead.
“Sure,” Aren says in an infuriatingly devil-may-care voice.
“No problem, but how about you give me your hand first? There’s no need for you to fall.”
“I won’t help you!”
“I’m not asking for your help. Just give me your h—”
The plastic rips free from the wall. I scream again and tense, bracing for impact.
“McKenzie. Hey, look up here, McKenzie. I’ve got you.”
Heart thudding, I look up. He does have me. Sort of. He’s dangling over the edge of the building, his left hand wrapped in the fence, his right hand grasping the opening’s frame.
“Stop kicking,” he says. I stop, not realizing I was moving at all.

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