Authors: Sandy Williams
Tags: #Romance, #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General, #Contemporary
The Shadow Reader (9 page)
Kelia snorts. “Probably.”
“Where did he go?”
“The Realm.” Her response is short, like she’s closing the door to future questions about the false-blood. Or rather, the false-blood’s decoy, if I’m to believe Sethan.
“How long have you known him?” I ask.
She stops fiddling with the pouch on her belt and eyes me. “You haven’t mentioned his name in three days. Why the sudden interest?”
I shrug.
“Do you miss him?”
This time, it’s my turn to frown. “Of course not.”
“Most women fawn over him,” she says.
Is she actually suggesting I like his company? “He
kidnapped
me.”
kidnapped
me.”
She tilts her head to the side. “You don’t think he’s attractive?”
“He’s fae.” The words tumble out. Not agreement or denial, but they’re as heavy as a lie on my tongue.
Kelia’s face darkens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We don’t belong in each other’s worlds, let alone each other’s beds,” I recite, my voice sounding as desolate as Kyol’s the day he made the same statement to me.
“You believe that?” she asks.
I force out an empty, “Yes.”
Kelia’s tone turns acidic. “You’re just like the others.” She rises off the picnic table. “If you need a break, you can take it in your room.”
She starts to walk toward the inn, but stops midstride and pales. I follow her gaze to the trailhead.
A bruised and bloodied Trev limps into the clearing.
Edarratae
flash beneath a thick layer of dirt to disappear under a ripped and blood-soaked tunic. I haven’t seen Trev since the night I read his shadows. Including Kelia and Lena, only five fae remained at the inn. They’ve been watching me like hawks from the front porch all afternoon, but now they abandon their posts and sprint to the wounded rebel.
Edarratae
flash beneath a thick layer of dirt to disappear under a ripped and blood-soaked tunic. I haven’t seen Trev since the night I read his shadows. Including Kelia and Lena, only five fae remained at the inn. They’ve been watching me like hawks from the front porch all afternoon, but now they abandon their posts and sprint to the wounded rebel.
Kelia reaches him an instant before the others. Her words are panicked. Trev shakes his head, his expression grim. I understand a few words . . .
Court
. . .
heal
. . .
gate
, but then they’re all talking at once and too quickly for me to decipher. It doesn’t matter, though. The important thing is they’re 100 percent engaged in their discussion. No one’s so much as thrown a glance in my direction, and the eastern edge of the clearing is no more than ten little-itty-bitty feet away from me.
Court
. . .
heal
. . .
gate
, but then they’re all talking at once and too quickly for me to decipher. It doesn’t matter, though. The important thing is they’re 100 percent engaged in their discussion. No one’s so much as thrown a glance in my direction, and the eastern edge of the clearing is no more than ten little-itty-bitty feet away from me.
I don’t think. I run. Three long strides and I’m engulfed by the forest.
Adrenaline kicks in as I leap over a rotting tree trunk. I know the fae will have wards surrounding the camp, but I’m a human who has the Sight. I won’t exactly see the magical trip wires, but I’ll feel them, so I let my skin listen for a hum in the air. When a slight vibration runs across my left arm, I follow my instincts and veer right. The ward won’t stop me, but if I run through it, the fae will know exactly where I am. I ignore the branches whipping at my face and arms and push on, faster and faster.
The forest floor plunges beneath my feet. I shuffle-slide down the steep incline in a waterfall of dead leaves, and just manage to regain my balance when the land levels out. I have no idea where I’m going—everywhere looks the same—but I don’t slow down. I can’t. I’ve got to get away, to put as much distance as possible between the rebels and me, and find some way to contact Paige.
I run full-steam for two to three minutes before my skin tingles a warning. I skid to a stop, staring into the forest. It’s not a ward I’m sensing now. It’s them.
The thick canopy blocks out most of the sun’s light, and when the wind moves the treetops, shadows dance on the forest’s floor. I can’t see the fae, but I’m certain they can see me.
Shit.
What am I supposed to do now? Run? Fight? Beg for mercy? None of those options appeals to me.
What am I supposed to do now? Run? Fight? Beg for mercy? None of those options appeals to me.
I turn in a circle. My boot heels sink into the damp ground as I glance from one thicket of trees to another, trying to predict the direction of their attack. A movement catches my attention. Lena. She steps toward me, sword drawn. Not good. It doesn’t matter that she’s a woman. All the fae know how to fight. She could kick my ass even if I were the one holding the weapon.
Okay, then. This narrows my options down to one—run—because I won’t beg.
I turn and flee. Branches whip my face and snag my clothes. I raise my arms to block the forest’s attack. Ahead, the ground dips sharply again. Despite burning lungs and a stitch in my side, I push on.
The underbrush rustles behind me, to my left, and to my right, and just before I reach the hillside, I trip on the wind.
There’s no other way to describe it. One second my legs are swinging out in front of me; the next my shins slam into air as solid as steel. I’m able to keep my balance long enough to grasp that Lena’s an air-weaver—an incredibly strong air-weaver—then another burst of impermeable wind slams into my shoulder. I pivot from the blow, my ankle catches in a thicket of thorned weeds, and I land hard on my butt. I might have slid to a stop then, but a third shot of wind hits my chest, throwing me backward with enough force to carry my feet over my head, again and again until I’m gaining momentum, not losing it.
The forest slashes at my skin and flips through my vision. Suddenly, there’s a tree directly in my path. I stretch out my arms to ward it off. A mistake. My right arm absorbs the full force of my weight. I hear a crack, feel a sharp explosion in my forearm, then I’m lying facedown in the dirt.
As the world grows fuzzy around me, I roll to my left side. My right arm flops as if I’ve grown an extra joint between my wrist and elbow. I try to ignore the white bone stabbing up through my flesh. I try to rise to my knees, but I’m nauseated. Dizzy. My vision blurs. Then, as Lena steps to my side, everything goes black.
SIX
“T
HERE’S A NEW false-blood.”
HERE’S A NEW false-blood.”
I tear my gaze away from Kyol’s shadow-trail. It’s been months since we’ve seen each other, but time hasn’t dulled my reaction to him. My stomach does a little flip. He looks the same as he did the last time we were together, the same as he did when we agreed things would be easier if we stayed in our own worlds. We were right. The way he keeps his expression carefully neutral makes my chest ache.
I sink down on the couch. My parents are out. This is the first time they’ve left me home alone since I went missing for three days straight. I wouldn’t tell them where I was—really, what would the truth accomplish?—and they only ungrounded me a couple of weeks ago, after I got my grades up.
“ A new false-blood?” I echo. The first one nearly killed me, but the fear I should be feeling is buried under a more potent emotion.
“You’re safe,” Kyol assures me, sitting on the couch as well. Even though there’s a good foot between us, the air warms with his body heat.
“Then why are you here?” I ask.
His gaze slides to meet mine. He doesn’t have to say a word. He’s not here for the reason I want him to be. Nothing has changed. The king hasn’t revoked the laws keeping us apart and Kyol has no intention to break his oath.
“I asked Atroth to send somebody else,” he says.
“Because you didn’t want to see me.”
“No.” His jaw clenches, then his gaze drops to the floor. “Because I wanted to see you.”
I hate the way his admission flows out on a wave of guilt. I hate the way I want to comfort him, to tell him it’s okay—that
I’m
okay—and I understand. I don’t want to understand, but he’s the king’s sword-master. He swore to protect the Descendants of the
Tar Sidhe
with his life, and even if being around me and my world’s technology didn’t damage his magic, he’s a man who doesn’t break his promises.
I’m
okay—and I understand. I don’t want to understand, but he’s the king’s sword-master. He swore to protect the Descendants of the
Tar Sidhe
with his life, and even if being around me and my world’s technology didn’t damage his magic, he’s a man who doesn’t break his promises.
Damn it, time was supposed to prove these feelings were just a crush.
“What’s his name?” I ask because my mind will start contemplating what-ifs if I don’t focus on the real reason Kyol is here.
“Betor, son of Jallon.”
Déjà vu hits me so hard my head aches. No. This can’t be déjà vu. I can predict what happens next.
“Is he worse than Thrain?” I hear myself ask.
“Not yet. We hope to capture him before he organizes another attack.” Kyol doesn’t meet my eyes. There’s no inflection in his voice.
“You don’t want my help.”
“No.”
“Then why did you come?”
“ Atroth thought I could convince you to map a few fae. I’m to tell you that you won’t be in any large-scale battles. You’ll be used . . . covertly?” He looks up. At my nod, he continues. “When we learn the location of one of the rebels, my swordsmen will attempt to arrest him. I’ll escort you, and if the rebel fissures out, you will map his shadows.”
It sounds safe enough. It’s better than being used to see through fae illusions in a full-on confrontation.
“I can do that,” I say.
Kyol’s hands tighten on his knees. “When Thrain found you, you had to help us. But this false-blood doesn’t know who you are. This isn’t your war. If you help us, it’s because you choose to and . . . and, McKenzie, there can be nothing between us.”
I close my eyes. That’s not what I want to hear. I want to hear that there’s a chance the king might change his mind or make an exception.
“I’m sorry,” Kyol says as he rises.
I force a smile and stand as well. “It’s no problem. I get it. I’m probably better off dating my own kind, anyway.”
“Yes,” he says, peering down at me.
We’re standing closer than we should. We both know it, yet neither one of us takes a step back. Kyol brushes my hair from my face, lets his fingers linger alongside my cheek, and without conscious thought, my chin tilts up.
Time slows.
Our lips meet.
It’s supposed to be a last kiss, and if we were both human or both fae, it might have been, but the moment before we separate, chaos lusters explode through me. The jerk of his body, his sudden inhalation, tells me he feels them, too, and instead of moving apart, we move closer. So much closer.
One kiss turns into two, two into three, then there’s the brush of his tongue and I can’t concentrate enough to count. He cups the back of my neck—gently, as if my humanity makes me fragile—but if this is the last time we touch like this, I don’t want to hold anything back.
I wrap my arms around him when he would pull away, and another strike of lightning ricochets through us. That’s the end of his restraint. When he kisses me now, it’s like being caught in the gale of a storm. I’m completely swept away as he lowers me to the couch, as his hands slide up my arms, as they drop to my hips, then slip under my shirt.
Something happens with the chaos lusters. With
our
chaos lusters. We’re on Earth but white bolts of lightning sear across my body. They tangle with his, and a fire sizzles through us.
our
chaos lusters. We’re on Earth but white bolts of lightning sear across my body. They tangle with his, and a fire sizzles through us.
Both our lips are parted, our breaths shallow. He knows what he’s doing; I try to act like I do, too, but the intensity of the chaos lusters build, and I’m not sure I can handle this.
He must see that moment of uncertainty in my eyes. “You’re untouched?”
A part of me realizes this is a dream, and if it’s a dream, I should be able to change my response.
I can’t. I hear myself tell him yes, hear him say he can’t take this away from me. I protest, but he smoothes down my clothes with an apology and a light kiss on my cheek. His fingers slide from my skin, and the heat of his lightning fades away. It feels like a part of my soul fades, too. I’m still breathing hard, but the air I draw in is cold and empty. When he fissures out, I want to be angry. I want to hate him for his self-control, for leaving me when I’m craving more than his touch, and for not being a typical, human male. But I don’t hate him. If anything, his restraint makes me love him more.
YOU’D think the agony stabbing through my right arm would eclipse any discomfort caused by my bed, but there’s a spring or a knife—I’m not entirely sure which—digging into my spine. I’m unwilling to shift away from it. My arm might be splinted and wrapped in strips of cloth, but the slightest movement sends me careening toward the edge of consciousness. I don’t want to fall asleep again. I can’t stand the loneliness that descended at the end of my dream.
Hours pass. My muscles stiffen and I grow bored of staring at the ceiling. The cracks zigzagging through it make me frown. I shouldn’t be able to see them, not with the door closed and the window boarded up. Slowly, I turn my head to the right and find the source of the room’s light: an upside-down mason jar sitting on the floor. Bright swirls of white and blue mists battle for dominance within the glass confines. That’s how the fae light their world after dark. Of course, they don’t usually use mason jars. The Realm’s glassmakers make lamps, wall sconces, and hanging orbs that the fae can light with a touch of their magic. That’s all fine and good if you’re fae. If you’re human, not so much.
I experiment with lifting my head a few times. When that’s tolerable, I bend my knees until my feet rest on the mattress. This puts more of my weight on my spine, though, so I finally try to scooch ever so slightly to the side.
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