The Shadow Reader (37 page)

Read The Shadow Reader Online

Authors: Sandy Williams

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

BOOK: The Shadow Reader
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I nod, trying to act calm and competent even though I’m dead tired and don’t want him to go.
His jaw clenches; his hands tighten on my hips. “You’re resourceful. You should be fine.”
It’s not me I’m worried about. His silver eyes drink in every detail of my face. That’s not a good sign, him acting like he’ll never see me again.
“
Sidhe
, I don’t want to leave you.” He grabs the back of my head and pulls me into a brutal kiss.
He tastes of the Realm, light and exotic. Addicting. My
edarratae
pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat. He’s warm, strong. A small explosion goes off in my stomach when he shudders. He’s good at this, teasing all thoughts from my mind but him. His tongue parts my lips, dances with mine, and the world spins. I’d let it keep spinning but Aren breaks away, grasping tightly to my arms.
“McKenzie.” He kisses my lips again briefly, then again, lingering. “I’ll be waiting at the crossroads. I promise.”
TWENTY-FOUR
 
H
E’S NOT WAITING for me in the morning. I walked through the night, afraid that if I stopped to rest, I’d never get up again, and reached the road to Belecha just as the sky began to pinken. It took about half an hour to reach the crossroads. I planned on waiting until late afternoon, but an electric storm—something extremely rare in the Realm—was inching in. Besides, Aren told me to go to Belecha if he wasn’t here. It’s possible he might not make it here at all.
The thought makes my stomach hurt.
I turn north and watch the dirt pass beneath my boots. I’m not the only one traveling to Belecha. Merchants and their
cirikith
-drawn carts begin to crowd the road. I keep my cloak clutched around me, careful to make sure my hands and face remain out of sight. It’s during times like this, when I’m walking through another world, surrounded by magic-users, that I wonder if I might be crazy. Maybe my mind is trapped in some kind of elaborate hallucination while my body is still restrained to a bed in Bedfont House. That’s where my parents sent me. I was flunking all my classes, disappearing without explanation, and was caught more than once “talking to myself” and “having fits.” It took Kyol a month to find me there, a month during which medications were forced down my throat and I was surrounded by the truly insane.
I ignore the old memories and trudge on. I don’t expect to make it to Belecha—I expect Aren to fissure to me long before I get there—but as the sun descends behind dark clouds, the city’s outlying buildings come into view. The stone would blend in with the gray sky if snaking green vines weren’t covering the walls. By the time the dirt road turns into smooth cobblestones, those walls take on a blue hue. Night’s fallen. Fae workers are sending their magic into orb-topped streetlights.
I’ve been here before—a few times, in fact—but Kyol always took me straight to the gate. Even if I had someone to fissure me through it now, we’d have to wait until morning. City gates are closed after dark to all but the Court fae, and the only reason they would need to use it is if they were escorting a human.
I wrap my cloak around me and hurry toward a squat building with an open door and boisterous conversation spilling out into the street. As soon as I step inside, see fae clutching fat mugs, and smell a pungent, stale odor, it’s obvious I’ve found a tavern. A shady one, I think, because I’m not the only one here hiding my identity behind a hooded cloak.
I want to hole up in a corner to rest, but I force myself to walk just a little farther. The bartender, a gaunt fae with black hair falling well past his shoulders, asks me what I want.
I want food, but I say,
“I’m looking for saristi.”
My accent sucks. His eyes narrow.
“You’re looking for what?”
“Saristi,”
I say, hoping I’m emphasizing the right syllables.
“You’re in the wrong province for that,”
he says. Then,
“What do you want?”
From the scowl on the bartender’s face, I won’t be allowed to stay unless I order something. There’s a menu on the countertop. Since I can’t read it, I point to a random line of symbols in the middle.
And immediately snatch my hand back. I’m lucky. No
edarratae
flashed over my skin, but damn it, I can’t be that careless.
“Fifteen tinril,”
the bartender says.
I have no clue how much that is, so I reach into the pouch Aren gave me and take out a few coins. Making sure my hand stays hidden, I drop the change on the counter.
He raises an eyebrow, then sweeps the coins into a pocket. I clench my teeth. There’s no way I gave him the exact amount, but I’m not going to ask for change. I don’t want him to figure out just how foreign my accent really is.
I’d like to hunker down in a corner or at least somewhere near a wall, but the only free table is right smack-dab in the center of the joint. It’s better than standing, though, so I pull out a chair and sit. It doesn’t matter that the chair squeaks and wobbles as if it’s one wrong move away from falling apart; it’s good to be off my feet. It would be even better if I had a bed. I’m certain not even my nightmares would wake me once I lie down.
A few minutes later, a fae sets a bowl in front of me. I don’t know what’s in it. Some mashed-up something covered in something yellow. I start with the flatbread since that’s unlikely to kill me, eat half of it before I’m brave enough to dip a tiny corner into the sauce. I take a bite.
And try not to spit it out. Bitterbark. They turn that crap into a sauce?
Stomach growling, I scrape it off to the side and try a small spoonful of the mash left in the bowl. It tastes like orange-flavored eggs. Disturbing, but edible.
The fae packed into the tavern are louder than when I first entered, but I tune them out. It’s easy to do since I lack the energy to translate their words. I finish off the rest of the mash—which tasted worse and worse with each bite—and debate asking the bartender for a drink.
My hood is wrenched off before I make a decision. I try to jerk it back up before anyone notices my chaos lusters, but it’s too late. Everyone’s staring—gaping, really—except for the fae who removed my hood. He’s linebacker-heavy and almost a full foot taller than I am.
“Are you the one the soldiers are looking for?”
he demands.
Heart pounding, I take a half step toward the door and say,
“No.”
He scowls. Whatever. He asked the question. Did he really expect me to say yes?
A fae from the crowd says something I can’t translate, but my attacker wipes his hands off on his mud-stained pants and answers,
“I found her. I get the tinril.”
There’s a reward out for me already? Great. I take another step toward the exit.
“Do you work for the rebels?”
a woman asks. She’s wearing fitted pants the color of red soil and a white top that flows past her left side but stops just above her right hip, giving her easy access to the dagger sheathed there.
“I don’t work for anyone,”
I say. Technically, it’s true. I haven’t helped the rebels yet. Well, not unless you count the warning about Lynn Valley.
The bartender, clearly not liking my response, invades the circle forming around me.
“If you don’t work for the king, then you work for the rebels. Get out.”
“We should give her to the rebels,”
someone from the back of the crowd shouts. There are a few murmurs of agreement, but the majority look interested in making some cash. I still have Aren’s dagger hidden under my cloak. It won’t do any good against the thirty-odd fae here, but if a single individual tries to hand me over, I might have a chance.
“I won’t have the king’s soldiers invading my place.”
The bartender eyes the fae who ripped my hood off.
“Get her out of here.”
I’d rather almost anyone else escort me outside. This guy’s almost twice the size as the rest of them. And he stinks. Of alcohol and
cirikith
shit, I think.
“You can make twice as much tinril if you sell her,”
a fae standing between me and the exit says.
“Sell?”
the linebacker asks.
The fae nods once.
“I know where.”
A chill settles over my skin. I scan the tavern, trying to find some other way out of this. But these aren’t the sort of people who are going to offer help without getting something in return, and I don’t know how much
tinril
I have in the little bag Aren gave me. I doubt it’ll be enough. Besides, nothing would stop someone from just taking it. Best not to mention it at all.
My gaze settles on the bartender. He’s still scowling, but I think his wrinkles are deeper than a moment ago. And maybe more disgusted than furious? At least one person here seems to have a problem with selling me.
“You’ll give her to the Court, Delan,”
he says.
“You told me to get her out of here.”
Delan’s words are so slurred I have trouble translating them.
“I will. What I do with her after that is . . .”
Something.
“I have another option,”
a familiar voice says.
The group of fae blocking the tavern’s exit shuffle aside to reveal the newcomer, Lorn, standing in the doorway. He doesn’t look at me; he just tugs at the cuffs of his sleeves as if he’s already bored with this scene. I don’t know if I should be relieved to see him or not.
“I’ll take her,”
he says once he’s satisfied his attire is in order.
“For how much?”
Delan demands.
Lorn just laughs and says again,
“I’ll take her.”
“Not without paying.”
Delan makes a move to grab my arm.
I jump back, then jump again when a knife plunges into his chest. Delan frowns at me as if I’m the one who threw it. I didn’t. I have no clue who did. It wasn’t Lorn. He’s still standing in the doorway, looking as unconcerned as ever.
Delan’s gaze drops to the hilt. He wraps his hand around it, wavers, then pulls it free.
A mistake. His eyes widen as blood gushes from the wound. He cups his hand to his chest to catch the flow, then scans the tavern, but no one offers help.
His knees buckle. He lands on all fours, makes an effort to rise, then disappears into the ether. The rest of the fae search one another’s faces—undoubtedly trying to figure out which one of them threw the knife.
“Now that that’s settled,”
Lorn’s voice cuts through the silence. “McKenzie.”
I tear my eyes away from the wet blood on the wood floor. Clenching my teeth, I step past it. Lorn flicks up my hood when I reach him, then we both step outside.
A cloaked figure waits for us. I let out a breath when I catch a glimpse of Kelia’s face, not only because she’s alive but also because she’s here. I trust her more than I do Lorn.
“Aren’s okay?” I ask.
She nods. “Naito?”
He still hasn’t turned up yet. That can’t be good, but I tell her, “He was fine a day ago. He made it out of the palace. A shadow-reader named Evan was with him.”
Lorn breezes by us. “No time to talk, my dears. The gate is quite a ways off.”
“No one’s allowed to use the gate after dark.” This is his world; he should know that.
“True,” he says without slowing. “But I own the guards.”
I alternate jogging and speed-walking to keep up. Who is he? The Godfather of the Realm?
Kelia keeps pace with me without breaking from a walk. “If they made it out of Corrist, they’ll be okay.” She sounds mostly confident. “Naito knows where he can go for help.”
Lorn glances over his shoulder, heaves out a breath when he sees how far behind we are. “It’s bad enough we have to go through a gate to fissure but must you walk so slowly? Really, Kelia, I don’t know how you tolerate Naito.”
Kelia rolls her eyes.
We’re silent the rest of the way to the gate. Fortunately, we manage to avoid running into any Court fae, though it’s not an easy feat. Belecha’s entire garrison seems to be searching for me, and I hate it, this feeling of being hunted. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder as Lorn weaves us through the city. I just want to get to the damn gate and get back home. I can handle myself on Earth. I know the way things work there. Here in the Realm, I’m practically helpless, and I’m sick and tired of relying on other people.
It’s the thought of going home that pushes me on, so when we reach the bank of the lake and see no fewer than a dozen swordsmen guarding the gate, I look at Lorn, praying he’s bought off every single one of them.
He sighs dramatically. “There were only two here before. If we’d found you sooner . . . Kelia, go fetch Aren. If he wants his shadow-witch alive, he’s going to have to leave the
tor’um
.”
She fissures out. I watch her shadows twist and thicken into the topography of what I presume is Lynn Valley.

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