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.
FIVE
I BECAME AN insomniac ten years ago. I was a sophomore in high school, president of my class and enrolled in every advanced course the school offered. My teachers loved me, my friends respected me, and my parents were proud. Meeting the fae changed all that. At first, I wasn’t sleeping because I thought I was going crazy, hallucinating because no one else could see the lightning-covered people searching the corridors and classrooms. And it was clear they were searching for something. For someone. For me.
A false-blood named Thrain realized I had the Sight and dragged me into the Realm. He used me to wage a war against the king. When I refused to read the shadows for him, he starved me. He hit me. He threatened my friends and family. I had no choice except to help him. No choice, that is, until Kyol freed me. He returned me to my world, and I couldn’t sleep because my blood burned in my veins when I lay down at night. Kyol intrigued me. He protected me, and when King Atroth asked me to help him capture Thrain, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. That was when the nightmares began. Some of Thrain’s fae didn’t run or surrender. They fought. They killed. They died, and I couldn’t sleep because I was haunted.
Now I can’t sleep because I might never see Kyol again. I was sixteen when we first met and he was . . . older. The Realm ages people—both fae and humans—slower than Earth. Kyol looked like he was somewhere in his twenties, but he could have been twice that for all I knew. He wasn’t Atroth’s sword-master yet, but he was his friend. He became my friend, and we eventually became something. In the last decade, the only nights on which I’ve had a peaceful, restful sleep were the nights when Kyol watched over me. Despite my resolution to lead a normal fae-free life, that hasn’t changed.
I’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours, surrounded by my fears. Occasionally, they loosen their stranglehold and my heavy eyelids close, but the creaks and groans of the inn wake me no matter how soft they are.
Footsteps stop outside my room. I feign sleep as the door creaks open. Someone walks inside, clears a throat. I keep my eyes shut and refuse to twitch.
“McKenzie.”
Even though the sheetless slab of springs beneath me could double as a torture device, I still don’t budge.
“McKenzie,” the someone says, louder this time. I don’t recognize the voice. It’s female, but it’s not Lena.
“McKenzie Lewis.”
I crack open my lids to glare. I end up frowning instead. The light coming in from the doorway is just bright enough to see that the fae staring down at me is wearing human clothing: jeans paired with a tight red top, jingling bracelets, and a triple-layered black-beaded necklace. It’s hard to be sure in the dim room, but it looks like a string of garnets and premthyste, a pearllike stone found in the southernmost province of the Realm, is braided through a lock of her dark, silky hair. I think I recognize the pattern the stones make. If I’m right, she’s a daughter of Cyneayen, Tayshken Province’s ruling noble.
“The sun is up,” she says, nodding uselessly toward my boarded-up window. Not even a crack of light peeks between the wooden planks. The banging that gave me such a headache last night was Lena going to town with a hammer and nails. I’d have better luck clawing my way through the wall than through the layer of wood covering the window.
“It’s time to get up.”
“Not back home, it isn’t.” I close my eyes, willing her to go away.
She huffs out a breath. “I have instructions to place you in Lena’s care if you’re uncooperative.”
Well, there’s nothing like a threat to get you going in the morning. I sit up . . . and barely manage to suppress a groan. Despite not sleeping well, I didn’t toss and turn much, and damn, my body’s stiff. I guess jumping fences and dangling off the sides of buildings will do that to you. I rub my neck, trying to massage out some of the pain.
“Aren said you might be sore.” The fae holds out her hand and uncurls her fingers to reveal two little white pills.
“What’s that?”
“Ibuprofen.”
My eyes narrow. “Fae don’t take human medications.”
“They’re not for me.”
Fae anatomies aren’t all that different from humans’, but they’re not supposed to have anything to do with our food or culture. Not that the medicine is directly hurting her. If it was, lightning would be circling the pills in her palm like writhing blue snakes, but nontech items from my world are gradually weakening the Realm’s magic. Of course, we’re not in the Realm right now so the only one hurting here is me.
After reminding myself that poisoning me doesn’t make sense, I pluck the two tablets from her hand. It takes a moment to work enough moisture into my mouth to swallow them. Unfortunately, it’ll take another twenty minutes or so before they kick in.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“I’m . . . Kelia.”
Interesting hesitation there. I’ve never met a fae who, on their first introduction, doesn’t tell me who they’re a son or daughter of. Are we hiding our ancestry, perhaps?
“Is that premthyste in your hair?” I’m sure I recognize the stone now. Only a few prominent bloodlines wear name-cords these days. She has to be a daughter of Cyneayen. If I remember Lord Raen, elder of Cyneayen, correctly, he’s notoriously antihuman. He doesn’t speak a word of English and every time I’ve run into him he’s scowled as if I’ve put a bad taste in his mouth. This girl—Kelia—has impeccable English. She’s perfected an American accent and could blend in with a crowd of humans so long as no one around her has the ability to see edarratae.
Her lips narrow into a thin line. “Aren wants me to teach you our language.”
I might have called her out for avoiding my question if her statement didn’t give me pause. Teach me to speak Fae? Why the hell would Aren want that? He speaks English. So do Sethan and Lena and anyone else who might need to work with humans. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the rebellion has mastered my language. Plus, won’t I be more of a liability if I can eavesdrop on their conversations? As it is now, they could detail their entire war strategy and I wouldn’t have a clue what they were saying.
“The king’s forbidden that.” It’s not that I don’t want to learn to speak Fae—I’d love to—but I’m used to not knowing it. I’m used to keeping our cultures as separate as possible.
“He’s also forbidden us from learning the languages of your world,” Kelia says without missing a beat. “That hasn’t stopped us. It shouldn’t stop you, not unless you’re afraid of the Court.”
Afraid of the . . . Oh, I see his angle now. “Aren starts big, doesn’t he?”
Kelia’s eyebrows rise. “What?”
“Never mind.” This is a devilishly clever move on his part. He’s making a statement with this offer: the Court might not trust me enough to learn their language, but he does, or so he wants me to believe. Nice try, but I’m not stupid. The only way I might—might—have believed his intentions were pure is if I learned their language, then he let me go. Unfortunately for him, he and Sethan both made it clear that’s not an option, not until this war’s over. I won’t fall for Aren’s manipulations.