The Shadow Reader

I hold tight to his arm as I trip. Since it’s sudden, I almost take him down, too. He catches me before I hit the ground. I turn in his arms, sliding a hand behind his neck and letting my other hand drop to the ground.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

God, his lips are close. A part of me doesn’t want to do this, but as soon as my fingers find a loose rock, I swing it toward his head.

He curses. Blind in the darkness, I swing again. This time, he catches my wrist.

“Stop,” he snarls.

He might be pissed, but so am I. “You lied to me. Deliberately lied!”

“I didn’t know he refused it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I didn’t know!” He shoves me away.

“You’ve manipulated me from the beginning,” I accuse.

Somewhere to my left, he laughs. “I’ve manipulated you? I’ve kept you alive and safe. I haven’t hurt you. I haven’t lied to you. In a few days, you’ve learned more about this world and this war than you have the entire time you worked for the Court. Kelia’s taught you our language. I’ve saved your life. I’ve healed you. You repay me with nothing.”

“You kidnapped me!”

“I should have killed you!”

There’s so much emotion in his voice, I swallow back my retort. I’m not sure if it’s all anger. Is he hurt? I only hit him once. Maybe he was injured when the ceiling caved in? I refuse to believe the undertone of pain is from anything else. He feels nothing for me. And I feel nothing for him.

He sighs. “I can’t let the Court have you back, McKenzie. If you want to live, stay by my side.”

He pulls me forward, and I stumble along in the dark, trying to convince myself I have no reason to feel guilty. Aren hasn’t killed or tortured me only because he needs my willing cooperation. I’m useless as a shadow-reader without it. I’d lie, I’d stall, I’d fissure the rebels into a trap. But shouldn’t he know by now that I’ll never turn against the Court? There’s no reason to keep me alive anymore.

Chaos lusters mark a shadow ahead. Naito. Before we reach him, a sharp shrrip cuts through the air. Kelia steps out of the fissure, tosses a sword to Aren. She hands another one to Naito, saying, “Hurry. The Court fae are coming.”

“Lena?” Aren asks.

“She’ll fissure back with help.”

We’re only a few steps from the end of the tunnel. A faint light from above allows me to see Naito’s and Aren’s silhouettes and the wooden ladder climbing the wall beside us. Naito goes up first. I follow, grimacing each time a chaos luster flashes over my hands and arms. By the time I slide out a narrow crack in the rock, I’m shaking. I know better than to expect the street to be free of Lyechabans.

A fissure opens to my right. I recognize Aren’s scent, the warmth of his touch, as he steps out of the light and helps me to my feet. Squinting, I take in my surroundings. We’re on a narrow strip of land between the city and its river. Behind us, shops and residences are built almost on top of each other. Vendors have opened kiosks along the bank. I’m able to translate most of their shouts. Fortunately, they’re selling their fish and produce, not pointing fingers at me and Naito. Yet.

Aren pulls me in front of him. I stumble forward, toward another group of merchants who are standing with their carts and cirikith, beasts of burden that look like a cross between a horse and a stegosaurus with small, opalescent plates as skin. Their bridles and the carts they pull are inlaid with imprinted anchor-stones to ensure nothing gets lost in the In-Between when they fissure. We’re close to the front of the line where a thick band of silver plating covers the ground. The merchants have to pay a toll to cross the silver and reach the semicircle of bare earth, right on the river, where the gate is located. That’s where the inspectors wait. When one of them looks up, looks right at me, I suck in a breath.

The next instant, his attention snaps to his left. A dozen fissures rip through the air just beyond the band of silver. Rebels charge out of the light, swords drawn and bellowing. A second wave appears behind them with Lena in the lead.

I’m astounded when the merchants don’t run. They always run, saving their hides by abandoning their wares and cirikith. The rebels have been successfully attacking gates like this for years, but maybe the merchants have finally had enough of being caught up in the cross fire. Only a few of them flee. The rest draw their weapons and move between their carts and the approaching rebels.

“Sidhe,” Aren mutters under his breath. One glance at him, though, and it’s clear he’s not worried about a bunch of merchants with swords. I follow his gaze behind us, down a street that leads toward the city center. The Court fae—about two dozen of them—sprint toward us. All at once and midstride, they open fissures and disappear.

“Go!” Aren shoves me forward. I skid across the silver plating. Fissures open up behind me—the Court fae are reappearing—and metal rings against metal.

Some of the king’s swordsmen run by to intercept the rebels. As I push up to all fours, a second wave arrives at the edge of the silver. Then there’s a third wave. Lena is in the midst of the chaos, vanquishing every Court fae who encroaches within the reach of her sword. Bodies drop around her. Some enter the ether before they hit the ground. Their soul-shadows float up and mingle with others. So many others. The bank looks like it’s covered in fog.

Anxiety pools in my gut. I peer over my shoulder, looking for Aren. He’s outnumbered, but okay. No, he’s more than okay. In seconds, he fells two of his opponents, turns, and blocks an attack from a third. Holy hell, he can fight. He’s surrounded by soul-shadows, too, and I realize there’s a damn good reason why this rebellion has lasted so long: its leaders wield swords almost as well as the king’s sword-master.

The sword-master. I climb to my feet and search the faces of the fae as they rush by, but I don’t see him. There’s too much chaos for me to recognize anyone.

“To the gate, McKenzie!” Aren yells. He’s stepped onto the silver.

“Watch out!” The warning escapes my lips as a bleeding fae on the ground pushes up to an elbow and swings his sword at Aren’s ankles. Aren jumps over the path of the blade and then plunges his sword into the fae’s gut.

“Go!” Aren orders.

Frozen, I stare at the dying fae until he disappears and the white mist of his soul-shadow rises into the air. What did I just do? My warning killed him. I killed a Court fae. I back away from my crime, clench my hands into fists so they don’t tremble.

Someone runs into me. Then someone else.

“Tchatalun,” a voice whispers. The word means “defiled one” but it’s practically synonymous with “human.”

“Tchatalun,” the merchant says again, louder this time. I leap back when he swings at me, realize he’s holding a dagger only when he strikes again. Aren kills him before he can cut me a third time. Numb, I stare down at the red stain growing across my stomach.

Aren’s hand is there a second later, slipping under my wet shirt and flaring with magic. Lena comes to his aid, fighting off fae as he heals me. He eases me closer and closer to the gate, but there are too many people closing in on us. When a fae lunges toward us, Aren shoves me toward a merchant’s cart.