The Shadow Reader

Everyone but me.

He looks my way. Our eyes meet. The weariness in his gaze changes just perceptibly, growing heavier with something that might be a plea. My throat suddenly hurts, inside and out, and I glance away.

Too quickly.

The backyard spins. I close my eyes a moment, willing the world to settle.

“HEY.”

Someone nudges my leg. I force my eyes open, see a fae in jeans and a white sweater squatting in front of me. At first, I think it’s Kelia, but no stones are braided into this girl’s hair. Plus, her eyes are unnaturally dark, and something feels off about her. When a chaos luster flashes across her face, I realize what that something is. The lightning is pale, so pale it looks almost white, not bright blue like a normal fae’s. She’s a tor’um, a walker. Born that way, I presume, because she doesn’t look crazy.

“We need to move you inside,” she says.

Maybe my head isn’t completely clear yet, because it makes no sense for tor’um to be in my world. Fae aren’t supposed to come to Earth unless they have permission from the Court. I realize that doesn’t stop all of them. Every false-blood I’ve hunted has come looking for shadow-readers and humans who have the Sight. Merchants fissure here as well, either to avoid the gate taxes or to take back Earth-made goods to sell. But the tor’um can’t do that. They can’t fissure.

“Here,” she says, holding out a bottle of water. “Drink.”

I’m afraid to swallow, but my lips and throat are parched. I reach for the water. My arm is heavy and my hand shakes so badly I accidentally brush hers.

I jerk back, dropping the bottle, as a chaos luster leaps into my skin. Instead of a hot, tingling sensation, the lightning is cold, almost numbing. My gaze shifts between my hand and her face, which has turned stony. She picks up the bottle and thrusts it at my chest. “Tor’um aren’t contagious.”

That’s not why I recoiled. I’m human—it’s not like she can damage my magic—but I haven’t met many tor’um. I certainly haven’t touched one before. They tend to keep to themselves. Whether that’s by choice or because they’re outcasts, I don’t know. The ability to fissure is deeply embedded into their culture. Taking that away is a huge handicap no fae wants. It doesn’t matter that some of the tor’um are able to work small magics; they’re not able to instantaneously travel from one point to another on their own, so fae society has left them behind.

“You have half an hour,” she says, standing. “Be ready to move by then.”

An apology is on my lips, but my voice refuses to work. I take a sip of water. It doesn’t give me more energy, though, and the back door to the house seems so far away. I don’t know why she wants me inside. The other fae have been healed, but they don’t look like they’re going anywhere soon. They’re sitting farther away from me than before, far enough that I can’t hear their conversations, and someone’s brought them food and water. Someone’s taken care of them.

I rest my head back against the fence, letting my eyes droop shut again. I swear it’s only seconds later when I feel someone watching me. Aren. I wonder how long he’s been there, sitting with his arms propped up on his knees. His posture makes it seem like a while, and that makes me uncomfortable. So does his silence. I close my eyes again, hoping he’ll go away.

He doesn’t.

“May I heal you now?” he asks quietly.

“You’re the one who cut me.” My voice is weak, hoarse, and the wound across my neck stretches with each word, but at least I can speak.

Aren doesn’t respond for a long time. I stare at the dew-covered grass. I should feel afraid or angry right now, but I don’t. I don’t feel much of anything until Aren says softly, “I’m sorry.”

I pull my lower lip between my teeth. I don’t want to believe him, but there’s so much regret in his voice, in his gaze, even in the air around him.

“I didn’t like hurting you,” he says.

“You could have healed me hours ago.” I want my words to come out angry, but I’m too tired, too hurt, to hate.

He tilts his head slightly. “I tried.”

At first, I think he means he tried and didn’t have enough magic. After all, he healed a dozen fae during the night. Then a memory surfaces. It’s fuzzy but I remember Aren kneeling at my side and reaching out to me, and me, kicking and screaming and demanding he stay the hell away.

I shrug in response.

A minute passes in silence before Aren says, “The tor’um want you inside before their neighbors wake up.”

Next door, the upper story of a house rises over the fence. Above it, the stars are fading from the sky. It’s almost morning. Is that why the tor’um wanted me inside? Someone might look out and see me here, covered in blood? If I screamed, would someone hear me? Help me?

My throat won’t handle a scream, though, so I ask, “Why are they here?”

“They choose to be,” Aren answers. “To survive in the Realm, they have to rely on other fae, and they’re considered . . . enthess.” He pauses, searching my eyes to see if I understand.

“Second-class citizens?”

He nods. “Most fae don’t want anything to do with them, but they can blend in here. The tech doesn’t affect them much. They don’t have to hire a fae to freeze their food basements. They can use refrigerators. They don’t have to find someone to fissure them from one city to the next. They can use cars. They can find jobs that don’t require the use of magic, and humans don’t shun them. Here, they can be normal.”

“What if someone sees their edarratae?”

“They’ll let us know,” he says. He moves toward me now, raises a hand toward my neck. “May I, nalkin-shom? I don’t want to move you before you’re healed.”

I focus on the house. The Sight, like shadow-reading, is an inborn trait, but I made it through the first sixteen years of my life without running into a fae. Kyol and the rest of Atroth’s soldiers don’t stay longer than necessary, so the idea that any fae would choose to live on Earth confounds me.

“McKenzie?” Aren’s hand is still raised.

“Okay,” I say, brushing my hair away from my neck. He inches closer and lays his hand against the wound.

It burns, not as much as when he healed my broken arm, but enough that I grab a handful of his shirt and twist it in my fist.

“It’s not deep,” he says.

“It feels deep.”

He shakes his head. “Your life-blood runs through here.” His thumb presses against the heartbeat to the right of my windpipe. “If I’d severed that, you’d have bled out. I was careful.”

“Careful, my ass,” I say through gritted teeth. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Now it feels good. That’s almost worse than the pain. “I blacked out from blood loss.”

“That was from your stomach wound, I think.” He removes his hand and inspects my throat. “You’ve scarred.”

“Great.”

“If you’d let me heal you when I first offered, you wouldn’t have.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Do you really want to discuss who’s at fault for all of this?”