The Shadow Reader

“Where the hell have you taken me?” I demand.

A tiny smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. He should have left the blindfold on because I’m seething now that I can see the smug expression framed by his tousled blond hair. He pulls off disheveled-sexy very well, and the fact that I notice he’s good-looking pisses me off even more. A killer should be ugly and scarred. He shouldn’t have a face like his.

I yank my gaze away to scan my surroundings. I think there are mountains to my right, but I don’t get a clear look because Aren’s hand locks on the back of my neck.

“I told you not to turn.”

“I wasn’t looking at the shadows!” His fingers hurt. He must have found a pressure point because I’m on my knees in an instant.

“I’m trying to be kind to you, McKenzie, but I will not allow you to learn anything that might hurt my people.”

“I’m sorry,” I say because my left shoulder is going numb. I stare at his scuffed boots and remain as still and docile as possible. His hand relaxes but remains on my neck. I can feel him staring. After a long silence, I risk a glance up.

His silver eyes turn a mirthless, steely gray as he appraises me, and fear shimmies down my spine. His words really sink in now, and I’m afraid he’s starting to think keeping me alive isn’t worth the risk.

“Good,” he says with a nod that tells me he knows I understand how precarious my situation is. He takes my hand and helps me to my feet.

“This way.” He gestures to a path that might loosely be considered a trail. “We have a long way to walk.”

Because I’m exhausted, it takes a hell of a lot of effort not to ask him why he didn’t just open the last fissure directly to our destination. I have to enter a fissure at a gate, but I can exit anywhere, as long as I have an anchor-stone imprinted for that location. Besides, I think I know the answer to my question. He’s paranoid. That’s why he took me so quickly through three gates, and that’s why he’s watching me now like I might suddenly grow eyes in the back of my head and see the shadows behind us. I want to tell him I’m not that good at my job—the shadows are too old, too faded, for me to read—but I keep my mouth shut.

I glance at the sky as we walk and wonder if we could be in California or maybe Oregon. There’s a two-hour time difference between my home near Houston and those states, but no, that distance isn’t enough to account for the sun. It’s on its way up, not down, so we can’t be on the West Coast. I don’t think we can be anywhere in the western hemisphere.

Great. Just great.

Critters skitter in the underbrush as we follow the pseudotrail. Aren stays close by my side. I want to ask about Kyol. I know he could have escaped if he tried, but he’s never abandoned me when I’ve needed him, and I can’t shake the feeling that he died for me.

My steps falter. I bite my lip, forcing myself to focus on that pain instead of the fear gathering in the pit of my stomach. I don’t want Aren to learn how much the king’s sword-master means to me. I don’t want him to know how much I mean to the sword-master.

Grimacing, I duck under a low-hanging branch. Hiding my feelings isn’t anything new; I should be used to it by now. Kyol and I aren’t supposed to want each other. We’ve both tried not to. We’ve tried to keep our relationship professional, to touch only when necessary, but Kyol’s stronger than I am. He’s the most honorable man—human or fae—I’ve ever met, and he was honest with me from the beginning: we’ll never have a happy ending. Even if he doesn’t lose his life fighting for his king, the laws of the Realm keep us from being together.

I know I need to move on. No woman in her right mind would wait ten years for a man to become more than just a friend, but that’s the thing about love—it makes you do stupid shit. I live for the moments when Kyol’s control breaks, the moments when we’re alone and we kiss, and when I can pretend everything is right in both our worlds.

God, what if we never have another moment like that?

When the trail ends, I force my worry aside. Aren and I step from the woods into a clearing that’s about the size of a football field. Enough trees are scattered about the glade for their outstretched branches to create a fairly solid canopy above us. Sunlight flickers through the leaves, tossing shadows over dirt, trampled grass, and a broken wooden sign. The paint on the sign is cracked and faded, but I’m pretty sure it’s welcoming visitors to the illegible name of the guesthouse that’s just ahead. It’s a three-story structure with a peaked roof and brown trim crisscrossing its once-white walls. Cracks zigzag up its side and the whole place looks weakened by age, but I can imagine what it might have looked like in its youth. There’s a certain storybook feel to it. More precisely, there’s a Hansel and Gretel feel to it. Hmm.

I look back at the dilapidated sign and scrutinize the barely there words. It’s not exactly welcoming visitors to the guesthouse ; it’s willkommen-ing them to the gasthaus.

I stop suddenly and turn to Aren. “Germany? Seriously?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Why not?”

He places his palm on the small of my back and urges me forward. Maybe I should count myself lucky he isn’t upset I’ve learned what country we’re in, but honestly, it’s not like we’re in Luxembourg, which is about the size of the average mall in Texas. If I’m ever in trouble, I’m supposed to call Paige, my best friend—okay, my only friend—and tell her where I am. She doesn’t know the fae exist, but she’s met Kyol. She’ll pass on my message if I ask. Problem is, even if she passes it on today, it would take the Court months to search all the remote areas of Germany. Aren and his rebels would be long gone before they found me.

Speaking of the rebels, there are more than a dozen here. It’s a decidedly strange sight—medieval, I guess I should say—but it’s a sight I’ve become somewhat used to over the years. They’re dressed in typical non-noble fae fashion. Men and women both wear white or pale-brown tunics over dark pants that are stuffed into black boots. A few wear armor similar to Aren’s. It’s made from the bark of a jaedric tree. The Court treats theirs with a substance that darkens and shines it, but the rebels don’t. Theirs is dull and splotchy. Small drawstring pouches are tied to the weapon belts cinched around their waists. They’re the same kind of pouches as the one I have stuffed into my backpack, which I haven’t seen since Aren knocked me out. Those pouches hold anchor-stones the same as mine does.

The fae notice me and a whisper passes through the camp. When their silver eyes meet mine, they end their conversations. Pretty soon, everyone’s staring. No one’s muttering a syllable.

Blue lightning flashes over their skin, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles. These people despise me, especially the trio sitting on logs several paces to my right. Swords lie in scabbards on the ground at their feet, and two of the men’s shirts are stained red. They’re the attackers Kyol engaged when they tried to block my escape. At the time, there were six of them. Some didn’t survive. That bothers me even though it shouldn’t. Those deaths are their own fault. When I track fae for the Court, Kyol always tries to capture our targets. He only kills if it’s necessary. These rebels made it necessary when they attacked me.