The Sharpest Blade

Aren looks up. “The tjandel? You were in the Realm?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Briefly.”

His jaw clenches, and his silver eyes remain locked on mine for a handful of heartbeats. I don’t know what thoughts are in his head. He used to be open with me. He’d tell me what he was thinking and planning even when I didn’t want to hear it. Now he just lowers his gaze back to Lee and asks in a completely neutral tone, “Why were you there?”

Because Kyol was hurt. But I won’t say his name out loud again. Instead, I tell Aren, “The elari ambushed a group of swordsmen.”

He unsheathes the dagger that’s on his left hip.

“You know about the false-blood,” he says as he carefully cuts off the bandage Kyol wrapped around Lee’s ribs.

“Lena told me,” I say, watching Aren place his hand over the gash in the human’s side. Lee doesn’t budge, not even when one of Aren’s chaos lusters darts across his rib cage.

Oh, crap.

“Is he dead?” I ask, squatting next to the couch. “I’m going to kill him if he is. He’s not, is he?”

“No,” Aren says quietly. “He’s not dead.”

Is that a smile on Aren’s lips? I stare at his mouth while he heals Lee, but the more I look for any slight bending of his lips, the more I doubt what I thought I saw.

He must feel me watching him. His head starts to turn my way, but then, he stiffens. His jaw clenches with what I’m certain is determination, and he locks his gaze back on Lee.

“Aren—”

“I’m finished,” he says quickly, rising.

I stand, too. “Can we talk?”

“No.”

His response is so terse, it feels like I’ve been punched. “No?”

“There’s nothing . . .” His words fade when he looks at me again. He seems agitated, torn, and I hate that he’s this distressed.

“This is about the life-bond?” I ask. He doesn’t answer for a long time. He just stands there, staring at me with apprehension in his silver eyes.

“If it weren’t for that . . .” He swallows. “If it weren’t for that, I’d never leave your side.”

I give a short, sharp laugh as my stomach does a somersault. “If you think I’ll let you go after saying that, then the In-Between must have screwed with your head.”

“I—” He snaps his mouth shut, shakes his head at himself. “Then I didn’t mean it.”

There’s a slight smile on his lips, and finally, his eyes are lighter, less serious. I want to kiss him again. I want our arms wrapped around each other, our bodies pressed close, but when I take a step toward him, he takes a step back.

“McKenzie.” He retreats another step. This time, an infuriated squeak cuts through the air.

Aren nearly falls onto the couch in his attempt to get off of Sosch’s tail. The kimki squeaks again, then he darts out from underfoot, leaping straight from the floor to my chest.

“Sosch!” I yell, staggering under the weight of the fifteen-pound furball. “Sosch. Down!”

He moves to drape himself across my shoulders, his tiny claws pricking my skin.

“Sosch.” Aren’s mouth splits into a grin as he regains his balance. My balance is still off, though. I steady myself on the edge of my secondhand breakfast table, then bend down to Sosch’s bowl of Goldfish.

“Here.” I hold one up to his mouth. He devours it and the next two I give him. “Now down. Perch.”

Sosch jumps off my shoulders, stops at my feet, then raises his front legs off the ground. Balanced on his hind legs, he stretches up just past my knees.

“Perch?” Aren asks, staring as the kimki eats two more crackers.

I nod. “It’s different from ‘sit.’ I thought about using ‘stand,’ but ‘perch’ is cuter.”

“Cuter?”

I frown at Aren, not getting the tone in his voice. He’s not quite annoyed. It’s more like he’s . . . offended?

“Is something wrong?” I ask.

“You taught him . . . tricks?”

“To perch and sit and roll over, yeah.”

He shakes his head. “You can’t teach a kimki tricks.”

“Obviously, you can.”

“No, you . . . you just don’t. They’re kimkis, McKenzie. They’re not”—he waves his hand as he searches for the right word—“pets.” He almost chokes on that last word.

“It’s not a big deal, and you do it all the time when you tell him to jump on your shoulders.” I grab another Goldfish, then order, “Up.”

Sosch leaps to my outstretched arm, then back to my shoulders.

“That’s different. I wanted him to come with me, not to perform. This is . . . It’s . . . It’s . . .”

I’ve never seen Aren like this, so flabbergasted. It’s funny, and I’m tempted to see if Sosch will start swinging his head back and forth when I say “dance,” but he’s still working on that trick, and so far, he’s only done it when I play Matchbox Twenty.

But I don’t tell Sosch to dance. Instead, I help Aren out. “It’s sacrilege?”

“Yes!” Aren says, grabbing onto the word. “Sacrilege. Kimkis are endangered and wild. They do what they want, and sometimes their desires line up with yours, but . . .”

He fades off when Sosch nuzzles his furry head under my chin. Aren’s eyes are still wide, still astounded, and I think maybe even a little . . .

I grin. “You’re jealous.”

Aren’s gaze locks on my mouth. He’s confessed to loving my smiles. He’s told me he thinks they’re rare, like a magic that went extinct during the Duin Bregga, but they were only scarce because we were enemies, and we were fighting a war.

“Jealous of a kimki?” The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Never.”

“Of me,” I say, stepping toward him. “I’ve stolen your pet.”

“I told you”—he reaches up and glides his hand down Sosch’s long back—“they’re not pets, nalkin-shom.”

Nalkin-shom. Shadow-witch. The title should infuriate me, but it doesn’t, not when it comes from his lips, and especially not when his voice is deep and gently teasing.

“If I knew all it would take to get you here was Sosch,” I say, “I would have sent a ransom note weeks ago.”

His smile makes chaos lusters ricochet through my stomach. He’s standing close, so he can pet Sosch, and his cedar-and-cinnamon scent makes warmth flood through me.

“I’ve missed you,” I say.

His silver eyes meet mine. “You make me lose my focus.”

“Good.” I smile.

His head lowers toward mine, and his jaedric cuirass moves as his chest rises and falls beneath it.

My skin tingles. I tilt my head slightly as I lean toward Aren, not figuring out that the sensation is a warning until after a fissure cuts through the room. Kyol steps out of the slash of light with Naito, and the warmth that filled me half a second ago instantly chills.

And just like that, I’ve lost Aren. He moves away, and I swear even Sosch lets out a sad sigh.

SEVEN

“DID EVERYTHING GO okay?” Aren asks, turning his back on me. I focus on Naito, too, almost thankful for the distraction. Almost. I’d be more thankful if he and Kyol had waited at least a few more minutes before fissuring here.