The Sharpest Blade

I open the door, then follow them out. From the second-floor landing, I watch as they make their way down the stairs, gripping the rusty rails for balance. They manage to avoid the beer bottles and trash my lovely neighbors have left on the steps. I scan the parking lot, looking for anyone who might see them. It’s dark and empty right now—the landlord seriously needs to fix the lights—but that doesn’t mean someone isn’t watching from a window. If they are, hopefully they’ll believe Naito and Lee are just helping out a friend.

Of course, most drunk guys’ friends don’t stuff them into trunks.

“I don’t like this place,” Kyol says from behind me. He has his emotions locked down tight, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel him. There’s a steady pull, a constant awareness, of where he is.

“It’s affordable,” I say, watching as Lee pulls out of the parking spot. Truthfully, I don’t like this place that much either. At least once a week, the police show up to settle some argument or domestic dispute, but this is the first home I’ve ever paid for on my own. Before Atroth was killed—and before I realized how violent he’d become and how much he had misled me—he paid for my college tuition and my apartment in Houston. That never sat well with me because the money wasn’t exactly obtained legitimately, but I couldn’t have survived without it. I can now, and if I keep my job and watch my finances, this apartment will be temporary.

When the taillights of Lee’s car disappear around the corner, I head back inside. Kyol follows, closing the door behind him.

“I want you to move in with Naito,” he says.

“What?” I ask, not bothering to hide my surprise as I turn to face him. “Naito’s house is in Colorado.”

“It would be safer for you,” Kyol says.

“This place is safe.” Safe-ish.

The protectiveness Kyol feels toward me leaks through his mental wall. He plugs the holes quickly, but that doesn’t stop a warm, yearning feeling from swirling through my stomach. I draw in a slow breath, doing my best to quiet my emotions.

“Look, I’m okay here, Kyol,” I tell him gently. “You’ll fissure Glazunov to the Realm, and the other vigilantes don’t know where I live. Neither do the remnants.”

“Or Lorn,” Kyol says. “Or the false-blood. Many people want you dead, McKenzie.”

“You’re worried about Lorn?” I ask, trying to divert the conversation.

“He might not be entirely responsible for the war,” Kyol says, “but he’s not a good man, and he knows you had something to do with his imprisonment. He’ll sell information on you to the false-blood if he has the opportunity.”

I shake my head. “I have a job here.” At least, I did this morning. “I can’t move in with Naito.”

He doesn’t respond to that, he just stands there as grim-faced as usual. Or maybe, more grim-faced than usual. He’s always been a solemn man, one with a million responsibilities on his shoulders, but the weight he carries seems heavier now.

“Then . . . be careful,” he finally says. “Please.”

I give him a little smile. “I promise I won’t go fissuring around with a tor’um again.”

Amusement leaks through the bond. It doesn’t alter his expression, though. He’s too much the perfect soldier. Always has been.

He says a silent good-bye with his nod, then steps away from me to open a fissure. When he does, Sosch chirp-squeaks from somewhere behind me. I turn, but the damn kimki scurries between my legs. I reach for the arm of the couch to catch my balance, and my hand knocks against the hilt of the unsheathed sword I leaned against it earlier. It starts to fall, and the image of a bleeding kimki flashes in my mind.

It’s a ridiculous image—the worst Sosch might get is a nick—but I’m already moving. I catch the end of the blade on the top of my sneaker, flip it up. It arcs end over end in the air. Me around flying swords? Not a good combination. But my right hand darts out and wraps around the hilt as if I’ve done the move a thousand times before.

I stare wide-eyed at the blade as Sosch disappears into the fissure. Kyol’s still standing here. His jaw clenches as he meets my gaze, and I know he’s thinking exactly the same thing I am: three weeks ago, there’s no way I would have caught the sword.

• • •

I don’t sleep in my bed. I don’t sleep much at all. After I shower, I toss my dirty and bloodstained sheets into a laundry basket then curl up on the floor with a pillow that, fortunately, wasn’t used by the vigilante. Not surprisingly, my dreams are unpleasant. My recurring nightmares about Thrain, the false-blood who dragged me into the Realm a decade ago, aren’t the worst this time. The worst are the ones where my friends are dead. Lena’s been made tor’um, I find Naito skinned alive and hanging from the rafters in the palace, and the head of Shane, the Sighted human I haven’t seen since I lost him in London, is delivered to me in a box.

As for Kyol? I watch an executioner stab a sword through Kyol’s chest over and over and over again, feeling every wound as if it’s piercing my own heart. The high nobles are looking on, satisfied grins on all their faces because they’re killing the fae who killed their king.

I can’t wake from any of those visions. It’s only my last nightmare that wrenches my soul so hard I lurch upright, sweat-soaked, wheezing, and with Aren’s agonized scream echoing in my ears. He’s locked in silver-plated shackles and forced to watch as I’m thrown onto a bed in a tjandel. We’re both fighting, him trying to get to me and me trying to get away from the sick bastards who want to rape and skin me. The dream only ends when one of those assholes draws a dagger across my throat.

Wide-eyed, I stare at the foot of my bed from my pile of blankets on the floor, attempting to calm down my racing heartbeat. How much of my fear and horror Kyol felt, I don’t know. He isn’t in my world, but his wall is down. He’s worried.

Just a dream, I think, reassuring both him and myself. I’m okay.

After a few deep breaths, I am for the most part all right. I’ve had nightmares my whole life. They’ve never predicted the future. There’s no reason for them to become premonitions now.

I shove away the last traces of the dreams, then climb to my feet. I’m lucky I woke when I did—it’s later than I expected—and I have to throw on my work clothes and skip breakfast to make it to work on time. Judy’s there and waiting. When she asks what happened yesterday, I tell her I had a seizure. It’s clear she doesn’t believe me, but she lets me stay on the condition that, if it happens again, I either need a note from my doctor or I’ll be let go. Considering how I left and the fact that I practically kidnapped Kynlee, that’s more than fair, so I thank her and park myself behind the reference desk.

I’m by myself for the first hour, so I go through my normal routine. I check my e-mail, hoping that I finally have some news on Shane. Not only have I contacted all the London hospitals, but I’ve talked to the police and even the U.S. embassy. None of them have seen or heard from him, and they’re sick of my calls. It doesn’t help that he didn’t enter the country legally.

Paige swears the remnants didn’t take him. She doesn’t have a reason to lie.