A warm movement of air tickles the back of my neck. I reach up to rub away the sensation, but my hand encounters something cool, wet, and whiskery.
I look over my shoulder, expecting to see a cat, but instead of a fluffy feline, a silver-furred kimki stares back at me. My mood cranks up a notch when he drags himself over my shoulder. I reach up to scratch behind his ears, then I stand, keeping him balanced where he is. The last time I saw Sosch, he leaped into Kyol’s fissure at my apartment. I’ve missed the furball, and I’m grateful he’s here now. He always seems to know when I need cheering up.
My muscles are still sore, so I pull him off my shoulder and into my arms as I leave the living room. I need a few minutes alone, so I head to the darkened sunroom. It’s not until I enter the room that I notice Lorn is here. He’s sitting in a wicker chair in the corner.
“Finally coming to apologize?” he asks. Blue bolts of lightning dart across his small, smug smile.
If I weren’t already sinking down onto the sofa, I’d leave. But my sore and bruised body won’t let me stop my descent, so I press my lips together to keep myself from saying something I’ll regret. The truth is, I don’t really feel like I owe him an apology. I accused him of prolonging and profiting from the war. He’s admitted to the latter, and while he might not have been the fae who slaughtered the Sighted humans in London, he certainly hasn’t been forthcoming about his role in the war. Hell, the false-blood had to almost kill him for Lorn to even admit that he’s talked to him.
But I swallow back all the words I want to say and force out an apology. “I’m sorry, Lorn.”
His smile widens. “Ah, so the shadow-witch does want something from me. How intriguing.”
“I was just apolo—”
“No need to deny it, my dear,” he interrupts. “Everyone wants something. Perhaps I can provide it.”
I glance away, shaking my head out of disbelief more than denial. Lorn can’t help being a jerk sometimes.
After a quick look back into the living room to see that Aren’s still talking to Kynlee, I turn back to Lorn. There are several questions I want to ask him, like how to block out a fae on the other end of a life-bond, but I definitely don’t want Lorn learning I’m linked to Kyol. So I settle on my other question.
“I need to know if Lord Hison or anyone else is blackmailing Aren.”
Lorn laughs way too loudly. “I’ll answer that one for free: no.”
“No?” I echo. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure,” he says. “He can’t be blackmailed. Trust me, I tried. Don’t look so surprised, McKenzie. How do you think he became known as the Butcher of Brykeld so quickly? His only fault in that massacre was ordering the wrong person to create a distraction while he attacked his real target. I’d already made threats to hurt the rebels’ cause by marring his name if he didn’t do a few favors for me, so when he continued to refuse”—Lorn lifts his hand in a what-was-I-to-do gesture—“I had no choice but to stretch the truth a little.”
“And you wonder why we questioned your role in the war? I still don’t know if we can trust you.”
“Oh, you most assuredly can now,” Lorn says. “I want the false-blood dead. I want his head in a bag and his body rotting in the sun.”
The casual delivery of that last part makes my skin crawl. Lorn isn’t joking, and he’s not being unusually cruel. Severing a fae’s head is the only way to prevent the body and soul from entering the ether. It’s a cruel punishment, but without seeing a corpse, the only way to tell if a fae has truly died is by finding a fae who can sense the other side. That magic is extremely rare, though, and the fae has to have personal contact with the person who’s passed on.
“You helped him in the past, though,” I say to Lorn. “The only reason you’re here now is because he learned you could find me.”
His eyebrows go up in feigned offense. “And people accuse me of being egocentric. He didn’t turn on me because of you. He turned on me because I refused to kill my cows.”
What? I give him a skeptical look.
“I told you many of the Taelith’s elari are from Lyechaban,” he says. “He has to appease them, give them a good show so they think he hates humans as much as they do. But when he ordered me to destroy everything Earth-made that I’ve brought to the Realm, I very politely told him he could go rot in the Barren. Apparently, he took offense at that.”
“How surprising,” Lena’s flat voice comes from behind me. Sosch hops off my lap when I turn and see her standing just inside the sunroom.
“I assure you,” Lorn says, “I was quite surprised. If I’d known he planned to—”
“You would have still made a deal with him,” Lena cuts him off. “I’ve known you a long time, Lorn. Your insistence on putting a price on everything is the reason you’re here. You strike bargains with everyone you meet, manipulating as much of an advantage as you can from them. You gamble on every rumor, every shred of information you learn, and it has caught up with you.”
In short, his shady dealings have finally bit him in the ass.
“My dear,” Lorn says, lounging back in his wicker chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Let’s see if this fits.” She strides into the room. “You met the false-blood months, perhaps even years, ago. You provided him weapons and silver and information. He provided you with tinril. Everything went smoothly for a time, then the Taelith returned, this time asking you for something you weren’t willing to give.”
“Your cows,” I put in.
“You weren’t able to charm your way out of business with him, and since you weren’t cooperative, he tried to send you to the ether.”
All signs of amusement have disappeared from Lorn’s face, so I’m guessing Lena’s summary is close to the truth.
She faces me, almost completely turning her back on Lorn. “Paige?”
“I called her a little while ago,” I say. “She didn’t answer. I left her a message to have her phone in her hand at noon tomorrow. I’ll try her again then.”
She looks annoyed by the delay, but she doesn’t voice her thoughts out loud. She turns back to Lorn, then she demands he tell her every detail of every meeting he’s ever had with Caelar and the false-blood. She’s confident I can get Paige to make a meeting between her and Caelar happen. I’m less so, but she calls in Aren and Kyol, insisting we come up with a strategy for gaining his allegiance, whether he’s now allied with the false-blood or not. By the time we call it a night, my muscles have almost completely locked up on me, and I’m agitated by everything. I head to the media room, taking with me the sleepshirt, pillow, and blanket Kynlee left out for me.
I’m dead tired, so I strip to my undies, then, groaning when I force my stiff arm muscles to move, I slip Kynlee’s sleepshirt on over my head. She’s smaller than I am—it barely covers my ass—but I’m anxious to get out of my bloodstained cargo pants and T-shirt. I’m going to have to arrange some kind of clothing allowance; I think I’ve ruined half my wardrobe in the week since I returned to the Realm.