The Sharpest Blade
Page 78“Taltrayn,” Lena says.
Kyol stands. When Caelar does as well, I rise, too, assuming they’re going to fissure to the false-blood’s camp now.
“You’ll stay here, McKenzie,” Lena says.
“If Nimael is there, they’ll need a set of reliable eyes.” The words are out of my mouth before I remember that’s not necessarily true. Kyol can see through fae illusions now. Or, he can at least see shadows of invisible fae. We haven’t tested his vision out to see how well it is.
“We don’t know if there will be a gate nearby,” Lena says. “Taltrayn and Caelar will make do. If they’re seen and outnumbered, they’ll fissure out immediately.” She looks at the two men and emphasizes, “Immediately.”
“Of course,” Kyol says. Lena looks appeased by his words, but I’m not. His definition of “outnumbered” isn’t the same as hers or mine.
THIRTY
“IS HE OKAY?” Lena asks for the umpteenth time. She’s not pacing back and forth in Nick’s living room, but I’m sure she would be if she wasn’t still recovering from her injuries. After Caelar’s so-called fight with Aren, she fissured back to Nick’s. It was a mistake. It drained her magic and has made her impatient and short-tempered.
“I’m still breathing,” I tell her, trying to hold on to my patience. “So, obviously he is.”
“But he’s still there?” she asks.
I sigh. “Yes, he’s still there.”
Kyol and, I assume, Caelar are both in the Realm. I think they’re both still in the false-blood’s camp in the Jythkrila Mountains, but I can’t be sure. His heart isn’t pumping adrenaline through his veins, though, and he’s not injured. Both are good signs.
“They’re not supposed to be,” she bites back.
Kynlee looks up from her homework, wide-eyed. Yeah, Lena is touchy. But she’s worried, hurt, and generally exhausted and stressed out, so I’m trying to be understanding.
I just give Kynlee a shrug as Nick walks into the living room. He’s carrying a glass filled to the top with a white liquid that I’m guessing isn’t milk. He holds it out to Lena.
“What is it?” she asks without taking the glass.
“It’s something I mix up for Kynlee when she’s not feeling well,” he says.
“I call it a Happy Colada,” Kynlee speaks up from the couch. “It has coconut in it.”
“And some other things,” Nick says with a nod.
“Lorn drank it,” I tell Lena when she still doesn’t accept the drink. Slowly, she reaches up to wrap her hands around the glass. Then she takes the tiniest sip.
And makes a face that’s a lot like mine whenever I drink cabus.
“It’s good,” Kynlee insists, her brow furrowing.
Lena glares at her, then takes another sip. When she makes another sour face, I almost laugh.
Nick just nods, then stands there with his hands at his sides, looking like he has something to say. It’s probably something along the lines of “get the hell out of my house.” I’m surprised he hasn’t insisted on it yet, especially since we brought two new fae—Caelar and Lord Hison—here. But maybe he misses the Realm and the action more than he thought he would. He’s asked me several questions about what’s going on. He’s also asked about a few fae he used to know, and a few cities he frequented. And more than once, when a fae has fissured out, I’ve seen his gaze go to the shadows, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to trace their peaks and valleys.
“Another day or two,” I say, “and she and Aren can probably fissure to Naito’s house.” That’s well over five hundred miles away, but I think they’ll be able to make it. If not, Kyol can fissure them there, taking the drain of passing through the In-Between on himself.
“Good,” Nick says.
“You should be resting.” Lena sets her glass aside.
I frown until she slowly turns her head toward the hallway behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I see Aren.
“I did rest,” he says. His gaze is locked on me, and my heart does a somersault in my chest. He’s hurting, but his silver eyes are still intense, still mesmerizing.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
Something in his tone makes my breath catch, and not in a good way. But I want to talk to him. I want to hear his voice, his laugh, and I want to touch him and taste his lips, so I just nod, then follow him out the back door, hoping I shouldn’t be bracing myself for bad news.
Nick’s porch is covered. Aren steps off it and onto the lawn. When I do the same, he turns toward me. He’s holding his side. He starts to lift his hand away, but then winces, returning it to his ribs. I hate seeing him this badly hurt. Caelar beat the hell out of him. The cut on his forehead needs stitches, and his right eye is so swollen, I’m certain he can’t see out of it. I’m not so certain he doesn’t have serious internal injuries. His breaths sound wet and raspy, like he has blood in his lungs, and there’s blood at the left corner of his mouth that looks fresh.
Lena promised not to heal him until three days pass. He hasn’t even made it through one yet.
He takes a step toward me. He tries to hide how much that hurts him, but the corner of his nonswollen eye crinkles, and the way he winces makes that cut on his forehead reopen. Blood begins to trickle down his temple. Oddly, that’s when the tension whooshes out of me.
He goes still. “Those aren’t exactly the words I’d hoped to hear.”
“Just sit down,” I tell him. I ignore his sharp intake of breath when I grab his arm and maneuver him back onto the porch, where there are table and chairs. I pull one of the latter out and all but shove him into it. His body tightens up when he lands, and he closes his eyes, waiting for what has to be a wave of pain to subside.
I feel a little guilty about that.
“I’m not an idiot,” he says when he can talk again. “I’m determined.”
“Is that what you call this?” I ask. “Is that what you call your insistence on suicide?”
“I told you why I stepped forward as the garistyn,” he says. “Hison arrested Lena. He was about to do the same to Taltrayn. I had to—”
“I gave you a way out, Aren.” That’s the part of the whole thing that I don’t get. I understand why he stepped forward even though I don’t completely agree with it, but he’d already taken the blame for killing Atroth. He could have escaped with me. Lena had an alibi. We would have faked his death, then lived happily ever after. “You should have taken the way out.”
His forehead creases again. “I did take it.”
“No, you didn’t.” I glare at the renewed trickle of blood from that head wound. It’s driving me crazy. “You threw my backpack out the window and all but launched me out after it.”