The Shattered Dark

Heat explodes behind me. On hands and knees, I scramble away from the burning door, look to the right for the remnant who must have thrown the fire. Taber is occupying him.

I leap back to my feet and make a dash across the thirty-foot stretch of land between the stack house and the building Jielan and his cohorts emerged from. The outside walls have silver mixed in with the paint. The fae won’t be able to fissure inside.

Lights erupt around me as I run, but I ignore the fighting fae. As soon as I reach the front door, I turn the knob, shoulder it open, then slam it shut behind me. Almost instantly, I realize I’m not alone.

SIX

I’VE ALREADY LOCKED the door. My back is to the dimly lit room, but I hear the softest tap, taptaptap, tap behind me. In my rush to get inside, I didn’t even think about the possibility of there being another fae in here. I draw in deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heartbeat. I listen for movement—the pad of a footfall, the swish of clothing, or creak of jaedric armor—but the only other sounds come from outside, and while I’m standing here trying to decide what to do, they, too, fade away. It’s silent except for the rhythmic tapping.

I stare at the door handle. It’ll take a couple of seconds to unlock it. Some gut instinct tells me not to try it, that it might trigger the person behind me. Slowly, carefully, I turn.

In the center of a sparse living area, a tall, slender fae woman stands between two backless couches. She’s ramrod straight except for her right arm, which is fully extended so she can rest her hand on the hilt of her sword. Its blade is pointed straight down, digging just a little into the surface of a low, wooden table. Aside from one index finger drumming down on the pommel over and over again, she doesn’t move; she just stares.

I stare back, not daring to breathe. Pale, wavering bolts of lightning fade in and out on her face and hands. We’re in the Realm. She shouldn’t have any chaos lusters here, but she’s not a normal fae. Even if the lightning weren’t visible on her skin, I’d know she was tor’um. Something about her feels off.

Her inky black hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and she’s wearing jaedric armor. The treated bark is dark, well oiled, and molded to the curves of her body. Etched across her chest is an abira tree with thirteen branches, the symbol of Atroth’s Court. Does she fight for the remnants? She’s standing there silent and unwavering, projecting the feeling that she’s competent with her sword, but tor’um are so magically handicapped that they can’t fissure. That makes her odds of surviving a fae swordfight not much better than a human’s.

“Your skin is bright.”

The bluntness of her statement makes me stare down at my arms. White lightning bolts around my left wrist. Another one scurries up to my right elbow. Chaos lusters always appear and disappear quickly, but I guess my skin could be considered bright. I just don’t get why it’s important enough to say out loud, or why it seems to annoy her.

“I told him you wouldn’t turn it off.”

Turn my skin off? I frown at the lightning again, and that’s when I realize: she’s speaking English. It’s a skill very few fae have. Usually, only those who work with humans learn my language. Maybe she lived somewhere on Earth for a time? That’s what the tor’um in Vancouver did before King Atroth attacked their homes.

I focus on her again, watch as she tilts her head to the side, wrinkles her nose, then tilts her head back upright.

Understanding sweeps through me. Some fae are born unable to fissure. They’re magically handicapped, but they’re sane. This fae isn’t. She lost her magic sometime during her adulthood and, now, her mind is broken. Whether that makes her more or less dangerous, I don’t know.

Without warning, she’s in front of me, grabbing my wrist. Her cold touch makes more chaos lusters shoot down my arm. They pool beneath her hand, almost as if they’re trying to keep my skin from turning to ice. I attempt to pull away, but she’s strong, and her dull, dark eyes are locked on me.

“You’re not Paige.”

I go still. Her Fae accent is faint; I’m certain I heard her right. “You know Paige? Where is she?”

“Why aren’t you Paige?” Her hand tightens to the point where it hurts. My back is against the door. I can’t move away when she leans forward, her face coming within inches of mine. Her eyes are narrowed, agitated. “You feel like Paige.”

“McKenzie?” Kyol’s voice from the other side of the door. He pounds on it, jiggles the handle.

The tor’um hisses, then swings me around with so much momentum, my feet leave the floor. My hip hits the table, sending a sharp lance of pain down my leg, and I slide off the other side.

A dagger is on a couch cushion, not ten inches from my face. I grab it, spin toward the fae, and slash at the air.

The tor’um isn’t near me. She’s standing above me with that same mix of anger and confusion in her eyes. My gaze moves to the sword in her hand. Her knuckles go white then back to normal as she tightens and loosens her grip. Then, all of a sudden, she looks 100 percent sane.

She whispers, “Nalkin-shom.”

“Kyol!” I yell, scrambling away because I’m certain she’s going to kill me.

“McKenzie!” There’s a loud bam as Kyol rams into the door. I reach it and manage to get it unlocked before the tor’um leaps forward.

The door slams open and Kyol is there, putting himself between me and the fae. His sword is raised to deflect her attack, but there’s no need to. She swings her blade well short of us, then stands there, looking utterly perplexed. After glancing around the room, she scowls at her feet.

“My fissure is broken,” she mutters.

Kyol’s muscles were already tense in preparation for her attack, but his stance changes. He’s somehow stiffer now.

The tor’um stomps a foot on the ground as if that will make a fissure appear.

“Outside,” Kyol whispers in my ear. I don’t protest. I back through the doorway, keeping my eyes on the tor’um until Kyol gently shuts the door. He stares at it a few seconds before he turns to me, then he takes a step back, looking for injuries I presume. That’s when I notice the wound just above his right elbow. A remnant aimed perfectly, slicing at one of the few areas not protected by jaedric. Kyol’s undershirt is dark with blood, but he doesn’t seem to be favoring the arm any.

“She knows Paige,” I tell him. His gaze returns to my eyes. His mouth thins before he nods once, then he motions Taber over. They speak quietly in Fae. I don’t catch everything that’s said, but Taber’s eyebrows go up briefly, and he stares at the house. They have to be talking about the tor’um. They know her, I’m sure of it.

A dozen of Kyol’s swordsmen are standing alert and ready in the space between the tor’um’s building and the stack house. They’re spread out in a honeycomb pattern. If a remnant fissures into the clearing, he’ll be surrounded by no less than four of Kyol’s men. I want to order them to break their pattern. We need someone watching the back door so the tor’um can’t escape. She may already have.

“They’ll take care of the tor’um,” Kyol says.

I stop midnod. Fae have told me some form of that sentence often over the past ten years. I assumed it meant that Kyol and the Court fae would fissure after and arrest a fae, but that wasn’t always the case.