Sandy Williams - The Sharpest Blade

“I’m not that brittle,” I say. I mean the words to be angry—an accusation of sorts—but his hand is warm, and a bright blue bolt of lightning skips to my skin.

Touching opens our bond completely, and Kyol’s lust rushes into me. I rock back, dizzy with the intensity of it, and my body flushes with heat.

It’s just magic, I tell myself. This feeling isn’t real. It isn’t. It isn’t. It isn’t.

Kyol meets my gaze. His hand is still on my calf, desire is still rocking through him.

I want another chance.

He doesn’t say those words out loud, but his emotions are screaming them.

I pull my leg away from him, and some emotion akin to hurt moves through the bond. It’s barely noticeable beneath the want, but it makes my throat burn. I can’t do this. I can’t keep hurting him.

“Kyol—”

“Again,” he says, grabbing his sword as he stands. A thick wall drops between us, silencing his emotions.

Swallowing, I get to my feet. I try to build my own wall. I try not to let him feel my frustration and angst, my regret that I can’t say the words he wants to hear. I focus completely on the moves he teaches me. My muscles remember them, even a few forms he hasn’t taught me yet, like the slight twist to my wrist I need to slip through his overly slow defense. I let my mind go blank, focus only on the movements of my body and his. I watch his eyes, the set of his shoulders. My peripheral vision is attuned to his sword. I block a third of his attacks, which is a huge improvement from the last time. His blows hurt when they hit home, but it’s a dull pain that I can shove to the back of my mind.

Circle and attack. Follow up. Parry.

I’m drenched in sweat, but I keep going, keep concentrating on the rote movement of my body and the soreness in my muscles.

Dodge a high swing. Counter with a low one.

My worries fall away, and I let my subconscious take over until Kyol lowers his sword, his eyes closing.

“There,” he says, tension pouring out of him.

I’m so, so tempted to attack while he’s vulnerable, but I haven’t felt him this relaxed since he formed the life-bond with me.

“There?”

He opens his eyes. “That’s how I keep my emotions from you.”

I frown. “How?”

“If I concentrate on the forms, on mine and my opponents’ movements, everything else falls away. That’s what you’ve just done, and it’s . . . peaceful.”

“You block your emotions when you’re not fighting, too.”

“I have decades of practice,” he says. “I’m able to re-create the emptiness. Most of the time.”

I nod slowly. “I’ll work on it.” I’ll work on it every second of my existence until I’m able to keep him out.

I raise my sword, ready to re-empty my mind.

“We’re finished for today,” he says.

“I have a few more minutes left in me.”

Before I have time to even blink, he disarms me. My sword flips once in the air and lands in his left hand.

“We’re finished for today,” he says again, this time looking pointedly at my hands.

I glare down at them, too, angry that they didn’t hold on to the sword. Then I see the blisters. Apparently, my emotions weren’t the only thing that I faded out. I blocked out the pain, but now that I see how red and agitated they are, they hurt. So does every part of me that Kyol hit, which is basically everywhere.

“I didn’t know you were available for lessons, Lord General.”

I turn toward the back porch. Lorn is there, leaning against a column. I wouldn’t say he looks great, but he doesn’t look half-dead anymore.

“I have a few fae who could use your expertise,” he says, when we approach.

Kyol doesn’t bother answering. He turns to me, tells me he’ll be back soon, then he fissures out.

My gaze locks on his shadows, and I itch to draw them out. I haven’t attempted to shadow-read since Tholm. The earlier worry I had about the bond bringing negative changes circles through my mind again. I wasn’t able to identify Nimael’s location, and I should have been able to. I need to sketch out a map again.

But Kyol’s heading back to Corrist. I don’t need a map to tell me that. As soon as the shadows completely disappear, I head inside.

Lorn tsks as he follows me in. “No thanks for saving your life?”

If I thank him, it’ll imply I owe him a debt, so I follow Kyol’s example and ignore him. I walk to the kitchen and turn on the faucet to wash my hands. Holy crap! The blisters burn.

“You at least owe me an apology, don’t you think?” Lorn says, hovering behind me.

At least he’s back to his usual, haughty self. And he’s found clothes. I don’t know how Nick is going to feel about Lorn raiding his closet, but the black slacks and white button-up shirt fit Lorn’s personality. The shirt is wrinkle-free and crisp, the cuffs buttoned.

“Lena’s the one who arrested you,” I say. “I just told her my suspicions.”

“Lena is a beautiful, vindictive chessra .”

I don’t know what that word means. Something not flattering, I’m sure. And I don’t see how she’s vindictive. She and Lorn worked together against the Court. They’re basically partners. On the other hand, Lorn isn’t the most altruistic person in the world. I’m sure he’s done something to piss her off.

I shut off the faucet, grab a towel, and carefully pat dry my hands. “The fae you had me track in Nashville—Aylen. She fissured to Eksan. That’s where I tracked a remnant to a day later. It was too big a coincidence to ignore.”

He scowls. “Lena arrested me based on that ?”

“Not just that,” I say. “You gave her the tip about Paige being in London, didn’t you?”

“Of course, I did. That was our deal. I found her for you. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“How did you know she was there?” I ask.

His expression doesn’t change, but something about him gives me the impression that he’s feeling a little less jovial than a moment before.

“My sources told me,” he says.

“Your ‘sources’?” When he doesn’t respond, I say, “The Sighted humans who worked for Atroth were there. They were dead. And the remnants received an anonymous tip saying that I’d be there. It was a setup.”

He presses his lips together, then says, “That is a little incriminating, isn’t it?”

I raise my hand in a there-you-have-it motion.

“So, do you want to tell me who Aylen is? Why you needed me to read her shadows?”

“In a moment,” he says, turning to look out the window as three fissures rip through the backyard.

WE TAKE OVER the living room, Lena sitting on the edge of a sofa chair while Lorn lounges back in another one with a glass of cabus in his hand. Without so much as a hello to me, Aren drags in a chair from the kitchen. That gets on my nerves. He could at least acknowledge my existence, but he straddles the chair and drapes his arms over the back, all carefree and relaxed.

“Are the breakers in the garage?” Naito asks me, as I take a seat on the couch. He fissured in with Kyol, Lena, and Aren.

“I think so,” I tell him, and he leaves to go find them. Lorn’s edarratae are still slow and erratic, and Lena’s and Aren’s look slightly agitated, too. Kyol’s are steady, though, flashing only occasionally across his face and forearms. He sits at the opposite end of the couch, his mental wall holding back his emotions.

I make an effort to establish my wall, but it doesn’t work very well. I keep looking at Aren. He never looks at me.

The electricity clicks off. I stare down at my hands, which rest gingerly on my knees. Hison has to be blackmailing Aren. I have to find out what he’s holding over his head. I don’t know how I’m going to do that, though. It’s not like Hison will just hand over the information.