Sandy Williams - The Sharpest Blade

“You contacted the vigilantes?” Aren asks.

I nod. “I found their Web site, so I sent them an e-mail.”

“Were you going to tell us about this?” Lena demands.

“I just found out this morning,” I tell her. “I set up a fake e-mail, used a fake name. I don’t even know if they’ll respond.”

“If they do, you have to meet with them,” she says. “We need to find out where they’re keeping the serum and—”

She breaks off. A second later, I hear what she does: the garage door grinding open. Nick’s home. He was gone for more than a few hours.

Our conversation stops there. When the door to the garage swings open, Kynlee comes in first. She looks at me, then her gaze goes to the living room. She grins like she’s happy to see the fae. When Nick steps into the kitchen behind her, he glowers like he’s not.

“You all can stay the night,” Kynlee says, all but bouncing on her toes. “I can go to the Realm Saturday.”

I meet Nick’s eyes. He just shakes his head like he’s lost a fight, tosses his keys on the counter, then walks through the living room without one word to Lena and the others.

“You guys hungry? I’ll order pizza.” Kynlee grabs the phone, completely oblivious to the worry she’s causing her dad.

DURING DINNER, KYNLEE interrogates the fae. She directs her questions to Lena at first, probably figuring a woman will be more likely to give her the answers she’s looking for, but Lena’s responses are dry and short. It’s Aren who gives Kynlee the information she wants, and he’s up-front with her, telling her exactly how tor’um are treated in the Realm—and how Lena plans to change that.

Lena plans to change a lot of things, and as Aren describes fae society and how it’s become more and more segregated over the years, with the upper classes collecting privileges and favors while tor’um , imithi , and the weak are pushed to the side, I once again see the lighthearted but rebellious and cunning Aren, who draws people to him with his reckless smiles and crazy, convoluted schemes. It’s easy to see why the rebels were able to stir up such a strong opposition to the old Court.

In the decade I worked for King Atroth, no one, not even Thrain, gathered as much support as the rebels did. They made Atroth tighten his fist over the Realm, raiding people’s homes without cause and interrogating individuals who had no knowledge of the rebels’ plans. Atroth’s actions actually strengthened the Zarraks’ case for a change of regime. But even if they hadn’t, the rebels would have still been a thorn in the king’s side. Sethan was a diplomat. He gathered support with honesty and reason while Aren recruited fae using pure charisma. He makes people want to be on his side.

Kynlee giggles at something Aren says, and he smiles at her. It’s a genuine smile. He seems to like talking to the girl. His tone is teasing and protective, like he’s talking to a kid sister, but I think Kynlee might be developing a crush. I can’t blame her at all.

A little pang settles in my chest. We’ve passed the halfway point of my ultimatum. Aren has less than thirty-six hours to choose to be with me. I’m aware of each minute that ticks by; he doesn’t seem to be aware of any of them.

I turn away so I don’t have to see him laugh, and my gaze settles on Nick. He’s listening to Aren and Kynlee’s conversation from a barstool in the kitchen. The fact that he hasn’t interrupted Aren or sent Kynlee off to bed makes me think he appreciates Aren’s honesty. Aren hasn’t sugarcoated anything.

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.”