Sandy Williams - The Sharpest Blade

To the double doors that are silently swinging open.

Terror moves through me as a fae comes into view. It’s him, the false-blood. I know it the instant I see him. There’s something different about him. His face is slender, with hollow cheekbones and a high hairline. His hair is black and . . . and something about him is familiar. His eyes? They’re bright, with more color than a normal fae’s, and they’re ringed in a dark band of silver. They’re wicked and calculating, and they’re locked on me.

GOOSE BUMPS PRICKLE across my arms. Lorn said the false-blood was interested in finding me. He wanted to use me as an example. The way the false-blood tilts his head to the side and gives me a cruel, teeth-filled smile, tells me that’s still true.

He takes an easy, almost lazy step inside the Mirrored Hall.

“Nom Sidhe,” Aren whispers. Then, “Lorn. Get McKenzie out of here.”

Lorn’s hands are clenched on the back of a chair—he needs my help more than I need his—but I’ve already taken a step back. When I realize I’m retreating, I make myself stand my ground. It takes a conscious effort to do so, but I’m not leaving Aren to fight on his own. He might be able to take on the false-blood by himself, but it would be stupid to leave when I can tilt the odds in his favor.

I tighten my grip on the hilt of my sword and stride forward.

“McKenzie,” Lorn calls after me. I intend to ignore him—I won’t let him talk me into abandoning Aren—but then he adds, “You might consider turning around.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I spin in time to see an elari emerge from the servants’ corridor.

Lorn lets go of the chair and takes a wobbly step toward the fae. His sword is held ready, but it’s blatantly obvious he’s in no condition to fight.

The fae’s gaze moves from Lorn to me, then back, as if he’s considering which of us is the bigger threat: the noble who can barely stand or the human who can barely hold a sword.

At least, it appears that I can barely hold it. I take a step forward, volunteering as a target, and when I swing my blade, I hope the fae sees how awkward the movement is.

He does. He focuses on me, looking extremely unimpressed with my skills. Good.

I deliberately do everything wrong when I swing for his head: I stare at where I’m aiming and I prep the attack by hunching my shoulders.

He deflects my blade with ease as Lorn sweeps forward, attacking from the left. The elari blocks that, too, then he follows up with a powerful slash at Lorn’s midsection.

Lorn’s blade catches the blow, but the weapon flies from his hand. That’s all the diversion I need. The elari ’s momentum carries his blade just a fraction too far to the left, allowing me to plunge my sword into the small area under his arm that’s not protected by jaedric .

It isn’t the easiest place to embed a blade, but I put all my weight behind the move and plunge deep enough to nick his heart. His body disappears an instant later, and my gaze locks on his soul-shadow, a white mist that twists as it rises.

“McKenzie!” Lorn shouts out a warning just as something dark parts the mist.

I lunge awkwardly for the new elari , stabbing forward and praying I can kill him before he can kill me.

I don’t know what happens next. Maybe he sidesteps, maybe I stumble, but somehow, he’s close enough to backhand me across the cheek.

I hit the ground, roll to my back, then swing my sword out in a protective arc of defense.

He’s out of range. He flips his sword in his hands, pointing the blade down and raising his arms above his head.

In the corner of my vision, I see Lorn grab his dropped sword. He’s too slow, too far away.

The fae’s muscles tighten, readying for the downward thrust, but then, a spasm wrenches through his body. A second later, I notice the blade protruding through his stomach.

The fae’s jaw goes slack. He drops to his knees, revealing his killer behind him.

Trev tugs his sword free of the body a second before the elari disappears.

“Thank God,” I say, climbing to my feet.

Trev wipes the back of his arm across his forehead. He’s sweating and breathing hard. Getting to us couldn’t have been easy.

“Lena?” he asks.

“We don’t know,” I tell him. “Aren’s—” I break off as I turn toward the front of the Mirrored Hall. He’s not here. My breath freezes in my lungs.

“He didn’t like the scenery,” Lorn says, wheezing. “He stepped outside with the false-blood.”

I start for the doors.

“No,” Lorn says, catching my arm. “You’re leaving with me. You think far too much of your skills.”

“I think far too much of yours.” I try to shake him off. He tightens his grip.

“I need her eyes,” Trev says, attempting to step between us.

“The King’s Hall,” I say. “If Lena’s alive, the false-blood would have taken her there.” That’s complete speculation on my part—wishful thinking, even—but that chamber in the back of the King’s Hall is our best chance to get out of here.

A handful of seconds tick by. Lorn looks resolute, but finally, he sighs and releases my arm. “Very well.”

We leave the Mirrored Hall, stepping out onto a balcony that overlooks a marble floor. Trev and Lorn come to a sudden stop. So do I. They’re just as stunned as I am by what we see. Or rather, by what we don’t see.

There’s no blood below. No signs of violence.

No sign of Aren.

My heart hammers in my chest. Aren’s not here, but neither is the false-blood. If one or both of them died, there would be a sign of the struggle. There would be at least one drop of blood spilled, and the fae below us wouldn’t be standing there with their weapons safely sheathed in their scabbards.

Three of those fae are elari . They’re speaking to the high nobles—Lord Raen, Lord Kaeth, and Lord Brigo. The nobles shift their weight from foot to foot, but the elari —even after they glance up at us—all look unconcerned.

“The King’s Hall looks rather welcoming,” Lorn says.

It does. The doors are wide open and unguarded.

“I think it would be wise to take that as a sign to run,” Lorn adds.

“Can’t,” Trev says. “The elari blocked off the exits.”

My hands are shaking from too much adrenaline and fear. I try to make them stop as I follow Trev along the balcony. I try to concentrate on my breathing, and I make my mind picture us escaping through the hidden tunnel.

Better yet, if we can kill the false-blood, we won’t need to escape at all.

A cry from below makes us stop and turn. It’s Lord Raen. One of the elari pulls his sword free from the high noble’s shoulder.

“Are there any other opinions?” the fae asks.

Kelia’s father hits his knees. His right hand clutches his shoulder and the first drops of blood splatter onto the marble floor.

Trev’s eyes burn with fury. Even Lorn looks more steady, more ready to kill.

“The false-blood,” I remind them. “We have to kill the false-blood.”

Grim, Trev nods. Then he moves to my right side. Lorn falls into step on my left, and I lead the way to the open doors, keeping my shoulders back, my stride confident, and my sword held ready. My pace doesn’t falter until I step over the threshold. It’s not due entirely to what I see, though the bloodshed here makes the long, large room look like a slaughterhouse. Smears of red mar the white-stoned floor, and the blue carpet that leads down the center is wet enough to glisten in the light streaming in from the hall’s tall windows.