Sandy Williams - The Shadow Reader

Kelia lectures me in Fae. I don’t have to understand what she’s saying—her tone makes her meaning clear—but at this point, I don’t care if she turns over my supervision to the daughter of Zarrak. I can’t learn one more new word. I won’t.

Kelia finally realizes her words are hitting a wall—a very tired, grumpy, unmovable wall. Her shoulders slump as the fight whooshes out of her.

“Fine,” she says, a petulant purse to her lips. “You hungry?”

“No.” We ate lunch no more than half an hour ago and had a snack a little before that. Besides, I suspect this might be a scheme to get me to start naming foods and cutlery, and I’m serious about not learning another word of Fae today.

I walk to the picnic table and stare at my rock-carved map. My shadow-readings always look like they’re drawn by a schizophrenic. This one is worse than my others, bigger and messier with a series of lines that cut off abruptly only to begin again a few inches to the right when my mental map scale zooms. To a normal human, the final sketch probably looks like a kindergartner’s drawing, but to a fae who hears me name a city or a region, it’s as good as having an imprinted anchor-stone. Without an anchor-stone or a shadow-reader naming the location on his or her map, fae can only fissure to places they’ve memorized. It’s sort of like humans and phone numbers: they can remember dozens upon dozens of locations, but if they don’t think about them often or dial in on occasion, they tend to forget them completely.

I plop down on top of my map’s orchard, rest my elbows on my knees, and stare down at my boots. While I ate breakfast my first morning here, Kelia fissured out. Twenty minutes later, she returned with an armload of clothing. Most of it was for her, but she gave me two pairs of jeans, three new tops, and a pair of black leather boots— high-heeled , of course, because comfortable flats would make running away far too tempting. The jeans are just a smidgen too tight. Kelia’s assured me they look fine—not that I asked or cared—and that the neckline of my azure blouse isn’t too low, but this is definitely not my normal attire. I shop sale racks and wear T-shirts. This look is way too trendy for me. But not too trendy for Kelia.

She sits beside me on the tabletop, fingers the drawstring pouch tied to her belt, and gazes at the overgrown trailhead cutting through the dense tree line. She’s been doing that for three days now, gazing at the trail. At first, I thought she was waiting for Aren to return. I haven’t seen him since he deposited me in my room and, despite burning curiosity, I haven’t asked where he is. Now I’m not so sure he’s the reason for Kelia’s constant head-turning, not unless she has a crush on him. I’m pretty sure Lena’s in love with the guy—I suspect there are very few fae who wouldn’t want to jump into bed with him—but Kelia never sounds love-struck when she mentions Aren’s name. Maybe she’s worried about the Court finding this place? I can only hope.

As I pick at a thick splinter on the edge of the table, my mood plummets. This is one of the reasons I’ve managed to endure three full days of language cramming. If I let my mind go idle, inevitably I get depressed. It’s been four days now and I’m certain no one misses me back home, not even Paige, who is used to my long, sporadic absences. Those absences are the reason why I live alone in an apartment a couple miles from campus. I tried the dorm thing back when I was a freshman, but after being caught one too many times talking to myself—fae almost always choose to remain invisible to normal humans—my roommate requested to be transferred.

I flick the splinter I tore from the table away and search for a distraction. Anything to take my mind off my life.

“Aren,” I say, grabbing hold of the first image that pops into my head. “Will he come back?”

Kelia snorts. “Probably.”

“Where did he go?”

“The Realm.” Her response is short, like she’s closing the door to future questions about the false-blood. Or rather, the false-blood’s decoy, if I’m to believe Sethan.

“How long have you known him?” I ask.

She stops fiddling with the pouch on her belt and eyes me. “You haven’t mentioned his name in three days. Why the sudden interest?”

I shrug.

“Do you miss him?”

This time, it’s my turn to frown. “Of course not.”

“Most women fawn over him,” she says.

Is she actually suggesting I like his company? “He kidnapped me.”

She tilts her head to the side. “You don’t think he’s attractive?”

“He’s fae.” The words tumble out. Not agreement or denial, but they’re as heavy as a lie on my tongue.

Kelia’s face darkens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We don’t belong in each other’s worlds, let alone each other’s beds,” I recite, my voice sounding as desolate as Kyol’s the day he made the same statement to me.

“You believe that?” she asks.

I force out an empty, “Yes.”

Kelia’s tone turns acidic. “You’re just like the others.” She rises off the picnic table. “If you need a break, you can take it in your room.”

She starts to walk toward the inn, but stops midstride and pales. I follow her gaze to the trailhead.

A bruised and bloodied Trev limps into the clearing. Edarratae flash beneath a thick layer of dirt to disappear under a ripped and blood-soaked tunic. I haven’t seen Trev since the night I read his shadows. Including Kelia and Lena, only five fae remained at the inn. They’ve been watching me like hawks from the front porch all afternoon, but now they abandon their posts and sprint to the wounded rebel.

Kelia reaches him an instant before the others. Her words are panicked. Trev shakes his head, his expression grim. I understand a few words . . . Court . . . heal . . . gate , but then they’re all talking at once and too quickly for me to decipher. It doesn’t matter, though. The important thing is they’re 100 percent engaged in their discussion. No one’s so much as thrown a glance in my direction, and the eastern edge of the clearing is no more than ten little-itty-bitty feet away from me.

I don’t think. I run. Three long strides and I’m engulfed by the forest.

Adrenaline kicks in as I leap over a rotting tree trunk. I know the fae will have wards surrounding the camp, but I’m a human who has the Sight. I won’t exactly see the magical trip wires, but I’ll feel them, so I let my skin listen for a hum in the air. When a slight vibration runs across my left arm, I follow my instincts and veer right. The ward won’t stop me, but if I run through it, the fae will know exactly where I am. I ignore the branches whipping at my face and arms and push on, faster and faster.

The forest floor plunges beneath my feet. I shuffle-slide down the steep incline in a waterfall of dead leaves, and just manage to regain my balance when the land levels out. I have no idea where I’m going—everywhere looks the same—but I don’t slow down. I can’t. I’ve got to get away, to put as much distance as possible between the rebels and me, and find some way to contact Paige.

I run full-steam for two to three minutes before my skin tingles a warning. I skid to a stop, staring into the forest. It’s not a ward I’m sensing now. It’s them.

The thick canopy blocks out most of the sun’s light, and when the wind moves the treetops, shadows dance on the forest’s floor. I can’t see the fae, but I’m certain they can see me.

Shit. What am I supposed to do now? Run? Fight? Beg for mercy? None of those options appeals to me.

I turn in a circle. My boot heels sink into the damp ground as I glance from one thicket of trees to another, trying to predict the direction of their attack. A movement catches my attention. Lena. She steps toward me, sword drawn. Not good. It doesn’t matter that she’s a woman. All the fae know how to fight. She could kick my ass even if I were the one holding the weapon.