Sandy Williams - The Shadow Reader

Okay, then. This narrows my options down to one—run—because I won’t beg.

I turn and flee. Branches whip my face and snag my clothes. I raise my arms to block the forest’s attack. Ahead, the ground dips sharply again. Despite burning lungs and a stitch in my side, I push on.

The underbrush rustles behind me, to my left, and to my right, and just before I reach the hillside, I trip on the wind.

There’s no other way to describe it. One second my legs are swinging out in front of me; the next my shins slam into air as solid as steel. I’m able to keep my balance long enough to grasp that Lena’s an air-weaver—an incredibly strong air-weaver—then another burst of impermeable wind slams into my shoulder. I pivot from the blow, my ankle catches in a thicket of thorned weeds, and I land hard on my butt. I might have slid to a stop then, but a third shot of wind hits my chest, throwing me backward with enough force to carry my feet over my head, again and again until I’m gaining momentum, not losing it.

The forest slashes at my skin and flips through my vision. Suddenly, there’s a tree directly in my path. I stretch out my arms to ward it off. A mistake. My right arm absorbs the full force of my weight. I hear a crack, feel a sharp explosion in my forearm, then I’m lying facedown in the dirt.

As the world grows fuzzy around me, I roll to my left side. My right arm flops as if I’ve grown an extra joint between my wrist and elbow. I try to ignore the white bone stabbing up through my flesh. I try to rise to my knees, but I’m nauseated. Dizzy. My vision blurs. Then, as Lena steps to my side, everything goes black.

“THERE’S A NEW false-blood.”

I tear my gaze away from Kyol’s shadow-trail. It’s been months since we’ve seen each other, but time hasn’t dulled my reaction to him. My stomach does a little flip. He looks the same as he did the last time we were together, the same as he did when we agreed things would be easier if we stayed in our own worlds. We were right. The way he keeps his expression carefully neutral makes my chest ache.

I sink down on the couch. My parents are out. This is the first time they’ve left me home alone since I went missing for three days straight. I wouldn’t tell them where I was—really, what would the truth accomplish?—and they only ungrounded me a couple of weeks ago, after I got my grades up.

“ A new false-blood?” I echo. The first one nearly killed me, but the fear I should be feeling is buried under a more potent emotion.

“You’re safe,” Kyol assures me, sitting on the couch as well. Even though there’s a good foot between us, the air warms with his body heat.

“Then why are you here?” I ask.

His gaze slides to meet mine. He doesn’t have to say a word. He’s not here for the reason I want him to be. Nothing has changed. The king hasn’t revoked the laws keeping us apart and Kyol has no intention to break his oath.

“I asked Atroth to send somebody else,” he says.

“Because you didn’t want to see me.”

“No.” His jaw clenches, then his gaze drops to the floor. “Because I wanted to see you.”

I hate the way his admission flows out on a wave of guilt. I hate the way I want to comfort him, to tell him it’s okay—that I’m okay—and I understand. I don’t want to understand, but he’s the king’s sword-master. He swore to protect the Descendants of the Tar Sidhe with his life, and even if being around me and my world’s technology didn’t damage his magic, he’s a man who doesn’t break his promises.

Damn it, time was supposed to prove these feelings were just a crush.

“What’s his name?” I ask because my mind will start contemplating what-ifs if I don’t focus on the real reason Kyol is here.

“Betor, son of Jallon.”

Déjà vu hits me so hard my head aches. No. This can’t be déjà vu. I can predict what happens next.

“Is he worse than Thrain?” I hear myself ask.

“Not yet. We hope to capture him before he organizes another attack.” Kyol doesn’t meet my eyes. There’s no inflection in his voice.

“You don’t want my help.”

“No.”

“Then why did you come?”

“ Atroth thought I could convince you to map a few fae. I’m to tell you that you won’t be in any large-scale battles. You’ll be used . . . covertly?” He looks up. At my nod, he continues. “When we learn the location of one of the rebels, my swordsmen will attempt to arrest him. I’ll escort you, and if the rebel fissures out, you will map his shadows.”

It sounds safe enough. It’s better than being used to see through fae illusions in a full-on confrontation.

“I can do that,” I say.

Kyol’s hands tighten on his knees. “When Thrain found you, you had to help us. But this false-blood doesn’t know who you are. This isn’t your war. If you help us, it’s because you choose to and . . . and, McKenzie, there can be nothing between us.”

I close my eyes. That’s not what I want to hear. I want to hear that there’s a chance the king might change his mind or make an exception.

“I’m sorry,” Kyol says as he rises.

I force a smile and stand as well. “It’s no problem. I get it. I’m probably better off dating my own kind, anyway.”

“Yes,” he says, peering down at me.

We’re standing closer than we should. We both know it, yet neither one of us takes a step back. Kyol brushes my hair from my face, lets his fingers linger alongside my cheek, and without conscious thought, my chin tilts up.

Time slows.

Our lips meet.

It’s supposed to be a last kiss, and if we were both human or both fae, it might have been, but the moment before we separate, chaos lusters explode through me. The jerk of his body, his sudden inhalation, tells me he feels them, too, and instead of moving apart, we move closer. So much closer.

One kiss turns into two, two into three, then there’s the brush of his tongue and I can’t concentrate enough to count. He cups the back of my neck—gently, as if my humanity makes me fragile—but if this is the last time we touch like this, I don’t want to hold anything back.

I wrap my arms around him when he would pull away, and another strike of lightning ricochets through us. That’s the end of his restraint. When he kisses me now, it’s like being caught in the gale of a storm. I’m completely swept away as he lowers me to the couch, as his hands slide up my arms, as they drop to my hips, then slip under my shirt.

Something happens with the chaos lusters. With our chaos lusters. We’re on Earth but white bolts of lightning sear across my body. They tangle with his, and a fire sizzles through us.

Both our lips are parted, our breaths shallow. He knows what he’s doing; I try to act like I do, too, but the intensity of the chaos lusters build, and I’m not sure I can handle this.

He must see that moment of uncertainty in my eyes. “You’re untouched?”

A part of me realizes this is a dream, and if it’s a dream, I should be able to change my response.

I can’t. I hear myself tell him yes, hear him say he can’t take this away from me. I protest, but he smoothes down my clothes with an apology and a light kiss on my cheek. His fingers slide from my skin, and the heat of his lightning fades away. It feels like a part of my soul fades, too. I’m still breathing hard, but the air I draw in is cold and empty. When he fissures out, I want to be angry. I want to hate him for his self-control, for leaving me when I’m craving more than his touch, and for not being a typical, human male. But I don’t hate him. If anything, his restraint makes me love him more.

YOU’D think the agony stabbing through my right arm would eclipse any discomfort caused by my bed, but there’s a spring or a knife—I’m not entirely sure which—digging into my spine. I’m unwilling to shift away from it. My arm might be splinted and wrapped in strips of cloth, but the slightest movement sends me careening toward the edge of consciousness. I don’t want to fall asleep again. I can’t stand the loneliness that descended at the end of my dream.