Sandy Williams - The Shadow Reader

“I’m curious, McKenzie. What will you do when you learn Naito’s not fine? When you learn your precious sword-master killed him?”

“Naito is fine.” My voice isn’t as strong as it should be. That’s not because I doubt my words; it’s because Aren’s chaos lusters are intoxicating.

His thumb traces the line of my jaw. “I’m sorry, nalkin-shom .”

I don’t ask him why. I look away, staring at the clock on the wall because his silver eyes are too intense, his touch too intimate.

The minute hand snaps to twelve.

“Midnight,” I say softly. I half expect to hear a deep gong toll the hour, signifying this moment.

Aren follows my gaze to the clock and then to Kyol, who stands beneath it, silent and ready. When the sword-master takes the first step toward us, Aren puts his hands on my shoulders, turns me to face him.

“McKenzie, listen. Don’t let Taltrayn know you’ve learned our language. Think about what you hear. Look for the lies. The rebellion, we’re not who they’ve made us out to be. You know us.” His hands tighten on my shoulders. “You know me.

“Your necklace.” He lets his thumb glide over the string of diamonds. “These stones, they have some of the same . . . ekissrin .” He glances to his right, undoubtedly seeing Kyol is halfway to us now. “There’s not a word for it in your language, but they’re similar, diamonds and anchor-stones. They can both be imprinted. This one.” He touches the largest diamond, the one in the center of my chest. “This one will take you to a safe place.”

“ Aren—”

“I’ll be there every sunset I can. If you can’t come yourself, send somebody else. Not someone you think you can trust. Someone poor. Someone who can be paid off.”

Aren’s crazy to talk like this, to leave me with this imprinted necklace. Kyol’s only a few steps away and—

“Tell the fae a location outside the silver walls and I’ll come for you.”

My stomach knots. “I won’t—”

“I’ll come for you, McKenzie.”

His kiss takes me by surprise. I’m aware only for a moment of Kyol’s steps faltering, aware of him watching me, watching us. Then lightning pours from Aren’s lips and there’s only us.

My only defense is that the edarratae make me lose my discretion because I kiss Aren back. Really kiss him back. Chaos lusters tickle down my face and throat, bolt across my shoulders and down my arms. They shudder through my entire body, and I lean into him, press my chest against his.

His hand slides up my back, pulling me closer. Everywhere he touches is bliss. Complete, utter bliss. The hand on my shoulder sinks lower. It slides down my breast before resting on my hip. Only my thin, satin dress separates us, but if I close my eyes, if I let myself forget everything that matters in both our worlds, I can imagine it disappearing, imagine being skin to skin with him.

My eyes shoot open when Kyol grabs my arm. Aren holds on a moment more, his lips and hands lingering as if this is his last breath. As if this is the only breath in his life that has ever mattered. Then he locks eyes with the sword-master.

“You have competition now.”

He backs away before Kyol can kick his ass and gives me a smile that sends hot aftershocks coursing through my body. I take a step toward him, but he disappears into the crowd.

“MCKENZIE?” KYOL’S HAND tightens on my arm. “Are you okay?”

For a handful of heartbeats, I stare at the path Aren took. Humans have blocked it off now, but I can almost see him there. I can still taste him, still feel the lingering heat from his touch.

An edarratae leaps up my arm. Kyol’s edarratae . He lets go of me quickly, as if he’s unsure if his touch is welcome. Still unbalanced, I stare into his face until my world stops spinning, until the silver storms in his dark eyes ground me.

It’s over. I wait for a rush of relief, but it doesn’t engulf me. Instead, it trickles in.

“Kaesha?” Kyol’s brows are lowered with concern—concern for me—but he should be worried about himself. The tech in this ballroom is wreaking havoc on his chaos lusters. They’re all but constant on his skin.

I shake my head, dislodging the memory of Aren’s kiss. “You need to get out of here.”

“McKenzie.” My name comes out on the end of a shaky breath. There’s so much pain in his eyes I take a step back. Could Aren have done something to him? He doesn’t look hurt. He looks more solid and stoic than ever.

“Come on.” I tug on his hand again. This time, he gives me a somber nod and follows. Walking seems to settle him. After only a few steps, he’s the one leading me.

His pace increases once we’re outside, half trotting down the stone steps to the lower terrace. A handful of humans are out here. We hurry past them, heading toward the back of the gardens, toward the cemetery where Lorn fissured me and where Aren fastened diamonds around my neck.

Shit. I have to get rid of this necklace. If the Court finds out it’s imprinted, they’ll find Aren.

Aren. God, he’s a fool, trusting me with something like this.

Kyol’s face is hard, troubled, as he scans the garden’s shadows. I have to jog to keep up with his long stride.

“Kyol.”

He doesn’t slow down.

“Kyol, stop.” I dig in my heels, forcing him to turn. “What’s wrong?”

“I . . .” He sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry, kaesha .”

That injured look is back, injured and . . . guilty?

“I’m okay, Kyol. Really.”

“Jorreb,” he forces out the name. “He hasn’t . . . didn’t . . .” He cups the back of my head, lowers his forehead to mine. His dark hair is cut manageably short, but it’s still long enough to run my fingers through. I shouldn’t, not out here where fae might be watching, but I want to comfort him, and I’ve missed his touch, his scent, his entire presence. He’s broad and muscular—more muscular than Aren—and I feel small in his shadow, safe, even though he still seems off-balance. Beneath my hands, his muscles tighten as if he’s bracing for a blow. “Did Jorreb force himself on you?”

It takes a moment to understand what he’s asking.

“No,” I say, almost offended by the question. “He never hurt me.”

I realize those last words are a lie right after I say them and, seconds later—after Kyol tucks my hair behind my ear and his fingers slide down my neck—he discovers the truth. He frowns, his silver eyes dipping to my throat.

I pull my hair back over my shoulder, but it’s too late. He felt the upraised skin.

“What did he do to you?” he demands, both hands exploring my neck, searching for other scars.

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly. “I was hurt. He healed me.”

“Healed you?” He stops his inspection abruptly. “Jorreb is a healer?”

“Yeah,” I say, wondering if I’ve just revealed information I shouldn’t have. But then, why should I worry what I tell Kyol? It’s not my job to protect Aren, and don’t I want this war to be over? Don’t I want the Court to win?

Ah, hell. This isn’t good. My loyalties are so twisted up inside I don’t know what I want anymore. The rebels have faces now, personalities. They’re not so bad, and what if some of what they’ve claimed is true? Sethan might not be a false-blood. He might be a true Descendant of the Tar Sidhe . There could have once been seventeen provinces instead of thirteen. And maybe the fae’s magic isn’t fading as much as the Court thinks, and the gate taxes aren’t entirely fair.

Maybe. I’m sure of so very few things these days. A headache pulses between my eyes.