Sandy Williams - The Shadow Reader

“Are you the one the soldiers are looking for?” he demands.

Heart pounding, I take a half step toward the door and say, “No.”

He scowls. Whatever. He asked the question. Did he really expect me to say yes?

A fae from the crowd says something I can’t translate, but my attacker wipes his hands off on his mud-stained pants and answers, “I found her. I get the tinril.”

There’s a reward out for me already? Great. I take another step toward the exit.

“Do you work for the rebels?” a woman asks. She’s wearing fitted pants the color of red soil and a white top that flows past her left side but stops just above her right hip, giving her easy access to the dagger sheathed there.

“I don’t work for anyone,” I say. Technically, it’s true. I haven’t helped the rebels yet. Well, not unless you count the warning about Lynn Valley.

The bartender, clearly not liking my response, invades the circle forming around me. “If you don’t work for the king, then you work for the rebels. Get out.”

“We should give her to the rebels,” someone from the back of the crowd shouts. There are a few murmurs of agreement, but the majority look interested in making some cash. I still have Aren’s dagger hidden under my cloak. It won’t do any good against the thirty-odd fae here, but if a single individual tries to hand me over, I might have a chance.

“I won’t have the king’s soldiers invading my place.” The bartender eyes the fae who ripped my hood off. “Get her out of here.”

I’d rather almost anyone else escort me outside. This guy’s almost twice the size as the rest of them. And he stinks. Of alcohol and cirikith shit, I think.

“You can make twice as much tinril if you sell her,” a fae standing between me and the exit says.

“Sell?” the linebacker asks.

The fae nods once. “I know where.”

A chill settles over my skin. I scan the tavern, trying to find some other way out of this. But these aren’t the sort of people who are going to offer help without getting something in return, and I don’t know how much tinril I have in the little bag Aren gave me. I doubt it’ll be enough. Besides, nothing would stop someone from just taking it. Best not to mention it at all.

My gaze settles on the bartender. He’s still scowling, but I think his wrinkles are deeper than a moment ago. And maybe more disgusted than furious? At least one person here seems to have a problem with selling me.

“You’ll give her to the Court, Delan,” he says.

“You told me to get her out of here.” Delan’s words are so slurred I have trouble translating them. “I will. What I do with her after that is . . .” Something.

“I have another option,” a familiar voice says.

The group of fae blocking the tavern’s exit shuffle aside to reveal the newcomer, Lorn, standing in the doorway. He doesn’t look at me; he just tugs at the cuffs of his sleeves as if he’s already bored with this scene. I don’t know if I should be relieved to see him or not.

“I’ll take her,” he says once he’s satisfied his attire is in order.

“For how much?” Delan demands.

Lorn just laughs and says again, “I’ll take her.”

“Not without paying.” Delan makes a move to grab my arm.

I jump back, then jump again when a knife plunges into his chest. Delan frowns at me as if I’m the one who threw it. I didn’t. I have no clue who did. It wasn’t Lorn. He’s still standing in the doorway, looking as unconcerned as ever.

Delan’s gaze drops to the hilt. He wraps his hand around it, wavers, then pulls it free.

A mistake. His eyes widen as blood gushes from the wound. He cups his hand to his chest to catch the flow, then scans the tavern, but no one offers help.

His knees buckle. He lands on all fours, makes an effort to rise, then disappears into the ether. The rest of the fae search one another’s faces—undoubtedly trying to figure out which one of them threw the knife.

“Now that that’s settled,” Lorn’s voice cuts through the silence. “McKenzie.”

I tear my eyes away from the wet blood on the wood floor. Clenching my teeth, I step past it. Lorn flicks up my hood when I reach him, then we both step outside.

A cloaked figure waits for us. I let out a breath when I catch a glimpse of Kelia’s face, not only because she’s alive but also because she’s here. I trust her more than I do Lorn.

“Aren’s okay?” I ask.

She nods. “Naito?”

He still hasn’t turned up yet. That can’t be good, but I tell her, “He was fine a day ago. He made it out of the palace. A shadow-reader named Evan was with him.”

Lorn breezes by us. “No time to talk, my dears. The gate is quite a ways off.”

“No one’s allowed to use the gate after dark.” This is his world; he should know that.

“True,” he says without slowing. “But I own the guards.”

I alternate jogging and speed-walking to keep up. Who is he? The Godfather of the Realm?

Kelia keeps pace with me without breaking from a walk. “If they made it out of Corrist, they’ll be okay.” She sounds mostly confident. “Naito knows where he can go for help.”

Lorn glances over his shoulder, heaves out a breath when he sees how far behind we are. “It’s bad enough we have to go through a gate to fissure but must you walk so slowly? Really, Kelia, I don’t know how you tolerate Naito.”

Kelia rolls her eyes.

We’re silent the rest of the way to the gate. Fortunately, we manage to avoid running into any Court fae, though it’s not an easy feat. Belecha’s entire garrison seems to be searching for me, and I hate it, this feeling of being hunted. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder as Lorn weaves us through the city. I just want to get to the damn gate and get back home. I can handle myself on Earth. I know the way things work there. Here in the Realm, I’m practically helpless, and I’m sick and tired of relying on other people.

It’s the thought of going home that pushes me on, so when we reach the bank of the lake and see no fewer than a dozen swordsmen guarding the gate, I look at Lorn, praying he’s bought off every single one of them.

He sighs dramatically. “There were only two here before. If we’d found you sooner . . . Kelia, go fetch Aren. If he wants his shadow-witch alive, he’s going to have to leave the tor’um .”

She fissures out. I watch her shadows twist and thicken into the topography of what I presume is Lynn Valley.

“Aren’s still there?” I ask Lorn, pulling my cloak tight as a strong, cold wind barrels down the narrow pathway where we’re hiding.

He leans against a stone wall. “He’s healing the tor’um who managed to escape into the woods. There aren’t many, but their injuries are severe. If you’re lucky, Aren hasn’t burned himself out yet.”

“Were you there? During the attack, I mean.”

“Taking care of Kelia, yes. Her depression is . . . Well, it’s bringing even me down.”

Not an easy feat, I’m sure. I lean against the wall opposite him. “You have a life-bond with her.”

“Uh-huh,” he murmurs, fingering his sword’s hilt while keeping watch down the street.

When he doesn’t elaborate, I ask, “Why Kelia?”

“I needed a life-bond with someone.”

“She wasn’t seeing Naito?”

Lorn chuckles. “Oh, she was seeing him—nightly, I presume.” He glances my way and smirks. “The sons and daughters of Cyeneanen have . . . How would you say it? Reserve? Magical reserves? The bond allows me to access it. My magic requires a lot of energy, especially when fae object to my little mental incursions.”