Sandy Williams - The Shadow Reader

The shadows tell me nothing, and a moment later, they vanish from my memory. Shit. In frustration, I stab my rock into the orchard.

Wait. I focus on my map.

A rock in the orchard.

Yes.

I pick up my rock to scratch an X near the edge of the orchard.

“He’s there.” I point. “Near Carbada.”

As soon as I voice the name of the city, Aren’s grin vanishes. I don’t know which of us is more surprised. He’s visibly stunned, but I’m downright astounded because I know the location that magically locked into Aren’s mind isn’t just within a hundred feet of Trev’s location; it’s practically underneath his boots.

Holy crap, I’m good.

I push away from the picnic table, and with an unwavering gaze and a little attitude, I tell Aren, “That’s what I’m worth.”

He sets Sosch on the ground. The whole camp must be shocked, because nobody says a word, not even Lena, who’s still staring at my scratched-out map.

“Have a nice life,” I say, and then I turn on my heel and head for the narrow trail that brought me here. I keep my spine straight, my chin up, but I’m half expecting a dagger to be thrown at my back. I listen for the sound of metal sliding free of a sheath, but hear only the wind, the chirping of crickets, and the shuffling of feet. I’m almost to the tree line when Aren finally speaks.

“Stop her.”

I wince but continue walking until a fae cuts off my path. He reaches for my arm, but stops just short of touching me. I can’t outrun him. I can’t fight him. With a sigh, I return to Aren.

I meet his eyes. “Glad to know you’re a man of your word.”

“I said I’d give you your freedom and I will. Eventually.” He pauses to pass his silver-eyed gaze over me as if he can’t quite figure me out. I don’t like the scrutiny, especially not when something in my chest tightens in response. “But I can’t let you go right now. Especially not after seeing what you can do. You’re amazing.” A small smile finds its way back to his mouth. “I’m sorry, McKenzie, but you’re going to have to stay with us until this war ends.”

“The war’s never going to end.”

He shrugs. “I guess you’re going to be here awhile, then.” His gaze shifts to the fae beside me. “Take her up to her room, then find Sethan. We need to talk.”

Aren takes one last look at the map scrawled into the picnic table and shakes his head as if he still can’t believe it.

“Aren,” I call when he starts to walk away. I don’t want to say another word to him, don’t want to look into his silver eyes a moment longer, but I have to know.

He turns.

“The king’s sword-master,” I say past the lump in my throat. “He’ll kill you for taking me.”

If Kyol’s dead, I have no doubt Aren will boast about it. I hold my breath and my heart shatters and mends a thousand times while I wait for his response. I’m too terrified to hope, too desperate not to. Finally, after what seems like millennia, Aren dips his head in acknowledgment.

“It will be an interesting fight.”

AS SOON AS the door to my room closes, I waste no time stripping the sheets off the bed. I test their strength. Both are ratty but they’re strong enough to resist my attempts to rip them. Whether they’re strong enough to hold my weight, I don’t know yet, but I’m not sitting here for another twelve hours alone with my thoughts.

I walk to the window. My room faces a bright, full moon. Its light struggles through the treetops, mottling the surface of the picnic table. The rest of the lot is deserted. I don’t know if that makes me lucky or the rebels careless, but I plan to take advantage of the situation. Problem is, I’m three stories up and two sheets aren’t going to make a long enough rope.

I try again to rip the cotton. I don’t break a single thread. At least it’s stronger than it looks, but I need something sharp, something that will cut.

The bed is the only piece of furniture in the room. Kneeling beside it, I inspect underneath for anything that might snag the fabric. The mattress rests on a network of metal links. It’s too dark to see anything useful, so I pat around until I feel a loose link. I work it around until one end pulls free from the bed frame. Once that’s accomplished, I stab the metal through the center of one sheet, brace both my feet on the bed, lean back, and pull.

“Ha!” I gloat to the empty room when the sheet rips perfectly down the middle. I repeat the process with the other sheet, ending up with four halves. Tying each of these together, I take my makeshift rope to the window and peek out. Still no patrol.

I test each knot. When they all hold, I clamp down on a sudden surge of anxiety. I have to do this. I won’t wait around for Kyol to save me.

Kyol’s alive.

I close my eyes, silently say a quick prayer of thanks. Our relationship—if you can call it that—has been awkward these past few months. It’s my fault. I’m trying to be a normal human. I’ve concentrated on my studies. I’ve looked for a real job. I’ve even let Paige set me up on a number of blind dates. The guys have all been nice, and I’ve tried to like them—really, I have—but, so far, I haven’t been interested in a second date.

Frustrated, I shove open the window. Christ, it’s loud. It screeches like it hasn’t been opened in decades. I hold my breath and listen. No footsteps sound from the hallway; no voices shout from outside. I breathe again, but count to a hundred just in case. After one last scan of the inn’s yard, I tie one end of the rope around the radiator bolted beneath the window and then toss the other end outside. Even with the knots, it reaches almost to the ground.

It’s a heck of a lot harder climbing out than I imagined, and I’m not sure how to go about it without getting myself killed. I end up straddling the ledge, a difficult thing to do since the window isn’t that big. Slowly, carefully, I let myself slip down until my left leg, which had been inside the inn, pulls over the edge and scrapes down the side wall. I have no idea how much noise I’m making, but at this point, I can’t do anything about it.

I grab the rope with my right hand, then let go of the windowsill with my left. As soon as I do, I start falling. I tighten my hands around the sheet, but I’m sliding too fast. My palms burn until I hit my first thick knot and yelp—softly, so as not to draw attention. I glance up at the window, wonder if I should try to get back inside. Shaking my head, I decide against it, grit my teeth, then let the next sheet sear through my palms. I meet another knot. Then another.

There’s blood on the white cotton now. I’m still half a story above the ground when it hurts too much to hold on. I manage to land on my feet, but a sharp twinge of pain shoots through my legs and I crumple over. As I’m down on all fours drawing cold air into my lungs, it occurs to me just how big an idiot I am for trying a stunt I’ve seen done only on TV. I could have broken my neck.

But I didn’t, I remind myself. I’m alive. I’m outside. I’m alone.

Careful to keep my blistered hands off the grass, I push to my knees and stand. I wait a second for a wave of dizziness to pass—God, I need some sleep—then quietly move away from the inn.

Thump.

I stop, glance over my shoulder.

Aren. Shit. He must have heard the window opening after all and followed me down. He stares up at my makeshift rope, gives it a little tug, then turns his silver eyes on me.

“You’re certainly resourceful,” he says. “I must give you that.”

His hands don’t look sheet-burned. Mine are on fire. I try to hide them, try to appear unconcerned that he’s interrupted my escape attempt, but when he strides forward, I tense. What if I’ve made him change his mind? What if he thinks it’s too risky to keep me alive?