Sandy Williams - The Shadow Reader

He doesn’t hit or scold me. He takes one of my hands between his and flares his magic. Blue lightning skitters down his arms and his palm is suddenly a warm compress against mine. After a few uncomfortable seconds, the achy warmth changes. It feels good now. So does the electric tingle pulsing toward my elbow. I allow him to touch me longer than I should, long enough for some of the jagged blue lines to leap from his skin to mine. They’re bright in the moonlight. I watch them pirouette around my forearm, very aware Aren’s watching them as well.

“Edarratae,” he says. “Chaos lusters.”

“I know what they are,” I tell him, trying to ignore the sensations the lightning, the edarratae , sends careening through me.

“You can let go.” I try to tug my hand free.

“You could have killed yourself.” He releases my right hand to take my left, carefully avoiding the watch strapped around my wrist. This palm isn’t hurt as badly as the other, but he heals the skin with another warm touch.

“That would have made Lena happy.”

His gaze meets mine. “Yes. Yes, it would have.”

I don’t like the way he continues staring into my eyes. It reminds me of Kyol and how mesmerized he always is by them. To me, they’re nothing extraordinary, just a plain brown color a few shades darker than my hair. My features are slightly different from a fae woman’s—my cheekbones aren’t quite as prominent, my nose not quite as sharp—but Aren’s not analyzing the rest of my face right now. I wish he would because the intensity of his gaze coupled with his chaos lusters triggers a warm, simmering sensation in my stomach. It’s not right to feel like this, especially not with Aren, son of Jorreb.

I break eye contact, willing my body to cool and berating myself for reacting to those soft silver eyes. I try to tug my hand free again. I need his edarratae gone so I can think clearly.

After another moment, he releases me. I fold my arms across my stomach without looking at my mended palms. Healing is an endangered magic, and it seems wrong that a killer should be gifted with that ability.

Aren motions toward the front of the inn. “Come, nalkinshom . We need to talk.”

I keep my feet rooted to the ground. “I have a name. You don’t have to insult me.”

“Insult you?” He cocks his head. “ Nalkin-shom is one of the least insulting titles you’ve been given.”

I frown. “Titles?”

“Yes, titles. Nalkin-shom means shadow-witch. Lena prefers to call you traep-shom . Shadow-bitch. Some of the other names lose their sting in translation, but there’s also shadowscum, map-whore, kin-killer.” He pauses. A grin bends a corner of his mouth, and I swear moonlight twinkles in his eyes. “What? You didn’t know you have the reputation of a killer?”

“The Court captures most of the fae I track,” I say, trying not to let his smirk get under my skin.

“Fae children have nightmares about you.” He grabs my wrist, waits until his edarratae leap up my arm. “Parents tell them if they’re bad, the nalkin-shom will come for them in the night, sear them with her lightning, and drain them of their magic.”

My heart beats in time with the energy pulsing through me. “You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I?”

“You’re the false-blood. If the fae tell stories to scare their children, then they’re telling them about you.” False-bloods are like cult leaders on crack. They gather a following of the gullible and disillusioned, then wreak havoc on the Realm, claiming to be the chosen progeny of the Tar Sidhe , the magically superior fae who ruled the provinces centuries ago. I’ve hunted down half a dozen false-bloods over the years, some more successful than others, but all of them violent. Aren’s the real monster here.

To my surprise, he chuckles. “Come, nalkin-shom . You need to meet someone.”

He doesn’t give me the opportunity to protest. He lets go of my wrist, places his hand on the small of my back, and ushers me forward. We round the corner of the inn. Either the rebels have all fissured out or they’re holed up inside the house, all except for Lena, who’s on the porch speaking to another fae. He’s new. I’d certainly remember if he was one of the onlookers during my sentencing. His blond hair is long and straight, falling over broad shoulders covered by a burgundy cloak. His tunic and black trousers look rich and clean, and the leather scabbard at his hip is in pristine condition, almost as if he’s never had to draw his sword. He’s either a criminal or a noble. Either way, he has access to tinril , the currency used in the Realm, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s the fae funding Aren’s rebellion.

He ends his conversation with Lena as we climb the porch steps.

“This is Sethan, son of Zarrak,” Aren says. Lena’s brother? I hate him already. “Have a seat, McKenzie.”

He places his hand on my shoulder, guiding me to the weathered wooden bench beside the front door. I sink down, partly to get away from his touch and partly because I’m so damn tired. My stomach growls a reminder that I haven’t eaten anything since a few hours before my final, and a headache pounds behind my eyes. The least the rebels could have done was given me a scrap of bread when they locked me inside that room.

The fae remain standing. I hate having to look up at them, but I cross my arms, lean back, and wait for Aren to speak.

“Tell us what you know about the Court.”

Even though my stomach twists into knots, I keep my gaze steady and—I hope—defiant.

“It’s your system of government,” I say, sticking with a universally known fact. Well, universally known in the Realm, at least. “It’s led by King Atroth, a Descendant of the Tar Sidhe , who was elected by the high nobles of the thirteen provinces. The king’s—”

“The king told you there are thirteen provinces,” Sethan interrupts. It’s not quite a question.

“He’s shown me maps,” I say, then immediately wish I hadn’t.

“What kind of maps?”

“Paper ones,” I snap. I know what he’s fishing for. He wants to know if gates were marked on those maps. That’s what this war is about, after all. Control of the gates means control of the Realm’s commerce. While fae may be able to fissure from whatever point they choose, they can’t drag along wagons full of goods unless they open their fissure at a gate. Anything more than what they can carry will be lost in the In-Between. Several decades ago—long before I first met Kyol—King Atroth’s predecessor began regulating their use, requiring merchants to pay a tax to fissure their wares throughout the Realm. The merchants didn’t like that, of course, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why so many have started searching for an alternative Descendant.

Sethan remains unperturbed. “How many gates were there?”

“None,” I lie. There were thirty-one, over a dozen more than are marked on the Realm’s public maps.

“Then why were you shown the maps?”

“For the same reason he”—I nod toward Aren—“probably shows maps to his shadow-readers: geography.” I needed to memorize the Realm’s provinces and regions. Without knowing the name of a place, my maps might as well be random scratches on a page. I have to say the name of the region out loud for the magic to lock in, and for the fae I’m with to be able to fissure to the location I mark. It’s the one teensy bit of magic that shadow-readers like me can claim.

Lena pushes off the wall. “She’s lying. She knows where the Missing Gates are. She’s used them.”

“I’ve used the Provincial Gates,” I tell Sethan. I’m not sure why I feel like I have to explain myself to this fae. He’s important—of that, I’m certain—but why haven’t I heard his name before?