The Iron Traitor (The Iron Fey) (30 page)

If you loved
The Iron Traitor,
don’t miss the rest of the Iron Fey series by
New York Times
bestselling author Julie Kagawa, available wherever ebooks are sold.

The Iron King
(Book 1)
Winter’s Passage
(ebook novella)
The Iron Daughter
(Book 2)
The Iron Queen
(Book 3)
Summer’s Crossing
(ebook novella)
The Iron Knight
(Book 4)
Iron’s Prophecy
(ebook novella)
The Lost Prince
(Book 5)

Check out Julie’s dystopian stories
The Immortal Rules
and
The Eternity Cure,
the first two books in the Blood of Eden series, available now.

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CHAPTER ONE

The outpost gate creaked softly in the wind, swinging back on its hinges. It knocked lightly against the wall, a rhythmic tapping sound that echoed in the looming silence. Through the gap, the scent of blood lay on the air like a heavy blanket.

“He’s been here,” Kanin murmured at my side. I didn’t have to look at my sire to know what he was thinking. The Master vampire was a dark statue against the falling snow, motionless and calm, but his eyes were grave. I regarded the fence impassively, the wind tugging at my coat and straight black hair.

“Is there any point in going in?”

“Sarren knows we’re following him” was the low reply. “He meant for us to see this. He wants us to know that he knows. There will likely be something waiting for us when we step through the gates.”

Footsteps crunched over the snow as Jackal stalked around us, black duster rippling behind him. His eyes glowed a vicious yellow as he peered up at the gate, smirking. “Well, then,” he said, the tips of his fangs showing through his grin, “if he went through all the trouble of setting this up, we shouldn’t keep the psycho waiting, should we?”

He started forward, his step confident, striding through the broken gate toward the tiny settlement beyond. After a moment’s hesitation, Kanin and I followed.

Nothing moved on the narrow path that snaked between houses. The flimsy wood and tin shanties were silent, dark, as we ventured deeper, passing snow-covered porches and empty chairs. Everything looked intact, undisturbed. There were no bodies. No corpses mutilated in their beds, no blood spattered over the walls of the few homes we ducked into. There weren’t even any dead animals in the tiny, trampled pasture past the main strip. Just snow, and dark, and emptiness.

And yet, the smell of blood soaked this place, making my stomach ache and the Hunger roar to life. I bit it down, clenching my jaw to keep from snarling in frustration. It had been too long. I needed food. The scent was driving me crazy, and the fact that there were no humans here made me furious. Where were they? It wasn’t possible that an entire outpost of mortals would up and disappear without a trace.

And then, as we followed the path around the pasture and up to the huge barn at the top of the rise, we found the townspeople.

A massive, barren tree stood beside the barn, twisted branches clawing at the sky. They creaked and swayed beneath the weight of dozens of bodies, hanging upside down from ropes tied to the limbs. Men, women, even a few kids, swinging in the breeze, dangling arms stiff and white. Their throats had been cut, and the base of the tree was stained black, the blood spilled and wasted in the snow. But the smell nearly knocked me over regardless, and I clenched my fists, the Hunger raking my insides with fiery talons.

“Well,” Jackal muttered, crossing his arms and gazing up at the tree, “isn’t that festive.” His voice was tight, as if he, too, was on the edge of losing it. “I’m guessing this is the reason we haven’t found a single bloodbag from here all the way back to New Covington.” He growled, shaking his head, lips curling back from his fangs. “This guy is really starting to piss me off.”

I swallowed the Hunger, trying to focus through the gnawing ache. “Why, James, don’t tell me you feel sorry for the walking meatsacks,” I taunted, because sometimes, goading Jackal was the only thing that kept my mind off everything else. He snorted and rolled his eyes.

“No, sister, I’m annoyed because they don’t have the decency to be alive so I can eat them,” he returned with a flash of fangs and a rare show of temper. Glaring at the tree, he stared at the bodies hungrily. “Fucking Sarren,” he muttered. “If I didn’t want the psychopath dead so badly I would say the hell with it. If this keeps up, we’re going to have to break off the trail to find a meatsack whose throat hasn’t been slit, which is probably what the bastard wants.” He sighed, giving me an exasperated look. “This would be so much easier if you hadn’t killed the Jeep.”

“For the last time,” I growled at him, “I just pointed out the street that wasn’t blocked off. I didn’t leave those nails in the road for you to drive over.”

“Allison.”

Kanin’s quiet voice broke through our argument, and we turned. Our sire stood at one corner of the barn, his face grim as he beckoned us forward. With a last glance at the tree and its grisly contents, I walked over to him, feeling the sharp stab of Hunger once more. The barn reeked of blood, even more than the branches of the tree. Probably because one whole wall of the building was streaked with it, dried and black, painted in vertical lines up and down the wood.

“Let’s keep moving,” Kanin said in a low voice when Jackal and I joined him. His voice was calm, though I knew he was just as Hungry as the rest of us. Maybe more so, since he was still recovering from his near-death experience in New Covington. “There are no survivors here,” Kanin went on, with a solemn look back at the tree. “And we are running out of time. Sarren is expecting us.”

“How do you figure, old man?” Jackal inquired, following me to the side of the barn. “Yeah, this is the psycho’s handiwork, but he could’ve done this just for the jollies. You sure he knows we’re coming?”

Kanin didn’t answer, just gestured to the blood-streaked wall beside us. I looked over, as did Jackal, but didn’t see anything unusual. Beyond a wall completely covered in blood, that is.

But Jackal gave a low, humorless chuckle. “Oh, you bastard.” He shook his head and stared up at the barn. “That’s cute. Let’s see if you’re as funny when I’m beating you to death with your own arm.”

“What?” I asked, obviously missing something. I stared at the barn again, wondering what the other vampires saw that I didn’t. “What’s so funny? I don’t see anything.”

Jackal sighed, stepped behind me and hooked the back of my collar, pulling me away from the wall.

“Hey!” I snarled, fighting him. “Let go! What the hell are you doing?”

He ignored me, continuing to walk backward, dragging me with him. We were about a dozen paces away from the wall before he stopped and I yanked myself from his grip. “What is your problem?” I demanded, baring fangs. Jackal silently pointed back to the barn.

I glanced at the wall again and stiffened. Now that I was farther away, I could see what Kanin and Jackal were talking about.

Sarren,
I thought, the cold, familiar hate spreading through my insides.
You sick bastard. This won’t stop me, and it won’t save you. When I find you, you’ll regret ever hearing my name.

Painted across the side of the barn, written in bloody letters about ten feet tall, was a question. One that proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Sarren knew we were coming. And that we were probably walking right into some kind of trap.

HUNGRY YET?

Copyright © 2013 by Julie Kagawa
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE LOST PRINCE by Julie Kagawa.

CHAPTER ONE

NEW KID

My name is Ethan Chase.

And I doubt I’ll live to see my eighteenth birthday.

That’s not me being dramatic; it just is. I just wish I hadn’t
pulled so many people into this mess. They shouldn’t have to suffer because of
me. Especially…her. God, if I could take back anything in my life, I would never
have shown her my world, the hidden world all around us. I
knew
better than to let her in. Once you see Them, they’ll never
leave you alone. They’ll never let you go. Maybe if I’d been strong, she
wouldn’t be here with me as our seconds tick away, waiting to die.

It all started the day I transferred to a new school.
Again.

* * *

The alarm clock went off at 6:00 a.m., but I had been
awake for an hour, getting ready for another day in my weird, screwed-up life. I
wish I was one of those guys who roll out of bed, throw on a shirt and are ready
to go, but sadly, my life isn’t that normal. For instance, today I’d filled the
side pockets of my backpack with dried Saint-John’s-wort and stuffed a canister
of salt in with my pens and notebook. I’d also driven three nails into the heels
of the new boots Mom had bought me for the semester. I wore an iron cross on a
chain beneath my shirt, and just last summer I’d gotten my ears pierced with
metal studs. Originally, I’d gotten a lip ring and an eyebrow bar, too, but Dad
had thrown a roof-shaking fit when I came home like that, and the studs were the
only things I’d been allowed to keep.

Sighing, I spared a quick glance at myself in the mirror,
making sure I looked as unapproachable as possible. Sometimes, I catch Mom
looking at me sadly, as if she wonders where her little boy went. I used to have
curly brown hair like Dad, until I took a pair of scissors and hacked it into
jagged, uneven spikes. I used to have bright blue eyes like Mom and, apparently,
like my sister. But over the years, my eyes have become darker, changing to a
smoky-blue-gray—from constant glaring, Dad jokes. I never used to sleep with a
knife under my mattress, salt around my windows, and a horseshoe over my door. I
never used to be “brooding” and “hostile” and “impossible.” I used to smile
more, and laugh. I rarely do any of that now.

I know Mom worries about me. Dad says it’s normal teenage
rebellion, that I’m going through a “phase,” and that I’ll grow out of it.
Sorry, Dad. But my life is far from normal. And I’m dealing with it the only way
I know how.

“Ethan?” Mom’s voice drifted into the room from beyond the
door, soft and hesitant. “It’s past six. Are you up?”

“I’m up.” I grabbed my backpack and swung it over my white
shirt, which was inside out, the tag poking up from the collar. Another small
quirk my parents have gotten used to. “I’ll be right out.”

Grabbing my keys, I left my room with that familiar sense of
resignation and dread stealing over me.
Okay, then. Let’s
get this day over with.

I have a weird family.

You’d never know it by looking at us. We seem perfectly normal;
a nice American family living in a nice suburban neighborhood, with nice clean
streets and nice neighbors on either side. Ten years ago we lived in the swamps,
raising pigs. Ten years ago we were poor, backwater folk, and we were happy.
That was before we moved into the city, before we joined civilization again. My
dad didn’t like it at first; he’d spent his whole life as a farmer. It was hard
for him to adjust, but he did, eventually. Mom finally convinced him that we
needed to be closer to people, that
I
needed to be
closer to people, that the constant isolation was bad for me. That was what she
told Dad, of course, but I knew the real reason. She was afraid. She was afraid
of Them, that They would take me away again, that I would be kidnapped by
faeries and taken into the Nevernever.

Yeah, I told you, my family is weird. And that’s not even the
worst of it.

Somewhere out there, I have a sister. A half sister I haven’t
seen in years, and not because she’s busy or married or across the ocean in some
other country.

No, it’s because she’s a queen. A faery queen, one of Them, and
she can’t ever come home.

Tell me
that’s
not messed up.

Of course, I can’t ever tell anyone. To normal humans, the fey
world is hidden—glamoured and invisible. Most people wouldn’t see a goblin if it
sauntered up and bit them on the nose. There are very few mortals cursed with
the Sight, who can see faeries lurking in dark corners and under beds. Who know
that the creepy feeling of being watched isn’t just their imagination, and that
the noises in the cellar or the attic aren’t really the house settling.

Lucky me. I happen to be one of them.

My parents worry, of course, Mom especially. People already
think I’m weird, dangerous, maybe a little crazy. Seeing faeries everywhere will
do that to you. Because if the fey
know
you can see
them, they tend to make your life a living hell. Last year, I was kicked out of
school for setting fire to the library. What could I tell them? I was innocent
because I was trying to escape a redcap motley that followed me in from the
street? And that wasn’t the first time the fey had gotten me into trouble. I was
the “bad kid,” the one the teachers spoke about in hushed voices, the quiet,
dangerous kid whom everyone expected would end up on the evening news for some
awful, shocking crime. Sometimes, it was infuriating. I didn’t really care what
they thought of me, but it was hard on Mom, so I tried to be good, futile as it
was.

This semester, I’d be going to a new school, a new location. A
place I could “start clean,” but it wouldn’t matter. As long as I could see the
fey, they would never leave me alone. All I could do was protect myself and my
family, and hope I wouldn’t end up hurting anyone else.

Mom was at the kitchen table when I came out, waiting for me.
Dad wasn’t around. He worked the graveyard shift at UPS and often slept till the
middle of the afternoon. Usually, I’d see him only at dinner and on weekends.
That’s not to say he was happily oblivious when it came to my life; Mom might
know me better, but Dad had no problem doling out punishments if he thought I
was slacking, or if Mom complained. I’d gotten one
D
in science two years ago, and it was the last bad grade I’d ever received.

“Big day,” Mom greeted me as I tossed the backpack on the
counter and opened the fridge, reaching for the orange juice. “Are you sure you
know the way to your new school?”

I nodded. “I’ve got it set to my phone’s GPS. It’s not that
far. I’ll be fine.”

She hesitated. I knew she didn’t want me driving there alone,
even though I’d worked my butt off saving up for a car. The rusty, gray-green
pickup sitting next to Dad’s truck in the driveway represented an entire summer
of work—flipping burgers, washing dishes, mopping up spilled drinks and food and
vomit. It represented weekends spent working late, watching other kids my age
hanging out, kissing girlfriends, tossing away money like it fell from the sky.
I’d
earned
that truck, and I certainly wasn’t
going to take the freaking bus to school.

But because Mom was watching me with that sad, almost fearful
look on her face, I sighed and muttered, “Do you want me to call you when I get
there?”

“No, honey.” Mom straightened, waving it off. “It’s all right,
you don’t have to do that. Just…please be careful.”

I heard the unspoken words in her voice.
Be careful of
Them
. Don’t attract their
attention. Don’t let Them get you into trouble. Try to stay in school this
time.

“I will.”

She hovered a moment longer, then placed a quick peck on my
cheek and wandered into the living room, pretending to be busy. I drained my
juice, poured another glass, and opened the fridge to put the container
back.

As I closed the door, a magnet slipped loose and pinged to the
floor, and the note it was holding fluttered to the ground.
Kali demonstration, Sat.
, it read. I picked it up, and I let myself
feel a tiny bit nervous. I’d started taking kali, a Filipino martial art,
several years ago, to better protect myself from the things I knew were out
there. I was drawn to kali because not only did it teach how to defend yourself
empty-handed, it also taught stick, knife and sword work. And in a world of
dagger-toting goblins and sword-wielding gentry, I wanted to be ready for
anything. This weekend, our class was putting on a demonstration at a martial
arts tournament, and I was part of the show.

If I could stay out of trouble that long, anyway. With me, it
was always harder than it looked.

* * *

Starting a new school in the middle of the fall semester
sucks.

I should know. I’ve done all this before. The struggle to find
your locker, the curious stares in the hallway, the walk of shame to your desk
in your new classroom, twenty or so pairs of eyes following you down the
aisle.

Maybe third time’s the charm,
I
thought morosely, slumping into my seat, which, thankfully, was in the far
corner. I felt the heat from two dozen stares on the top of my head and ignored
them all.
Maybe this time I can make it through a semester
without getting expelled. One more year—just give me one more year and then
I’m free.
At least the teacher didn’t stand me up at the front of the
room and introduce me to everyone; that would’ve been awkward. For the life of
me, I couldn’t understand why they thought such humiliation was necessary. It
was hard enough to fit in without having a spotlight turned on you the first
day.

Not that I’d be doing any “fitting in.”

I continued to feel curious glances directed at my corner, and
I concentrated on not looking up, not making eye contact with anyone. I heard
people whispering and hunched down even more, studying the cover of my English
book.

Something landed on my desk: a half sheet of notebook paper,
folded into a square. I didn’t look up, not wanting to know who’d lobbed it at
me. Slipping it beneath the desk, I opened it in my lap and looked down.

U the guy who burned down his school?
it read in messy handwriting.

Sighing, I crumpled the note in my fist. So they’d already
heard the rumors. Perfect. Apparently, I’d been in the local paper: a juvenile
thug who was seen fleeing the scene of the crime. But because no one had
actually
witnessed
me setting the library on fire, I
was able to avoid being sent to jail. Barely.

I caught giggles and whispers somewhere to my right, and then
another folded piece of paper hit my arm. Annoyed, I was going to trash the note
without reading it this time, but curiosity got the better of me, and I peeked
quickly.

Did u really knife that guy in
Juvie?

“Mr. Chase.”

Miss Singer was stalking down the aisle toward me, her severe
expression making her face look pinched behind her glasses. Or maybe that was
just the dark, tight bun pulling at her skin, causing her eyes to narrow. Her
bracelets clinked as she extended her hand and waggled her fingers at me. Her
tone was no-nonsense. “Let’s have it, Mr. Chase.”

I held up the note in two fingers, not looking at her. She
snatched it from my hand. After a moment, she murmured, “See me after
class.”

Damn. Thirty minutes into a new semester and I was already in
trouble. This didn’t bode well for the rest of the year. I slumped farther,
hunching my shoulders against all prying eyes, as Miss Singer returned to the
front and continued the lesson.

* * *

I remained in my seat after class was dismissed,
listening to the sounds of scraping chairs and shuffling bodies, bags being
tossed over shoulders. Voices surged around me, students talking and laughing
with each other, gelling into their own little groups. As they began to file
out, I finally looked up, letting my gaze wander over the few still lingering. A
blond boy with glasses stood at Miss Singer’s desk, rambling on while she
listened with calm amusement. From the eager, puppy-dog look in his eyes, it was
clear he was either suffering from major infatuation or was gunning for
teacher’s pet.

A group of girls stood by the door, clustered like pigeons,
cooing and giggling. I saw several of the guys staring at them as they left,
hoping to catch their eye, only to be disappointed. I snorted softly.
Good luck with that.
At least three of the girls were
blonde, slender and beautiful, and a couple wore extremely short skirts that
gave a fantastic view of their long, tanned legs. This was obviously the
school’s pom squad, and guys like me—or anyone who wasn’t a jock or rich—had no
chance.

And then, one of the girls turned and looked right at me.

I glanced away, hoping that no one noticed. Cheerleaders, I’d
discovered, usually dated large, overly protective football stars whose policy
was punch first, ask questions later. I did not want to find myself pressed up
against my locker or a bathroom stall on my first day, about to get my face
smashed in, because I’d had the gall to look at the quarterback’s girlfriend. I
heard more whispers, imagined fingers pointed my way, and then a chorus of
shocked squeaks and gasps reached my corner.

“She’s really going to do it,” someone hissed, and then
footsteps padded across the room. One of the girls had broken away from the pack
and was approaching me. Wonderful.

Go away,
I thought, shifting
farther toward the wall.
I have nothing you want or need.
I’m not here so you can prove that you’re not scared of the tough new kid,
and I do not want to get in a fight with your meathead boyfriend. Leave me
alone.

“Hi.”

Resigned, I turned and stared into the face of a girl.