The Sharpest Blade (16 page)

Aren moves closer to press his palm against her hip. She stares over his shoulder as he heals her. Looking at Trev maybe? He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He lifts an eyebrow, but I’m not sure she’s really seeing him.

Aren slides his hand under the waistband of her pants, all but cupping her ass. Am I jealous of her injury when he does that? Yep. Maybe I should have let myself get pushed around more.

“Trev,” Lena says. His other eyebrow goes up. “I want you to speak to the commanders of each of the wall watches. They’re to reassign three swordsmen from each rotation to you. I’m placing you in charge of guarding the provincial gates. They need to be regulated again. Now. You’ll have those swordsmen and half my guard under your command.”

Aren’s gaze locks on her as he slides his hand out of her pants. I look at Kyol, whose fury has suddenly and explosively rekindled. He’s staring at Lena and standing so rigidly still, I’m afraid he might shatter if someone so much as sneezes.

Even Trev looks surprised at her command, but he nods in acknowledgment and starts for the staircase.

“Disregard that order,” Kyol says.

Lena stiffens. She focuses on her lord general, her chin jutting out half a millimeter, and says, “Go now, Trev.”

“No.” The word rumbles out of Kyol.

Trev’s boot is on the first step that leads out of the room. He looks at me as if I can give him guidance. Guidance on whose order to follow or guidance on whether or not he should be worried about Kyol killing her, I don’t know. I can’t help him anyway, so I just shrug.

Aren steps to Lena’s side. He seems relaxed, but his hand is resting a little too casually on his sword hilt. He’s not exactly happy about Lena’s plan, but he’ll back her up on it.

“You’re exhausted,” Kyol says. “Jorreb is exhausted. Every fae who serves under you is exhausted, and yet, you want to further thin our forces in Corrist? Are you determined to lose the palace, my queen?”

“I’m determined to officially become ‘your queen,’” she says. “And I’m determined to reinstate order. The merchants have been begging me to send swordsmen to the provincial gates. They’ll support me in this decision.”

“It can’t be done. Not now.”

“It will be done, now,” she says.

Kyol paces away from her, his hand rising to rub his forehead. His control on his emotions is slipping. That almost never happens. Even if we didn’t have a life-bond, I wouldn’t want to be nearby when he goes off. With the life-bond . . . My headache is going to get so much worse.

Kyol drops his hand as he turns back to Lena. “Do you have any idea what the palace guard is doing now? They’re searching every corner, corridor, and closet looking for anyone who’s not supposed to be here. The southern doors were open six minutes, Lena.
Six minutes.
My men fought off the crowd while we tried to get those doors shut. Some fae made it inside, and while my men
think
we found them all, they’re not certain. So they search. They search when they could be resting, and you want me to tell them they must work longer hours now? That they must command and control the same amount of ground with fewer swords at their sides?”

“You will make this work, Taltrayn,” she says, and in that moment, I want to tell her to back off. She’s giving Kyol an impossible task, and he already has so much responsibility on his shoulders. But I can feel his resistance bending.

“Go on, Trev,” Aren says quietly.

“You support this decision?” Kyol’s voice is tightly controlled, but his words sound more like an accusation than a question.

“I support her completely,” he says with a cavalier shrug. He’s relaxed and confident, standing there by Lena’s side. The consummate rebel.

Kyol’s hands tighten into fists. One second passes. Then another. Finally, he gives Lena a single nod.

When he turns to leave, I close my eyes. He’s going to take on this responsibility for her. She knew he would. I guess I did, too. I just hope this decision of hers doesn’t cost him his life. I hope it doesn’t cost all our lives.

W
ITHIN THE HOUR,
I conscript a fae to fissure me back to Vegas. I need to get in touch with Lee and Paige. It’s been almost five days since I heard from Lee, and I left Paige a dozen messages a little over forty-eight hours ago. Surely, one of them has called me back by now.

But that’s not the only reason I leave the Realm. I
have
to go. Kyol is so exhausted and frustrated, he’s not able to keep his mental wall in place. I’m trying to keep my emotions from him, too, and the constant concentration is wearing me down. My head is absolutely killing me.

The throbbing abates as soon as I return to my world.

“Thank you!” I practically yell to the night sky. My fae escort’s eyes widen as he slowly nods. He murmurs a “you’re welcome” before he disappears.

My reaction might have been a little much, but it’s a relief, being able to think again.

Sliding my keys out of my pocket, I walk to my car. A
TOW AWAY
sticker has been slapped on my driver’s side window. My car has been parked on the side of the road near the gate for two days. I’m actually surprised it hasn’t been towed yet. I tear the sticker off, then grab my cell phone out of the central console as I slide behind the wheel.

The phone is dead, so I don’t get a
ding
telling me I have messages until after I start the car and the phone has charged for a few minutes. I put it on speaker and hit
PLAY
.

The first eight voice mails are from Paige. She’s just returning my call at first, but she sounds more and more agitated with each message. By the time I reach message number seven, she’s moved past being annoyed and is verging on worried. I’m pulling into my apartment when I get to Paige’s last message. Her voice takes on a completely different tone. She tells me we need to talk in person, and it’s about Caelar and the false-blood.

The voice mail ends abruptly, and I slam on my brakes, barely stopping before I hit the bumper of the car parked in the spot in front of me.

Shit, shit, shit.

I feel Kyol focus on me, but I can’t help my reaction. This is so
not
what I wanted to hear. If “Caelar” and “false-blood” are used in the same sentence, I want it to be because Caelar has killed or captured the other fae. Or because he’s discovered the false-blood’s identity. Or his hideout. Or
something
that will help us get rid of him.

But no, I’m jumping to conclusions again. Paige didn’t say they were working together. Maybe Caelar does just have information on the false-blood. Maybe he wants to sell it. Why he’d want to sell it to
us
, though, I have no idea.

I dial Paige as I get out of the car and walk to my apartment. Predictably, I get her voice mail. I leave a message telling her to call me back. I should be around for the next day or so.

After I lock my front door, I head to my bathroom and turn on the shower. I strip, then step beneath the water, not waiting for it to get warm. The icy stream pelts my face and shoulders, but I grit my teeth and watch the plastic floor turn brown as dirt and grime wash down my skin. I’m hoping the cold shower erases my mind for a few minutes. I’m tired of Kyol knowing how I feel, and I’m sick of worrying about losing Aren.

But when I block both of them from my mind, my other concerns crowd in on me. Like the fact that all my voice mails were from Paige. None from Lee. None from Shane. The latter bothers me more than not hearing from Lee. If Shane was alive, there would have been some sign of him by now. But it’s so hard for me to convince myself that he’s dead. I need proof. I need to know that he’s not being held hostage by the remnants.

Or by Lorn or the false-blood.

By the time the shower heats to something warmer than tepid, the water is almost clear. I pull my towel off the metal hanger. I don’t have a bath mat, so I step onto my jeans so I don’t slip on the wet linoleum. Something digs into my heel. I look down.

And see Kyol’s name-cord half-hanging out of my pocket.

I draw in a breath, reach down, and pick it up. It’s made of onyx and
audrin
, a pale stone native to the Realm. I’ve never seen Kyol wear it, but I had every intention of returning it to him when I took it from my apartment in Houston. I’m glad I can still give it back to him, but the way Aren slapped it into my palm . . .

I throw my towel against the wall, wishing it were heavy enough to slam or break something. It’s not. It falls so quietly to the floor it might as well flutter.

I kick it into the corner, where my soiled clothes are. Three days until I lose Aren. I’m beginning to think that he might really let that time go by. That hurts. And it makes me feel like I’m a fool.

Swallowing back my emotions, I jerk on clean undies, a pair of cargo pants, and a black T-shirt. I stuff the name-cord in a pocket, swearing an oath to myself that I
will
return it to Kyol the next time I see him, then I grab a comb and pull it through my wet hair. I’m conquering the tangles one by one when tension explodes through my life-bond. I grab the edge of the sink, bracing for whatever is coming next, but Kyol gets control of his emotions and the situation he’s in. He’s not safe, and he’s worried. Cautious. He’s trying to settle down the celebrating mob, most likely. Has it grown more violent? Has it turned against—

Pound.

I spin toward my bedroom, ripping the comb free to clutch it in front of me like a dagger. The sound came from my front door. Or maybe it was a neighbor’s door? Someone could have dropped something on the floor above me.

Pound!

That
definitely came from my door. It’s not exactly a knock, but it’s not quite hard enough to say that someone’s trying to break in.

Eyeing the peephole, I cautiously take a step forward.

“McKenzie.”

I freeze. The voice is muffled through the door, but it sounds strained. And it sounds familiar.

I peek through the peephole. No one’s out there. At least, no one’s standing directly in front of the door.

Pound. Pound.

“McKenzie.”

I back up, frowning. Surely, that’s not who it sounds like.

I unlock the door, turn the knob, then pull it open. Lorn falls inside.

My hands slip under his arms just before his knees hit the floor.

“Jesus, Lorn.” He’s freaking heavy, and he’s . . . wet?

I move him away from me, leaning his back against the doorframe. My breath catches in my lungs. Lorn’s badly hurt. His face is a mask of red, and one bloodied hand is holding his stomach. I can’t see how bad that wound is—I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see it—but his clothes are shredded, his knuckles and hands cut, and his
edarratae
don’t look healthy.

“What happened?” I ask, standing to flick off my light switch. I start to pull him inside my apartment—all I need is a neighbor seeing me crouched down and talking to my doorframe—but he grabs my arm.

“No—” He chokes on the word, and his lungs rattle. “No. I didn’t quite outlast the interrogation.”

A chill sweeps over my skin. “Interrogation?”

“We need to leave,” he says.

Kyol’s thoughts have turned toward me. I don’t want to distract him, so I fight to keep my emotions stable. That’s not easy, considering this is the fae I accused of intensifying the war between the rebels and Atroth’s fae so that he could make a profit. He was imprisoned because of me. He has every reason to want to cause me trouble.

But he’s sitting here half-dead on my doorstep. I can’t just turn him away.

“Why do we need to leave, Lorn?”

“The false-blood found me,” he says, his eyes closing in a grimace. “The meeting didn’t go exactly as I’d planned.”

“The false-blood? You met him? You know who he is?”

“He is the
Taelith
.” Lorn opens his eyes. “That’s all I know.”

“And now he knows where I live,” I say. I bite my lower lip, start to shake my head, but then stop and glare at Lorn. “How the hell do
you
know where I live?”

He doesn’t answer that. He just lifts one bloodied eyebrow, and his lips curve into a faint smile. Yeah, it was a stupid question. Lorn never reveals his information sources.

“How long do I have?” I ask.

“Minutes. Seconds. I’m surprised he’s not here already.”

I stare at Lorn. He managed to make his words so casual, I don’t know if he’s joking.

Crap. I don’t think he is. I think he’s serious.

My heart thumps against my chest. I draw in a deep breath, trying to slow it down and to ward off the adrenaline that’s threatening to jet through my bloodstream. I don’t need Kyol to fissure to my rescue. I need a break from his emotions, and he needs to concentrate on what he’s doing so he doesn’t get himself killed.

“You can’t fissure?” I ask Lorn.

“Not sure if I can walk at the moment.”

Fabulous. I can’t run off and leave him behind.

I grab my keys off the counter, then sidle up next to Lorn to put his arm over my shoulder. “You ready?”

Lorn nods. I count to three, then push up to my feet.

He weighs so much more than I thought he would, and he’s not even wearing
jaedric
or carrying a sword or dagger or anything. My quads are just barely strong enough to lift him. I so need to join a gym.

I shut my door, then we stagger to the staircase. He grips the rail, uses it as a crutch to help him down the first steps. It doesn’t help, though. We’re moving way too slow.

“You can’t even fissure to the parking lot?” I ask.

He looks down and to the right, where cars are crammed between the narrow lines.

“I’ll try,” he says, letting his arm fall from my shoulder. God, he’s really bad off. No smile, no arrogant reply, just a short, pained statement.

He clutches the rail with both hands. His magic has been weak since Kelia died. Add to that the fact that he fissured from his world to mine half-dead, and it’s obvious how much of a struggle it is to open a path to the In-Between. He manages it, though, and after the strip of white light appears on the step below him, he falls into it.

I half expect to see him rolling down the stairs, but the In-Between catches him. My gaze goes to the parking lot just as the light spits him out, face-first, on the cement. He doesn’t move.

“Shit,” I mutter.

I take the steps two at a time, beeping my car unlocked as I run to Lorn.

“Are you alive?” I ask, putting my hand on his back.

“Mostly,” he says, and I relax some. That note of amusement in his voice was more like the old Lorn.

“At least you landed next to my car,” I tell him. I focus on Kyol’s emotions as I open the passenger door. I’m going to have to give in and get him to fissure here. He’s the only way I’m able to communicate with the Realm. He’ll want to question Lorn, and Lorn will need a healer.

But I shove Lorn into the passenger seat without letting loose my emotions. Kyol is filled with the cold, calculating emotions that tell me he’s still in the midst of a fight. Plus, I don’t want him to fissure here if the false-blood might show up.

I turn on the car’s engine, put my hand on the back of Lorn’s seat so I can back out. He’s slumped against the window, his eyes closed. I can’t tell if he’s breathing.

“Don’t you die in my car, Lorn,” I say.

A smile slips through his busted lip.

“Exactly how badly are you hurt?” I ask, backing out of the parking space.

“I would very much appreciate a healer.”

“I know. I’m working on it.” I brake, then shift into drive.

And a sword slams into the hood of my car. My brain registers the three slashes of white light a second later, but the other two fae have already swung their weapons.

A blade shatters my window, tearing through the back of my seat.

I hear a scream, think that it’s mine until I realize I’ve slammed the pedal against the floor. My tires are squealing, my car lurching forward quick enough to save our lives until I ram into a parked truck.

I just barely keep my face from slamming into the steering wheel. Lorn’s too out of it to brace for the minor crash. He hits the dash the same instant the fae outside my window stabs his blade forward.

Throwing myself over the central console, I manage to shift into reverse while hitting the gas pedal. The fae—the damned
elari
—loses his grip on his sword when the window frame catches his arm. The blade barely misses me as it flies into the backseat.

My neck pops when I slam into a vehicle behind us. Quickly, I shift gears again. One of the
elari
is standing three feet away in the beams from my headlights. I stare down the fae as he stares down me. It’s Nimael, the fae who slipped away from us in Tholm, and the
elari
who might be the false-blood’s second-in-command. A gut instinct tells me he’s responsible for the slaughter of the women in the
tjandel
, and most likely the Sighted humans in London as well.

I want him dead. I want it so badly I can taste blood on my tongue.

With my left foot on the brake, I press the gas pedal with my right, revving the engine. Pure theatrics. I know Nimael will fissure out of the way before I can run him over.