The Sharpest Blade (3 page)

A
DRENALINE JOLTS THROUGH
me. I raise my sword as I spin, knowing only someone who wants me dead would call me
defiled one
. My sudden move surprises the fae. He barely fissures out of the way of my blade’s path. Instinct tells me he’ll reappear behind me, so I pivot again, slashing out as he steps out of the light.

His sword is drawn and raised. He deflects my attack as if he’s swatting a fly and strides forward.

Kyol’s fear spikes with mine. We both know I’ll never win a sword fight against a fae, but I have no choice except to try.

I thrust my sword forward. My attacker steps left then his free hand darts out, catching my wrist before I fully register his movement. He shakes it hard, but I manage to hold on to my weapon with one hand and throw my fist at his face.

I’m off-balance—I don’t even have my full weight behind the punch—but hate fills his silver eyes. Still holding my wrist, he shoves me into the wall. I go for his eyes, knowing I have only seconds to maim and kill him before he maims and kills me.

My nails scratch down his face. He hisses, shakes my wrist again, and this time, I lose my grip on my sword. It falls uselessly to the carpeted floor as the fae slams me into the wall again. My head hits so hard, my vision blackens. When it clears, my attacker raises his sword to my shoulder. His blade is sharp, so sharp I don’t immediately feel the skin peel away from my muscle as he slides it down my arm, following the path of one of my chaos lusters.

Agony surges through Kyol—he’s trying to move, trying to make his way to me—and his emotions scream for me to run. I try. The blood sliding down my arm makes my skin slick. The fae loses his grip on my wrist, and I turn and run even though I know it’s virtually impossible to escape.

I make it back into the hall, then into the next room. As I slam the door shut, I note there’s another dead woman on the bed in here. I don’t have time to process what that means; I’m trapped. There’s no other door to exit through. There’s not even a window.

Reaching down to my left hip, I take out the dagger that’s sheathed there and wait for the fae to kick open the door. Instead, he slowly turns the knob.

I clench my teeth hard enough to make my jaw ache. I’m human. The fae is toying with me. He thinks he has all the time in the world to be slow and deliberate, but screw him. I grab the edge of the door as it’s easing open, jerking it toward me as I thrust out with my dagger.

I’m aiming low—toward his groin since his torso is covered by
jaedric
armor. I end up slicing into his hip. Not a lethal wound, but he roars as if I’ve just struck his heart.

I think he roars, at least. Everything is still magically muffled, and I’m concentrating on the sword in his hand.

The door protects me from his enraged attack. His blade sinks into the wood, giving me the half second I need to strike again.

This time, I watch where I aim, and my dagger stabs up and under the
jaedric
and into the center of his gut. Then, as if I’ve done it a thousand times before, I twist the knife inside of him.

I don’t flinch or look away when his eyes widen. I memorize his face, the sharp nose, his black eyebrows and eyelashes, and I note the name-cord braided into his hair. Light from a magically lit orb reflects off the cord’s red and black stones just before his body disappears. His soul-shadow replaces it a second later. The white mist encircles my hand and the weapon I’m holding, before it rises and gradually fades.

I stare down at my dagger’s surprisingly clean blade. My hand isn’t clean, though. It’s red with the fae’s blood.

Numb, I slide the blade back into its sheath.

“McKenzie.” Kyol’s voice is so weak, I’m not sure if it’s in my head. I stagger against the wall, then use it as a crutch to inch back toward the hallway.

“Kyol?” I hear my own voice. The magical silence has lifted, probably because I killed the fae maintaining it.

I shouldn’t have been able to kill him. I should be dead.

My hand leaves a streak of red across the wall. My arm throbs, but it’s my mind that’s truly hurting. It’s being crushed by the weight of the life-bond.

“Kyol,” I call again.

“Taltrayn!”

I step into the hall as his surname is called out. It’s not until the fae steps into view that I recognize the voice’s owner.

“Sidhe,”
Lena murmurs, grabbing my arm as I sway.

“Help him,” I manage to say.

Lena lowers me to the ground, barks an order at her guards, then leaves my side.

I don’t know how long I stay there, doubled over and digging my fingers into my knees. It feels like I’m crouched on the edge of eternity. If Kyol doesn’t survive, I’ll pitch over into an abyss. I can feel the life-bond drawing me toward it. I fight to keep my balance, and in my mind, I grab hold of the strand of light that connects us and pull. Kyol has to stay on my side of eternity. He
has
to.

At first, all I get from him is a loud silence, a static of a thousand weak emotions. Gradually, some of those emotions strengthen. One in particular snakes its way through the life-bond: concern. It’s for me, of course. He’s always so worried about me. I wish I didn’t know that, wish I couldn’t feel just how much he cares. If he hated me or at least cared a little less, my decisions wouldn’t hurt him half as much as they do.

Bracing myself, I open my eyes and look up. My heart does a somersault when I do. Lena is kneeling beside him at the end of the hallway, but his stormy gaze is focused on me, and it feels as if a tidal wave moves through the air. Kyol’s always had a tangible presence. Without seeing him, you know when he steps into a room, and even injured like he is, he gives off the impression that he could annihilate an entire army with just one practiced swing of his sword.

And that’s why it scares me to see him like this. Kyol was King Atroth’s sword-master. He’s Lena’s lord general. He knows how to kick his enemies’ asses, and I’ve never seen him hurt this badly.

Breaking eye contact, I use the wall for support and rise to my feet. God, I feel weak, like I’m the one who’s lost half my weight in blood. My arm isn’t bleeding
that
much. It’s not a minor wound, but it’s nothing near as serious as the injuries Kyol has.

I inventory those injuries as I make my way to his side. Lena’s taken off his armor and cut open his shirt. Her long, slender hands are on his abdomen, and if the blood covering him is any indication, that’s the wound that almost sent him to the ether. It’s making him hold his breath now. My stomach clenches in sympathy when Lena puts pressure on the injury, but I’m thankful she’s here. Lena and Aren are the only healers I know now. It’s a rare magical ability that’s in huge demand with all the violence in the Realm, and it’s the only thing that’s going to ensure Kyol lives now.

Seconds tick by. Sweat glistens on Lena’s forehead, and her face is taught and pale. After she finishes with that wound, she takes his left fist in her hand and forces him to relax it. When he does, blood gushes from his mutilated palm. It’s not just a deep cut; at least two bones are broken. Maybe more. A wave of dizziness passes over me as I crouch beside him.

“Steady,” Kyol whispers. His eyes are closed again, but his right hand reaches for mine. I intertwine my fingers with his and move closer. A warm, solid relief runs through our connection. Being close to me makes him feel whole. It makes me feel whole, too.

My heart shudders at that realization. It’s wrong. A month ago, Aren was the one who made me feel complete. The only thing that’s changed between then and now is the bond, and I won’t let myself be manipulated by magic. I need to shut down my thoughts and feelings. I need to be clinical, objective.

But I need Kyol to feel better. I should slide my hand free from his, but I don’t. I tighten my grip and lend him whatever strength I can. It’s not enough. He grimaces in pain.

I can’t stand to see him hurt, so I turn my attention to Lena. That’s when I see the staircase behind her. Kyol is leaning against the wall at its base. When I first got here he was on the third floor. He’s on the second now.

“You should have stayed where you were,” I tell him.

“You should have as well,” he replies evenly.

I watch his chest rise and fall with each breath he drags in. I was so afraid I’d get here too late, that I’d see him take his last breath and feel his heart beat for the last time.

“I couldn’t,” I say simply.

His mouth bends into a grim smile. “I know.”

Beside us, Lena snorts, then mutters in Fae,
“Life-bonds turn
Tar Sidhe
into
tor’um
.”

That has the ring of a proverb to it. My translation: life-bonds make people do stupid shit. That’s the only reason Kyol would attempt the stairs half-dead, and it’s the only reason I’d let a—

Oh, crap.

I sit back on my haunches, my eyes wide.

Lena wipes the back of her hand across her brow, then meets my gaze. Somehow, she knows exactly what’s leaped to my mind. “Do you want to tell him how foolish you were or should I?”

“She’s okay?” I ask.

“She’s fine,” Lena says.

Kyol’s brow furrows. “Who?”

“Kynlee,” Lena answers. “The
tor’um
who fissured McKenzie from her world to ours.”

“Tor’um?”
Alarm jolts through Kyol.

“I wasn’t thinking,” I say in my defense. “I couldn’t think.”

“It should have killed you,” Lena says, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studies me. She’s not just throwing those words around; she really thinks I shouldn’t have survived the In-Between.

“Maybe she’s barely a
tor’um
?” I suggest. Regular fae have different levels of
avesti
, of magical reserves. It’s possible
tor’um
could as well. After all, most of them can’t fissure at all.

Kyol pulls his hand free from Lena’s. It’s healed now—
he’s
healed—but he’s weak from her magic and from blood loss. I can feel his muscles tremble as he releases my hand, too, then carefully rises to his feet. All thoughts of being killed by the In-Between vanish from my mind when he sways.

“Maybe you should rest a little longer.”

He shakes his head. “I want you away from here.”

The way he says that makes me frown. He doesn’t want me here in this building, and for the first time, my mind is clear enough to process what I’ve seen. I remember the room downstairs, the lush, lobbylike feel of it, and I can visualize the room I was in. It didn’t have any windows, just walls covered in silklike cloth and a large bed. The sheets were rumpled beneath the woman, but I’m certain she wasn’t killed in her sleep. She was . . .

Shit.

“This is a
tjandel
,” I whisper. I first heard that word just under two months ago. King Atroth’s lord general threatened to send me to one if I didn’t give him information on the rebels. It’s a brothel where human women are imprisoned. Fae pay to have sex with them. They get off on the chaos lusters that leap to their skin when they touch, and some of them like tormenting the women, most of whom don’t have the Sight. They don’t see the thing that’s raping them.

“This is the third one we’ve discovered,” Lena says.

“The third?” I echo, disbelief leaking into my voice. “How many are there?” I thought there might be one, maybe two, because, really, how many fae can be demented enough to come to a place like this?

“I don’t know,” she says, wrapping her hand around my right wrist and inspecting my injured arm. I try to pull away. She’s just expended a ton of energy healing Kyol, and the dark circles under her eyes indicate she wasn’t well rested in the first place.

“Lena—”

She gives me a murderous look that
almost
makes me stifle my protest. “You look like hell. Your hands are shaking.”

“My hands are shaking because I’m trying not to wrap them around your neck,” she bites back. “Now stop being a fool and let me help you.”

Fine. If she wants to further exhaust herself by healing me, she can go for it. I let her place her palm against the slash on my arm.

“We found the other two
tjandel
days after the humans were slaughtered,” she says smoothly, as if she didn’t just threaten to strangle me. “We were provided with a tip to this location.”

“We thought they would be alive,” Kyol says.

“Was this a trap then?” I ask, trying not to grit my teeth. Lena’s magic burns as it heals. “Who gave you the tip?”

A few seconds pass before Lena answers, “Aren.”

Aren.
The pain in my arm suddenly subsides. Now, the hurt is lodged in the center of my chest.

“Where is he?” I should get an Emmy. My voice sounds completely normal, and I’m certain my expression doesn’t change at all. Only Kyol feels the way my heart twists.

“Not in Corrist,” she says, “or he’d have come the instant we heard you were here.”

Would he? He hasn’t fissured to Earth once in the last three weeks, and the last time I saw him, he was . . . crushed. I don’t remember forming the life-bond with Kyol, but that didn’t matter to Aren. He thinks I’m still in love with Lena’s lord general, and that the bond will destroy any feelings I have for him. It won’t, but I don’t know how long it will take Aren to see the truth.