My fingers tangle in the plastic fence.
I fall.
I hit the side of the building and keep screaming.
My throat’s raw by the time I realize I’m not dead. I’m hanging between the third and fourth floors, holding on to the plastic fence like my life depends on it because . . . well, it does.
A chuckle draws my attention upward. The damn fae peers over the edge, looking all jolly and relaxed.
“I can’t believe you held on,” he says.
The moonlight highlights the planes of his face, and even though I’m dangling three and a half stories above the ground, I’m suddenly more pissed than afraid. I don’t recognize him, but my gut tells me who he is: Aren, son of Jorreb, the false-blood who’s determined to overthrow the king. And he’s laughing at me.
The plastic fence stretches. My fingers cramp, but I’m determined to hang on forever if it keeps me away from the killer above.
Something snaps loose from the wall and I drop another foot.
“Whoa, easy there. Easy,” Aren says.
“Back off!” I mean to yell the words, but they come out as a hoarse croak. I know I should be begging for his help, but a part of me believes Kyol will rescue me. I choose to ignore the part that believes he’s dead.
“Sure,” Aren says in an infuriatingly devil-may-care voice.
“No problem, but how about you give me your hand first? There’s no need for you to fall.”
“I won’t help you!”
“I’m not asking for your help. Just give me your h—”
The plastic rips free from the wall. I scream again and tense, bracing for impact.
“McKenzie. Hey, look up here, McKenzie. I’ve got you.”
Heart thudding, I look up. He does have me. Sort of. He’s dangling over the edge of the building, his left hand wrapped in the fence, his right hand grasping the opening’s frame.
“Stop kicking,” he says. I stop, not realizing I was moving at all.
“Good. Now, you’re going to have to grab my legs. I think the fence will rip if I try to pull you up. Can you do that?”
I nod. I don’t care who he is anymore. I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to be normal, graduate college, get a real job, and spend time with some real-life friends. Hell, I want to have sex at least once before I croak.
The thought of death pulls my gaze toward the concrete.
“No, don’t look down, McKenzie. Look up here. Look at me.”
I do as he says. His eyes are bright but soft, like silver sand with tiny shards of diamonds, and his expression is serious but not strained. The last part impresses me. I might be thin, but I’m not dainty, and he’s supporting both of our weights.
“Pull yourself up.” There’s a bit more urgency in his voice now. He must feel the plastic stretching, too.
I muster the strength to reach up and grab his legs. As soon as I wrap my arms around him, he releases the fence. With a grunt, he pulls himself up and over the edge. I scrape along the side of the building until he grabs my arm, dragging me to safety.
I lie facedown on the cement floor. My arms feel like spaghetti and I’m shaking, but I can’t be weak right now. The rebels will demand a high price for saving my life, and I have no intention of sticking around to pay it.
I lurch to my feet, but my knees buckle.
“Are you okay?” Aren asks.
I ignore him and rise again. This time, I manage to keep my balance. It doesn’t matter, though. Three rebels block the staircase. One of them speaks in Fae.
“The police are coming,” Aren translates behind me. No doubt my screams have brought them. I consider screaming again, but Aren grabs my arm.
Lightning flashes from his skin to mine. I can’t shake loose. He wrestles me to a corner and, when he presses his lean body against mine, my brain stops functioning. The lightning between our skin increases, becoming almost volatile, and my body flushes with heat.
“The police can’t help you,” Aren says. I’m sure that smirk on his face is due to my obvious discomfort. He feels the electricity between us the same as I do, but he’s not bothered by it.
“Let go!” I demand, trying to free my arms.
Flashlight beams precede the cops up the stairs.
“Be quiet. Be still,” Aren whispers.
I twist. I almost slip free, but one strong arm locks around my waist. He covers my mouth with his other hand.
Stupid move on his part. I bite down hard.
He doesn’t grimace, but his smirk vanishes.
“Sorry about this,” he whispers in my ear.
Pain explodes above my temple. I totter, but don’t black out. My knees aren’t working, though. Aren’s holding me up. I’m able to focus on his face well enough to see surprise in his eyes. Then the surprise disappears. His lips thin as he raises the weapon again. It’s a dagger. He swings its hilt down a second time.
TWO
MY HEAD’S KILLING me. I’m alone in the backseat of a IV van. A human is driving, slowing down, stopping. I don’t want to move from the floor of the van, but the side door grinds open and I’m yanked to my feet. Black splotches dance in my vision. They’re much like the shadows I read for the Court, but these don’t form patterns and no one’s opened a fissure here, wherever here is. Before I’m able to focus, I’m yards away from the vehicle, which is already pulling back onto the road. At least Aren isn’t the fae who’s trying to dislocate my shoulder. He’s a man the rebels call Trev. I can barely feel the electric thrum of his touch because his fingers are cutting off my circulation. He doesn’t hesitate when I stumble or lag behind. Humans can’t move as quickly as the fae. He knows this. He’s a total asshole for not slowing down.
We don’t go far. That’s good because walking makes the world wobble, but bad because this means we’ve reached a gate. It’s invisible when I look directly at it, but if I turn my head to the side, it’s there in my peripheral vision. A thinness in the world. A subtle blurring of the atmosphere.
I blink, trying to figure out where we are. I manage to read the numbers on my digital watch. It’s a little after midnight. I know the locations of every gate within a three-hour radius of my campus, but we’ve driven beyond that boundary. I don’t recognize the tiny pond in front of me or this patch of trees, which appears to be in the middle of some farmer’s cow pasture.
Aren steps to the pond’s edge. Gates are always located on water, so I understand what he’s doing when he reaches into the dark pool. He makes a connection with the gate, then stands, lifting his cupped palm toward the sky. But instead of a sprinkling of water, light spills over his fingers one drop, two drops, three drops at a time until the unending rain forms a bright, solid downpour. When this fissure breaks through the In-Between, it grumbles like a raging thundershower.
“I’ll take her through,” Aren says, taking a long strip of indigo cloth out of his pocket.
“Is that necessary?” I ask.
His silver eyes meet mine. “If the rumors about you are true, then yes. It’s very necessary.”
Having a reputation sucks sometimes.
Trev holds me in place while Aren ties the blindfold around my head. I guess I shouldn’t have expected them to make a stupid mistake, especially since the only reason I’m in this situation is because of what I’m able to see. If I wasn’t blindfolded, there’s a good chance I’d learn our location after we fissured. Basically, I’m a glorified cartographer. When fissures wink out of existence, I see the topography of the earth written in the shadows left behind. It’s like looking at a bright light for too long. When you look away, it takes a while for your vision to clear. The same thing happens with fissures, but where everyone else sees random blurs and blotches, I see the curves of rivers, the edges of mountains, and the slopes of the land. I sketch out these shadows so the Court fae can hunt down their enemies, and I’m pretty damn accurate; a fact that has obviously pissed off the rebels.