Oh, shit. There are plenty of fae around. The guard Lorn disarmed glances between me and the gate. In his eyes, I practically see his plan take shape.
He charges me.
I slash. I don’t expect to cut through anything except air, but he’s faster than a human; he reaches me too soon. My blade slices into his belly, gets stuck on something inside him, then rips the rest of the way through.
I put up a hand to keep him from barreling into me. My palm presses against hot blood and—and, oh God, I think it’s his intestines—before he collapses.
I’m still staring at him when Lorn grabs me. Still staring as Lorn drags me to the gate. Staring, still staring, as Lorn dips his hand into the river and opens a gated-fissure. The swordsman disappears into the ether the moment we disappear into the In-Between.
TWENTY-FIVE
I RETCH INTO the toilet, clutching the porcelain lid. I don’t know whether to keep my eyes open or shut. If I open them, I’ll see the bright red blood my hands smeared across the white seat. If I close them, I’ll see the pale, pain-stricken face of the fae I killed.
The fae I killed.
My stomach lurches again. I already threw up the minuscule meal I ate at the tavern. Dry heaves wrack through my body now, and I’m shaking. I can’t stop. I’ve seen fae die before, but I’ve never felt a blade carve through flesh like that, never pressed my hand against someone’s insides. I’ve never been directly responsible for a death.
I should be tried for murder. Yes, it was self-defense but even so, a judge would sentence me to . . . to something.
“Is she hurt?” Aren’s voice behind me.
“She’s fine,” Lorn says from his post by the door. “It’s just a bit of queasiness. She managed to kill one of the guards.”
Aren lays his hand on my shoulder, turns me away from the toilet. “McKenzie?”
My vision unfocuses. Seeing. Remembering. My stomach churns, and I want desperately to go back into the In-Between where it’s too bright to see and too cold to think.
“I’m quite impressed, actually,” Lorn says. “I didn’t know human girls were capable of killing.”
“Shut up, Lorn.” Aren takes my chin in his hand. “Look at me, McKenzie. Look at me.”
I force myself to meet his silver eyes. I try to ignore the smear of red across his jaw, ignore the fact that the hands touching me have killed so many more fae than I have.
“McKenzie?” Aren smoothes my hair away from my face.
I’m not crying. Why am I not crying? I just killed a man.
“It’s okay, McKenzie.”
It’s not okay. “Where are we?”
The skin at the corners of Aren’s eyes tighten. “We’re in Colorado. Naito lives here.”
“Is he here?” I ask. I manage to stand without his help.
“We haven’t found him yet.”
I can’t take the way he’s looking at me, like I’m fragile and one second away from falling completely apart, so I nod and walk out of the bathroom.
He follows me to the living room. The rebels have made themselves at home, the few who are here, anyway. Lena’s sitting on a camel-colored couch in between Trev and another fae—I think his name is Nalst. Three fae sit to her right in chairs stolen from the dining table. They all look out of place here, and not just because chaos lusters flash across their skin. They’re too haggard and dirt-smeared to belong in a house like this. It’s not a mansion like Shane’s place, but it’s put together just as well. Either Naito has a talent for picking out drapes and accent furniture or he hired a professional decorator.
Bottles rattle in the kitchen. Since the house has an open, spacious floor plan, I can see it from the hall’s exit. It’s separated from the living room by a granite countertop. Kelia’s on the other side, peering into the open refrigerator. I think the fridge might be the only working appliance in this house. The lamps are all unplugged, there’s no television in the living room, no phone or other appliance anywhere in sight.
“You should eat something,” Aren says.
“A drink would do her more good.” Lorn strides by. He stops where the dark cream carpet meets the tiled kitchen floor.
“Kelia, my dear. Could you please step away from the cold machine?”
“Refrigerator.” She holds out her hand without turning to look at him. “And my edarratae barely register it.”
“But it does register,” he says. “Really, sometimes I think you’re damaging your magic to spite me.”
“Here.” She hands him a bottle of white wine, then looks at Aren. “There’s nothing to eat. We’ll have to go out to get food.”
“I’ll go,” I say. Too quickly. Aren gives me a look that I haven’t seen since the last time I plotted an escape attempt, though this time, there’s no amusement in his eyes. He thinks I’m going to run. I’m not. At least, I don’t think I am, but I need time to think. I need time to be alone.
“Perhaps you’d like to take a shower first?” he suggests.
I glance down. Hell. I can’t go out in public like this. My clothes are stained with blood; I’d be arrested for sure.
I should be arrest—
No. I won’t think about that.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll shower.”
Kelia sets a couple of wineglasses on the counter. “I have extra clothes in Naito’s closet. Someone else will have to go to the store.”
“Kelia,” Lorn’s voice holds a warning.
She gives him one quick scowl, opens a fissure—
“Kelia!”
—and disappears.
“Nom Sidhe,” Lorn curses. “She could have at least . . .” He stops. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn toward me. “You, shadow-witch. Read her trail.”
I’m already staring at it. The dancing shadows might as well be magnetized, they capture my attention so fully. She’s fissured to the Realm. To the north. Corrist, I’m guessing, because I’m sure she’s searching for Naito.
Lorn thrusts an open magazine into my left hand and a pen into my right. I map the contortions shading my vision, turn the page when I zoom in on the southern quarter of the city and scratch down those shadows, pinpointing her location as well as I can.
“Corrist,” I say to make the magic work.
Lorn peers over my shoulder. The map is drawn over a diagram of some atom/nucleus thing. Hopefully there’s not too much text obscuring my lines.
“Thank you.” His fissure slices through the air a moment later. I focus on the magazine in my hand so I don’t get sucked into staring at his shadows. It’s Popular Science. There’s a photo of a corpse in the story highlights. It peeks out between my bloodstained fingers.
My hands itch. I toss the magazine on the counter. Fisting my hands at my sides, I hurry to Naito’s bedroom to grab clean clothes.
I linger in the bathroom long after I finish showering. My skin is clean, but not my conscience. If anything, the guilt is worse than before. When the warm, humid air grows heavy, constricting, I rise to crack open the door. I don’t intend to leave, but somehow, I end up at the end of the hall. The living room is packed with fae. Aren’s speaking to a black-haired man who’s shaking his head. In black pants and a richly embroidered jacket, he has to be a noble. Plus, he’s brought an entourage of guards—four of them—all armed and standing ready to defend their employer.