It’s a heck of a lot harder climbing out than I imagined, and I’m not sure how to go about it without getting myself killed. I end up straddling the ledge, a difficult thing to do since the window isn’t that big. Slowly, carefully, I let myself slip down until my left leg, which had been inside the inn, pulls over the edge and scrapes down the side wall. I have no idea how much noise I’m making, but at this point, I can’t do anything about it.
I grab the rope with my right hand, then let go of the windowsill with my left. As soon as I do, I start falling. I tighten my hands around the sheet, but I’m sliding too fast. My palms burn until I hit my first thick knot and yelp—softly, so as not to draw attention. I glance up at the window, wonder if I should try to get back inside. Shaking my head, I decide against it, grit my teeth, then let the next sheet sear through my palms. I meet another knot. Then another.
There’s blood on the white cotton now. I’m still half a story above the ground when it hurts too much to hold on. I manage to land on my feet, but a sharp twinge of pain shoots through my legs and I crumple over. As I’m down on all fours drawing cold air into my lungs, it occurs to me just how big an idiot I am for trying a stunt I’ve seen done only on TV. I could have broken my neck.
But I didn’t, I remind myself. I’m alive. I’m outside. I’m alone.
Careful to keep my blistered hands off the grass, I push to my knees and stand. I wait a second for a wave of dizziness to pass—God, I need some sleep—then quietly move away from the inn.
Thump.
I stop, glance over my shoulder.
Aren. Shit. He must have heard the window opening after all and followed me down. He stares up at my makeshift rope, gives it a little tug, then turns his silver eyes on me.
“You’re certainly resourceful,” he says. “I must give you that.”
His hands don’t look sheet-burned. Mine are on fire. I try to hide them, try to appear unconcerned that he’s interrupted my escape attempt, but when he strides forward, I tense. What if I’ve made him change his mind? What if he thinks it’s too risky to keep me alive?
He doesn’t hit or scold me. He takes one of my hands between his and flares his magic. Blue lightning skitters down his arms and his palm is suddenly a warm compress against mine. After a few uncomfortable seconds, the achy warmth changes. It feels good now. So does the electric tingle pulsing toward my elbow. I allow him to touch me longer than I should, long enough for some of the jagged blue lines to leap from his skin to mine. They’re bright in the moonlight. I watch them pirouette around my forearm, very aware Aren’s watching them as well.
“Edarratae,” he says. “Chaos lusters.”
“I know what they are,” I tell him, trying to ignore the sensations the lightning, the edarratae, sends careening through me.
“You can let go.” I try to tug my hand free.
“You could have killed yourself.” He releases my right hand to take my left, carefully avoiding the watch strapped around my wrist. This palm isn’t hurt as badly as the other, but he heals the skin with another warm touch.
“That would have made Lena happy.”
His gaze meets mine. “Yes. Yes, it would have.”
I don’t like the way he continues staring into my eyes. It reminds me of Kyol and how mesmerized he always is by them. To me, they’re nothing extraordinary, just a plain brown color a few shades darker than my hair. My features are slightly different from a fae woman’s—my cheekbones aren’t quite as prominent, my nose not quite as sharp—but Aren’s not analyzing the rest of my face right now. I wish he would because the intensity of his gaze coupled with his chaos lusters triggers a warm, simmering sensation in my stomach. It’s not right to feel like this, especially not with Aren, son of Jorreb.
I break eye contact, willing my body to cool and berating myself for reacting to those soft silver eyes. I try to tug my hand free again. I need his edarratae gone so I can think clearly.
After another moment, he releases me. I fold my arms across my stomach without looking at my mended palms. Healing is an endangered magic, and it seems wrong that a killer should be gifted with that ability.
Aren motions toward the front of the inn. “Come, nalkinshom . We need to talk.”
I keep my feet rooted to the ground. “I have a name. You don’t have to insult me.”
“Insult you?” He cocks his head. “Nalkin-shom is one of the least insulting titles you’ve been given.”
I frown. “Titles?”
“Yes, titles. Nalkin-shom means shadow-witch. Lena prefers to call you traep-shom. Shadow-bitch. Some of the other names lose their sting in translation, but there’s also shadowscum, map-whore, kin-killer.” He pauses. A grin bends a corner of his mouth, and I swear moonlight twinkles in his eyes. “What? You didn’t know you have the reputation of a killer?”
“The Court captures most of the fae I track,” I say, trying not to let his smirk get under my skin.
“Fae children have nightmares about you.” He grabs my wrist, waits until his edarratae leap up my arm. “Parents tell them if they’re bad, the nalkin-shom will come for them in the night, sear them with her lightning, and drain them of their magic.”
My heart beats in time with the energy pulsing through me. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?”
“You’re the false-blood. If the fae tell stories to scare their children, then they’re telling them about you.” False-bloods are like cult leaders on crack. They gather a following of the gullible and disillusioned, then wreak havoc on the Realm, claiming to be the chosen progeny of the Tar Sidhe, the magically superior fae who ruled the provinces centuries ago. I’ve hunted down half a dozen false-bloods over the years, some more successful than others, but all of them violent. Aren’s the real monster here.
To my surprise, he chuckles. “Come, nalkin-shom. You need to meet someone.”
He doesn’t give me the opportunity to protest. He lets go of my wrist, places his hand on the small of my back, and ushers me forward. We round the corner of the inn. Either the rebels have all fissured out or they’re holed up inside the house, all except for Lena, who’s on the porch speaking to another fae. He’s new. I’d certainly remember if he was one of the onlookers during my sentencing. His blond hair is long and straight, falling over broad shoulders covered by a burgundy cloak. His tunic and black trousers look rich and clean, and the leather scabbard at his hip is in pristine condition, almost as if he’s never had to draw his sword. He’s either a criminal or a noble. Either way, he has access to tinril, the currency used in the Realm, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s the fae funding Aren’s rebellion.
He ends his conversation with Lena as we climb the porch steps.
“This is Sethan, son of Zarrak,” Aren says. Lena’s brother? I hate him already. “Have a seat, McKenzie.”
He places his hand on my shoulder, guiding me to the weathered wooden bench beside the front door. I sink down, partly to get away from his touch and partly because I’m so damn tired. My stomach growls a reminder that I haven’t eaten anything since a few hours before my final, and a headache pounds behind my eyes. The least the rebels could have done was given me a scrap of bread when they locked me inside that room.