Trev walks past us and climbs the stairs. I give Aren a tight-lipped smile and follow, feeling the beat of the music on my skin as I step into a long hallway. This hotel must extend over more than one shop. A slant of street-light comes in through a boarded-up window, providing just enough illumination to see a dozen closed doors lining both sides of the hall.
Aren stops beside the first door, puts a finger to his lips, then slowly reaches for the handle.
It gives the softest click as it turns.
I hold my breath. I don’t know if it’s better for him to throw the door open or to open it slowly, hoping that if someone is on the other side, they won’t hear him enter.
He opts for the second method. The door silently moves, inch by inch, until the whole dank, empty room is revealed. A single bed occupies more than half of the space inside. It’s made, but the flowered comforter is faded and moth-eaten. At the foot of the bed, a sliding door leads to a bathroom barely big enough for a sink, toilet, and stand-up shower. It’s obvious no one’s here. No one’s been here for months, maybe years.
“Check the other rooms,” Aren whispers to Trev.
Trev moves to the door opposite us and turns the handle. Just like the first one—and just like the metal door we entered through—it turns without the least bit of resistance. Goose bumps prickle across my skin because that’s wrong. Even if the owner deserted this place at the last minute, he or she would have locked up. There should be some sign of a break-in. Honestly, there should be some sign of life. This is definitely not a Hilton, but if I had no place to live, I’d stay here. London is a big city; there should be squatters in an abandoned building like this.
Aren moves to the next door. Once again, it opens and, once again, the room is empty save for a bed. Trev’s second room is the same, but it’s not until they’re both opening their fourth doors that I breathe a little easier. If the remnants were here, they would have made an appearance by now. I don’t know if I’m more frustrated or relieved. I want to find Paige, but I’m glad we’re not going to start a fight in the middle of this city.
I walk to the other end of the hall. A second staircase occupies the space where Aren’s last door is. It’s steep and narrow, and I think it leads directly outside. Maybe an emergency exit or something.
I slide my dagger back into its scabbard. Aren is still opening his doors quietly, but Trev has given up caution. He holds his dagger ready in his left hand as he pushes his last door open with his right.
No remnants leap out, but Trev just stands there in the doorway.
I move to his side.
I stare inside the room.
It takes a millennium for me to process what I see.
“Oh, God,” I choke out.
FIFTEEN
MY HAND COVERS my mouth. I stare at the four blood-soaked bodies just long enough to know they’re all human, then I have to turn away.
I hold on to the doorframe, digging my fingernails into the painted wood. The smell…It’s sour and stagnant and sickening, and suddenly, the air feels too hot. Too humid. It’s like the spilled blood has moistened everything. I look at my arms, expecting to see my skin misted red.
“McKenzie?”
I barely register Aren’s voice. It sounds distant, cavernous. I can’t respond; I just turn back to the tiny hotel room without saying a word. I focus on the body nearest me because I can’t look at the one that’s sprawled across the bed, the one that’s missing its skin. The cuts on the body near my feet aren’t straight lines. They’re small and jagged, like tiny bolts of red lightning. I’ve seen death before—fae who were beheaded before entering the ether, humans who were caught in the cross fire of the Realm’s war—but I’ve only seen this kind of twisted torture once. It was in Lyechaban, a city on the eastern coast of the Realm. The fae there loathe humans, and when I was in the city with Kyol nearly seven years ago, two humans were tied up on a dais. The Lyechabans tried to cut the lightning from their skin. I thought they were dead until one of them twitched and…
With horror, I force myself to focus on the person on the bed. Please, please let him be dead.
“What’s wrong?” Aren freezes beside me. He’s close, but I don’t feel the warmth of his body, just a bone-chilling dread that makes my stomach churn. Is the guy’s chest moving?
“Sidhe,” Aren whispers.
I think it might be moving, but the way the light from the room’s single window slants across his chest, it could be my imagination.
Aren takes my arm. “We’re leaving. Now.”
Did a lip twitch? I hold on to the doorframe, refusing to move.
“Aren,” I say softly. “Make sure they’re dead. Please.”
“They are.” He urges me to move again; I stand my ground. Two of the bodies are female. One has hair bleached the same shade of blond as Paige’s. She’s propped up against the foot of the bed, but her face is turned away. I can’t tell if it’s her.
Aren squeezes my arm. “Okay.” He kisses my temple. “Okay.”
He steps into the room. The soles of his shoes leave tracks on the blood-drenched floor. He’s wearing casual, high-ankled fae boots. I didn’t notice them before, but they look odd paired with his jeans and shirt. Foreign. Atroth didn’t include shoes in his stash of clothing. I should tell Lena to add footwear to the collection.
Why the hell am I thinking about shoes?
I shake my head, attempting to reboot my mind so I can focus. Aren is squatting by a body. He touches a wrist, checking for a pulse. Jaw visibly clenching and unclenching, he rises then moves to the next body. When he squats beside that one, I swear I see movement from the next, the blond girl who looks like Paige.
I take a step toward her. I know I saw movement, but she’s in the same position as she was before. I don’t know what…
Oh. Her hair. A lock of it flutters, caught by the draft coming in from the window. The window’s lower portion is pushed out, allowing air in. Allowing air out, too. How is it possible the people on the street can’t smell this death? How could they not hear the screams? The humans had to have screamed. None of these deaths were quick. They were slow, painful.
“Look at me, McKenzie,” Aren says. He’s standing in front of me. He cups my face between his palms, and edarratae tickle down my neck. “We have to get out of here. You can’t panic right now. Do you understand?”
I feel a crease wrinkle my forehead. I don’t think I’m panicking.
“These are the missing humans,” he says. “The ones who worked with Atroth.”
What?
“Are you sure?” I ask. The remnants need Sighted humans as much as we do.
“I’m sure,” he says, “The walls list their names.”
My stomach churns, but I look over his shoulder at the blood painting the walls. Now that I’m focused on the smears of red, I recognize the Fae symbols. I still can’t read it, but it’s definitely their language.
“Why would the remnants slaughter them?” I ask, focusing on the blond girl. I recognize her now. Her name is Anya. She is—was—Russian. Sixteen years old. The same age I was when I began working for the Court, only she started when she was fourteen. While working for the king, I met fae who disapproved of my presence in the Realm, but they accepted it because I hunted down the Court’s enemies. I can’t imagine any of those fae doing something like this. This is beyond barbaric.