The Sharpest Blade

Page 37

“I support her completely,” he says with a cavalier shrug. He’s relaxed and confident, standing there by Lena’s side. The consummate rebel.
Kyol’s hands tighten into fists. One second passes. Then another. Finally, he gives Lena a single nod.
When he turns to leave, I close my eyes. He’s going to take on this responsibility for her. She knew he would. I guess I did, too. I just hope this decision of hers doesn’t cost him his life. I hope it doesn’t cost all our lives.
FIFTEEN
WITHIN THE HOUR, I conscript a fae to fissure me back to Vegas. I need to get in touch with Lee and Paige. It’s been almost five days since I heard from Lee, and I left Paige a dozen messages a little over forty-eight hours ago. Surely, one of them has called me back by now.
But that’s not the only reason I leave the Realm. I have to go. Kyol is so exhausted and frustrated, he’s not able to keep his mental wall in place. I’m trying to keep my emotions from him, too, and the constant concentration is wearing me down. My head is absolutely killing me.
The throbbing abates as soon as I return to my world.
“Thank you!” I practically yell to the night sky. My fae escort’s eyes widen as he slowly nods. He murmurs a “you’re welcome” before he disappears.
My reaction might have been a little much, but it’s a relief, being able to think again.
Sliding my keys out of my pocket, I walk to my car. A TOW AWAY sticker has been slapped on my driver’s side window. My car has been parked on the side of the road near the gate for two days. I’m actually surprised it hasn’t been towed yet. I tear the sticker off, then grab my cell phone out of the central console as I slide behind the wheel.
The phone is dead, so I don’t get a ding telling me I have messages until after I start the car and the phone has charged for a few minutes. I put it on speaker and hit PLAY.
The first eight voice mails are from Paige. She’s just returning my call at first, but she sounds more and more agitated with each message. By the time I reach message number seven, she’s moved past being annoyed and is verging on worried. I’m pulling into my apartment when I get to Paige’s last message. Her voice takes on a completely different tone. She tells me we need to talk in person, and it’s about Caelar and the false-blood.
The voice mail ends abruptly, and I slam on my brakes, barely stopping before I hit the bumper of the car parked in the spot in front of me.
Shit, shit, shit.
I feel Kyol focus on me, but I can’t help my reaction. This is so not what I wanted to hear. If “Caelar” and “false-blood” are used in the same sentence, I want it to be because Caelar has killed or captured the other fae. Or because he’s discovered the false-blood’s identity. Or his hideout. Or something that will help us get rid of him.
But no, I’m jumping to conclusions again. Paige didn’t say they were working together. Maybe Caelar does just have information on the false-blood. Maybe he wants to sell it. Why he’d want to sell it to us, though, I have no idea.
I dial Paige as I get out of the car and walk to my apartment. Predictably, I get her voice mail. I leave a message telling her to call me back. I should be around for the next day or so.
After I lock my front door, I head to my bathroom and turn on the shower. I strip, then step beneath the water, not waiting for it to get warm. The icy stream pelts my face and shoulders, but I grit my teeth and watch the plastic floor turn brown as dirt and grime wash down my skin. I’m hoping the cold shower erases my mind for a few minutes. I’m tired of Kyol knowing how I feel, and I’m sick of worrying about losing Aren.
But when I block both of them from my mind, my other concerns crowd in on me. Like the fact that all my voice mails were from Paige. None from Lee. None from Shane. The latter bothers me more than not hearing from Lee. If Shane was alive, there would have been some sign of him by now. But it’s so hard for me to convince myself that he’s dead. I need proof. I need to know that he’s not being held hostage by the remnants.
Or by Lorn or the false-blood.
By the time the shower heats to something warmer than tepid, the water is almost clear. I pull my towel off the metal hanger. I don’t have a bath mat, so I step onto my jeans so I don’t slip on the wet linoleum. Something digs into my heel. I look down.
And see Kyol’s name-cord half-hanging out of my pocket.
I draw in a breath, reach down, and pick it up. It’s made of onyx and audrin, a pale stone native to the Realm. I’ve never seen Kyol wear it, but I had every intention of returning it to him when I took it from my apartment in Houston. I’m glad I can still give it back to him, but the way Aren slapped it into my palm . . .
I throw my towel against the wall, wishing it were heavy enough to slam or break something. It’s not. It falls so quietly to the floor it might as well flutter.
I kick it into the corner, where my soiled clothes are. Three days until I lose Aren. I’m beginning to think that he might really let that time go by. That hurts. And it makes me feel like I’m a fool.
Swallowing back my emotions, I jerk on clean undies, a pair of cargo pants, and a black T-shirt. I stuff the name-cord in a pocket, swearing an oath to myself that I will return it to Kyol the next time I see him, then I grab a comb and pull it through my wet hair. I’m conquering the tangles one by one when tension explodes through my life-bond. I grab the edge of the sink, bracing for whatever is coming next, but Kyol gets control of his emotions and the situation he’s in. He’s not safe, and he’s worried. Cautious. He’s trying to settle down the celebrating mob, most likely. Has it grown more violent? Has it turned against—
Pound.
I spin toward my bedroom, ripping the comb free to clutch it in front of me like a dagger. The sound came from my front door. Or maybe it was a neighbor’s door? Someone could have dropped something on the floor above me.
Pound!
That definitely came from my door. It’s not exactly a knock, but it’s not quite hard enough to say that someone’s trying to break in.
Eyeing the peephole, I cautiously take a step forward.
“McKenzie.”
I freeze. The voice is muffled through the door, but it sounds strained. And it sounds familiar.
I peek through the peephole. No one’s out there. At least, no one’s standing directly in front of the door.
Pound. Pound.
“McKenzie.”
I back up, frowning. Surely, that’s not who it sounds like.
I unlock the door, turn the knob, then pull it open. Lorn falls inside.
My hands slip under his arms just before his knees hit the floor.
“Jesus, Lorn.” He’s freaking heavy, and he’s . . . wet?
I move him away from me, leaning his back against the doorframe. My breath catches in my lungs. Lorn’s badly hurt. His face is a mask of red, and one bloodied hand is holding his stomach. I can’t see how bad that wound is—I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see it—but his clothes are shredded, his knuckles and hands cut, and his edarratae don’t look healthy.
“What happened?” I ask, standing to flick off my light switch. I start to pull him inside my apartment—all I need is a neighbor seeing me crouched down and talking to my doorframe—but he grabs my arm.
“No—” He chokes on the word, and his lungs rattle. “No. I didn’t quite outlast the interrogation.”