The Sharpest Blade
Page 4

But I’m closer to Kyol, and already, my feet are moving me forward.
My feet are insane, I think. They should be running toward the palace, toward help. These streets aren’t quite empty—I pass a group of armed, young fae whispering and watching me from across the street—and I feel more eyes on me than I see. More than once, a silver gaze peeks out of a darkened window, following my progress through the city.
I place my hand on the hilt of the sword that’s buckled around my waist. Three steps later, I frown down at the weapon.
My first thought is, how the hell did I get it and the dagger that’s sheathed on my opposite hip? My second is that this must be a dream. It’s the Realm that’s confused and groggy, not me. Any second, Kyol is going to come out of the door in front of me dancing a jig.
I laugh. Kyol isn’t a jig-dancing kind of fae. I can’t even see Aren breaking into a—
Aren.
His name centers me, and I cling to it, remembering his cedar-and-cinnamon scent and the way his lopsided grin triggers lightning inside me without so much as a touch. It’s been three weeks since I’ve seen him. Three weeks since he pushed me away because of this life-bond. I have to get control of it.
I look again at the door in front of me. The building it’s set into is a tall, three-story structure made of identical slate blue stones. Each floor has four square windows, but not an ounce of light comes out of any of them. Either it’s completely dark inside, or the glass is painted black.
I try the handle, and when it turns, my feet take me inside, leading me closer to Kyol.
• • •
THE room I enter is magically lit, but the natural moonlight still visible through the open door is more comforting than the blue-white light from the orbs ensconced on the walls. It feels like I’ve stepped into the lobby of a hotel. That’s the vibe I get from this place though hotels are extremely rare in the Realm, where fae can easily fissure back home to sleep in their own beds. But there’s an elaborate, wooden desk to my left and a cluster of plush-looking blue chairs to my right. Behind them, a series of small squares within small squares decorates the wall, and a few feet to the left of that is a wide staircase. It narrows as it climbs to the next floor.
I draw my sword as I step farther into the empty room. Something is wrong about this place. It’s too richly decorated to belong in a neighborhood like this. It’s clean where everything else is dirty, soft where everything else is hard and sharp. The only thing the building has in common with the outside world so far is the smell. It gets worse as I make my way to the staircase. Kyol is up there somewhere. He’s still weak and hurting, but I think he might be more . . . stable? That’s the only word I can think of that fits. He’s holding on to see me.
The warmth that swirls through me at that thought is laced with trepidation, and I almost lose focus.
I steady myself on the wooden handrail. Somehow, I’m already halfway up the stairs. I think my disorientation is Kyol’s fault. He’s fading in and out of consciousness, and I’m falling into and out of a walking coma.
I take another step, then another. The silence doesn’t bother me until I’m almost at the top of the stairs. There should be a squeak or groan or something from the steps bearing my weight. Instead, I’m greeted by more silence. It’s so unnatural, I deliberately tap my sword against the wall. The beige-painted surface completely absorbs the sound. Someone’s used a rare magic here, one that absorbs the vibrations in the air.
Tightening my grip on my sword, I climb the rest of the steps.
At first, when I emerge onto the second level, it feels as pristine and untouched as the ground floor, but then I step onto the carpet. It’s not plush beneath my sneaker. It feels soggy. When I look down, I know why. There are no bodies in the long corridor, but a ring of blood puddles up around my shoe as if I just stepped on a sponge. Fae disappear when they die, taking with them their clothes, armor, and anything they’re holding or carrying on their bodies, but any blood spilled before their hearts stopped beating remains behind. That’s what has happened here. Of course, I have no evidence that the fae actually died. As long as the building isn’t protected by silver, they could have fissured out.
Or the blood could be from Kyol. He’s not on this floor, though. He’s one story up, almost directly over my head. Surely, he couldn’t have made it upstairs with an injury severe enough to saturate the carpet like this.
The staircase leading up is farther down the corridor. I wish it wasn’t. I want to go directly to Kyol; I don’t want to walk past the three open doors to get to the second set of stairs. This place sounds and feels like a tomb, and I’m afraid to peer inside any rooms.
The sticky, metallic scent of blood is getting to me, so I start breathing through my mouth as I make my way down the corridor. I’m not as freaked-out as I should be when the carpet continues to squish beneath my shoes. That’s evidence that I’ve seen way too much violence in my lifetime. I hate this, the fear and tension running through me. I’d rather be back in the library, sitting behind a computer screen bored to death.
I grimace. Bad choice of words.
I’m nearing the first open door. It’s on my right. I try to convince myself to keep my gaze focused on the stairs ahead, but my vision goes black again. When it clears, I’m staring at a large, silk-draped bed. It’s in the center of the room, and lying on top of its sheets is a woman dressed in nothing but blood and gashes. Her eyes and mouth are open, the latter as if she was screaming. Or gurgling, rather. Her throat has been slashed open. I can see something white peeking out of it, some tissue or ligament or something. I don’t want to know what it is. I don’t want to see this.
McKenzie.
I don’t really hear Kyol think my name, but he’s trying to get my attention, projecting steadiness and reassurance in my direction. How he can do that when he’s hurting so much, I don’t know, but I use the strength he’s lending me and turn away from the dead . . .
The dead human.
My gaze fastens on her face again. She’s not fae. And the way she’s been killed, her skin sliced open in long, wide cuts all over her body . . . I recognize this violence. She was tortured and killed just like the Sighted humans we discovered in London just under a month ago were.
My feet—my possessed, unreasonable feet—take a step inside the room. As soon as I do, the air beside me moves, sending goose bumps down my arms. My heart goes still one second later, just before I hear the whisper, “Tchatalun.”
THREE
ADRENALINE JOLTS THROUGH me. I raise my sword as I spin, knowing only someone who wants me dead would call me defiled one. My sudden move surprises the fae. He barely fissures out of the way of my blade’s path. Instinct tells me he’ll reappear behind me, so I pivot again, slashing out as he steps out of the light.
His sword is drawn and raised. He deflects my attack as if he’s swatting a fly and strides forward.
Kyol’s fear spikes with mine. We both know I’ll never win a sword fight against a fae, but I have no choice except to try.
I thrust my sword forward. My attacker steps left then his free hand darts out, catching my wrist before I fully register his movement. He shakes it hard, but I manage to hold on to my weapon with one hand and throw my fist at his face.