The Sharpest Blade
Page 43

“Coffee?” he asks.
“Please,” I say, stepping onto the tile, then taking a seat on the barstool to Kyol’s right. When Nick sets a coffee mug in front of each of us, he says to Kyol, “I didn’t steal Kynlee. Her brother came to me. He begged me to take her out of Ristin, and I agreed. I took her as far away as possible and changed my last name so no one could find us.”
“Her brother will want to see her,” Kyol says. “He’s Ristin’s high noble now.”
Nick thumps down a third coffee mug a little too hard. “She’s not going back to the Realm.”
“He could visit her here.”
“No.” He thumps the mug down again. “She’s safe here. She won’t have a chance in the Realm. She’ll be shunned. She won’t be able to find work. No one will want to touch her, let alone marry her. She’s staying with me.”
I’m surprised he mentions the touching and marrying. He hits me as the type of dad who would sit on the front porch cleaning that shotgun of his anytime a boy showed up to take Kynlee out.
“She should know where she’s from,” Kyol tells him.
“She’s from here, now.”
“Kyol,” I interject gently, my tone saying to drop the subject. He does, but he seems agitated. I don’t think that’s just because he thinks Nick is wrong. Something’s on his mind.
“Lorn’s still asleep?” I ask.
He nods. “For a few more hours, at least.”
I look at Nick to see if he’s going to protest our staying here longer. He’s already been more accommodating than I expected, especially considering the fact that he’s worried someone might try to take Kynlee away from him.
Stone-faced, he tosses his empty mug into the sink.
“I have to go to work for a while,” he says. “I’ll be back before Kynlee gets home from school. Make sure you’re gone by then.”
He grabs his keys off a hook by a door on the other side of the kitchen. After he disappears through it, I hear the grinding rumble of a garage door opening.
I take a sip of my coffee as silence descends between Kyol and me. I want to tell him about Paige’s message and the Web site I found, but he feels so . . . I’m not sure how to describe him. Exhausted, yes, but it’s more than that. Soul-weary maybe. I don’t want to burden him with more bad news.
On the other hand, we already suspected the vigilantes were selling the Sight serum. This just confirms Glazunov’s words. And as for Paige’s message . . . It’s still possible Caelar isn’t working with the false-blood.
“Tell me,” Kyol says, staring down at the granite countertop.
I grimace. Of course he’d feel my turmoil. Proximity makes it difficult to hide our emotions from each other. That’s why I’m aware of his mood even though his wall is in place.
“You first,” I say.
His silver eyes meet mine, and it takes everything in me to not react to his familiar, stormy gaze. It feels like a cord is pulling on my heart.
Kyol draws in a slow breath as he looks away.
“It’s nothing,” he says.
“Nothing?” I ask, that heart-cord snapping in annoyance. “Well, then. Nothing is on my mind either.”
“McKenzie—”
“Are you trying to protect me from something?”
“No.”
“Because I can handle it, Kyol. I’ve always been able to handle it.”
He swivels on his barstool, facing me fully.
“There is nothing specifically wrong,” he says. “I swear it.”
“Then what’s wrong generally?” I ask, not dropping the subject.
His jaw clenches. So does mine. I’m pissed at Aren for this same reason. Something is wrong with him, but he doesn’t trust me enough to tell me what. It’s ridiculous for me to have this problem with Kyol, too. There’s no reason to withhold information from me after everything we’ve been through.
I slide off my barstool, start to leave, but Kyol grabs my arm.
“I’m worried about you, McKenzie.”
I look down as lightning circles my elbow. I’m mad enough that the lick of heat doesn’t make me want to move closer to him.
“That’s it?” I ask, letting doubt slide into my voice.
He releases my arm, then reaches for something beside the counter. When he turns back to me, he’s holding two dull swords with familiar red handles.
I barely suppress a sigh. Maybe I am what’s bothering him. God knows I’m not as good at hiding my emotions as he is, and he’s never had a life-bond before either. This is as new to him as it is to me. I’m probably stressing him out with my chaotic mood swings.
“Please,” he says, holding one of the practice swords out for me to take.
Even though my anger is quickly disappearing, I cross my arms over my chest. “Are you going to be an ass when I get tired?”
After a brief pause, he says, “You learn more quickly when I’m an ass.”
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face.
A few minutes later, we’re in Nick’s backyard. I insist Kyol be visible in case one of the neighbors gets nosy, so he takes off his jaedric armor. He wears it so often, always prepared for an attack, that I’m sure he feels naked holding a sword without it, but his black pants and shirt can pass as human made.
“And if someone sees the swords?” Kyol asks, raising his blade between us.
“We’ll tell them we’re with the SCA.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“Society of Creative”—I fake a direct attack, swing down toward his left leg—“Anachronism.”
He blocks my wild move with ease and counters with an unnecessarily hard hit to my ribs. “Practice the forms. No wild swings.”
Wild swings are for the untrained. He told me that at least a dozen times between Tholm and Corrist. Wild swings rely on luck not expertise, but isn’t that the whole point of my training? I need to be good enough to be lucky because, God knows, if I end up in a sword fight with a fae, I’m going to need a huge dose of luck to survive it.
Besides, Aren gets away with wild, messy swings when he fights. It’s not that he isn’t trained, but sometimes, being unpredictable can create an advantage.
“Your focus is elsewhere.” Kyol hits my practice blade so hard, I nearly drop it.
I grit my teeth and tighten my grip on the red hilt. Right. Focus. I can do that.
Within minutes, my skin glistens with sweat. It’s frustrating considering Kyol isn’t even breathing hard.
“You need to leave Vegas,” Kyol says, swinging at my left thigh.
“Aren’t I supposed to be focusing?” I ask, blocking his attack. But I knew he’d bring this conversation up.
“You can’t return to your apartment.”
“I—” His blade arcs toward my head. I fall on my ass, avoiding a concussion. “Jesus, Kyol.”
He squats in front of me. “Good. Next time, roll away from your opponent. Roll to your feet.”
He offers me his hand. Is this his attempt to not be an ass? Or is it a trap?
My eyes narrow, and just in case, I get to my feet on my own.
“You’re doing well, McKenzie.”