“You’re hurting me,” I say. His grip doesn’t loosen.

“What’s wrong?” Naito demands, running into the room. Kelia and Sethan are right on his heels.

Aren nods toward the cell phone, but his eyes remain locked on me. I want to shrivel up and disappear. This is the expression he wore when he tortured Tom, and—and oh, crap—what if he does the same thing to me? What if he demands I tell him where the Sidhe Tol is? If he truly threatens me, will I give in?

“Aren, please.”

“She called nine-one-one,” Naito says, scrolling through the calls on the phone. “And another number.”

“Every time I think I’m making progress with you . . .” Aren closes his eyes and lowers his head. I feel him shake, trying to control whatever’s raging inside him. His hands are bruising my arms. Even the chaos lusters seeping into my skin seem angry.

“Aren,” I try one last time.

Cold silver eyes meet mine. I don’t dare breathe. He’s not Aren right now. He’s someone else, a fae capable of being the Butcher of Brykeld.

“This ends now,” Sethan says from the doorway. “We’re taking her to Lorn.”

A muscle twitches in Aren’s cheek, then he nods once, accepting Sethan’s pronouncement. That’s what it sounds like, a formal proclamation deciding my fate.

“We don’t need to go to Lorn.” Naito drops the cell phone and then slams his heel into it. “We can make her talk.”

“She’ll lie,” Aren says. He pushes me into the wall.

“We’ll take her to Lorn,” Sethan says again. He walks to the sink and turns off the water. “I won’t risk her sending us into a trap.”

Naito’s jaw clenches. “Lorn won’t help without something in return.”

Kelia rests her hand on his arm. “It’ll be fine.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Naito—”

He pins her with a glare. “You’re not going without me.”

Kelia’s lips thin, but she doesn’t protest again.

THIRTEEN

ICE FISTS AROUND me, squeezing, cracking, then shattering apart when we emerge from the gated-fissure. I suck sweet, crisp air into my lungs and waver unbalanced while I adjust to the Realm’s atmosphere.

Lena releases my arm. That’s how I know Aren hates me: he ordered her to bring me to this place. It’s dark except for a thread-thin tendril of light peeking around what I assume is this building’s door. I step back and my heel hits something . . . a wall. I lay my hands flat against rough wood planks. The structure feels small and crowded. I’m pretty sure we’re in the middle of a village or city. Fae speak on the other side of the wall. Their voices aren’t stationary. They’re moving along a street, probably dodging around the carts I hear bumping over cobblestones.

The room brightens when Lena sends her magic into the glass sphere hanging from the ceiling. The blue-white light shines on wooden crates and barrels. Between me and a stack of cloth sacks, shadows from our fissure dance. They bend. They lengthen and shrink. My hand itches to draw them out. I think we’re in a coastal city, but without pen and paper, I can’t be sure which way is up or left or right. If I could just make one line, one tiny scratch on a page, I’d be able to orient myself.

“Put that on,” Lena orders, gesturing to the cloak in my arms. She thrust it into my hands just before she pulled me into the fissure. I’m no longer wearing my ruined jeans and bloodstained nightie. Kelia gave me fae-made clothes before we left Georgia—clinging beige pants made of soft leather, an embroidered blue top, and black, knee-high boots that match Lena’s. It’s cold here, so I’m actually grateful for the addition of the cloak, but I refuse to follow Lena’s command without at least a little resistance.

When I don’t immediately do what she says, she arches a perfect eyebrow. “Aren won’t be upset if I hurt you.”

“He was upset when you broke my arm,” I point out, even though I know things have changed between us.

She shrugs a shoulder. “Only because he wanted you to willingly read the shadows for us.”

My stomach knots. I shouldn’t let her bother me. She’s just confirming what I already know: Aren’s been manipulating me, using his edarratae to tease and tempt me to his side of the war.

The silver in her eyes seems to brighten. “Oh, it worked, didn’t it? At least a little?”

I use the cloak as a distraction, unfurling it more aggressively than necessary. I don’t like her seeing a crack in my loyalty to the Court.

“He was certain he had you after the vigilantes’ attack,” she continues. “But when you made those phone calls . . . Well, Aren’s patient, but he can pretend for only so long.”

I find the top of the cloak and swing it on. Forcing myself to keep my composure, I meet Lena’s eyes. “Don’t we have somewhere to be?”

Sethan would have been a much better escort, but at the last moment, Aren told him it wasn’t safe to come. I’m not sure if Lena is here because they need an extra sword or if she’s needed for some other reason. It doesn’t matter, though. I don’t see a way out of this mess.

Lena has no trouble returning my gaze. She crosses her arms, taps a finger idly on her elbow, then says, “Rumor has it you’re in love with the sword-master.”

If I look away, it will be an admission of guilt. Somehow, I manage to return her stare, though I don’t think I’m breathing anymore. I’m cold, as cold as if I’m passing through the In-Between. I’m not used to people knowing how I feel about Kyol. I’ve spent the last ten years hiding it from the Court.

“So it’s true.” Lena shakes her head in mock pity. “The Court bought your allegiance with a kiss. Or was it more than that? No, Taltrayn would never lie with you, not unless his king ordered it, and there was no need to when you were purchased so cheaply.”

I blink. I think she just called me a whore. Anger sparks deep in my chest, but before I can do or say something I’ll undoubtedly regret, my skin tingles. I press flat against the wall as a fissure splits the air. A second later, Kelia and Naito emerge from the light. I try to focus on the shadows even though I know I won’t be able to read them without sketching a map, but Naito distracts me. I rarely encounter other humans in the Realm, so it’s odd seeing the white chaos lusters on anyone’s skin except my own.

The storage room’s door opens. Aren slips inside and shuts it quickly. He looks at Kelia. “Is he still here?”

“Yes. Near the herev,” she says. I don’t recognize the last word.

“How far from the gate?”

Kelia’s brow wrinkles as if she’s concentrating. I assume they’re talking about Lorn. I also have to assume she can sense where he is. That’s odd. And disturbing.

I watch an edarratae skitter across Naito’s clenched jaw. His movements are jerky, angry, as he pulls the flaps of his cloak around him. Well, huh. My suspicion must be correct. Unless Kelia possesses some type of magical ability I’ve never heard of, the only way she could sense another fae’s location is if she has a life-bond with him.

“Near enough,” Kelia says.