Aren says something in his language and a moment later, I hear normal, ungated-fissures opening. I assume the other fae are going directly home or to their base or camp or wherever the hell it is they stay. That leaves me alone with Aren, one on one, mano a mano. Not that my odds of escaping are that much better but, hey, I’ll take what I can get.

Aren presses something warm and smooth into the palm of my right hand. I don’t have to see it to know it’s an anchor-stone, one that’s probably still glowing from his imprint.

“Do you know what will happen if you drop this?” he asks.

“I’ll be eviscerated into a hundred billion pieces of flesh and plague your nightmares.” I let the stone slip through my fingers. It hits the ground with a light thump. I wait for him to bend over to retrieve it, but I don’t hear or feel him move.

“If you’re suicidal,” he says after a long moment. “There are less painful ways to die.”

“You need me alive.” My voice is steady. My heart rate, however, is not. The lightning from his touch radiates up and down my arm.

“You’re sure about that?”

“You wouldn’t have saved me if you wanted me dead.” That’s the only thing giving me courage right now. He went to a lot of trouble to keep me from going splat. He has to want me to shadow-read for him, for the rebels. As long as he thinks I might do it, I should be okay. I think.

His hand slides from my elbow to my shoulder. “Pick up the anchor. It’s by your left foot.”

I sink down to get away from the tingling heat of his touch and pat around the dew-covered grass until I find the stone. It’s so very tempting to chuck it as far away as I can, but I’m not suicidal and Aren, son of Jorreb, is the Butcher of Brykeld.

“You won’t be eviscerated if you let go of the anchor,” he says, pulling me upright. “You’ll be lost in the In-Between.”

And with that, he yanks me into the gated-fissure.

My breath whooshes out of my lungs and crystallizes. It feels like I’ve dropped through the surface of a frozen lake. It’s so cold here my heart stops beating, my blood stops flowing. Only my mind functions, and it can only focus on the heat of the anchor in my left hand and the heat of Aren’s palm in my right. I don’t remember taking his hand, but I squeeze it tight. I’d rather be squeezing his throat.

Supposedly, traveling via fissure, whether gated or not, is instantaneous, but I swear it lasts ten to fifteen excruciating seconds. That’s plenty of time for me to know I do not want to stay in the In-Between one moment longer than necessary. I hate going through gates, especially without Kyol.

As soon as the ice releases me, I know we’re in the Realm. The air here is different. It’s . . . crisp, like biting into an apple, and the atmosphere is lighter. Or maybe it’s me that’s heavier. I’m not sure. All I know is I’m human. I don’t belong in this land any more than the fae belong in mine. I feel big and awkward, like I stick out. And I do. Here in the Realm, chaos lusters originate from humans, not from fae, and the bolts of lightning are white instead of blue. I’ll get used to them and this world in an hour or two, but right now I’m more than uncomfortable. I’m pissed.

As I turn toward Aren, I reach up to take off my blindfold. He stops me, takes both my hands in one of his, and holds them to the hard jaedric armor protecting his chest. We’re so close his cedar-and-cinnamon scent dances its way into my lungs. My thoughts hitch for a moment as his touch triggers more lightning. It shimmies through my fingers, over my palms, and up my arms. It would be so easy to forget myself in the addictive sensation, but I’ve had ten years to steel myself against a fae’s touch and I won’t be distracted.

“Never, ever pull me through a gate unprepared again!” I try to jerk away as I snarl the words. I’m unsuccessful, of course, and I think I hear a chuckle beneath the rumble of another gated-fissure opening.

“I brought you through in one piece.” He takes the anchor-stone from my hand, returns it a moment later. It’s hot with the imprint of a new location. “Hold your breath.”

Already? I start to ask, but he pulls me into the fissure and the question is whipped from my mouth.

I’ve never traveled this quickly before. Fae can fissure over and over again as long as they don’t move far from their original location, but we just jumped between two worlds. Even if we stayed on Earth, the most conditioned fae would have to wait two to three minutes before opening a second fissure. No wonder the Court’s never been able to capture Aren.

My world’s warmth wraps around me. I try to listen between my gasps for air for the voices of people or fae, for the sounds of traffic or construction. Something, anything, to give me a clue as to where I am. The birds twittering overhead aren’t helping me out. I could be anywhere.

Aren re-imprints the anchor-stone. “Again.”

“Again?” I yelp, but this time I hold my breath before he takes me through. That helps. My lungs don’t feel the bite of the frost, but I’ve never, ever been through more than two fissures in an hour before.

We stay in my world. I’m shaking now, and it’s not entirely due to the ice that seems to have replaced my bones. Journeying sucks energy from travelers. When Kyol takes me through a fissure, he absorbs most of that drain himself. Unless he’s exhausted or injured, I only feel a little disoriented on most trips. I’d undoubtedly feel more if we crossed through three fissures, but there was never a need to. Besides, I’m pretty damn sure what we just did was dangerous.

Aren releases my hands to rub his palms up and down my arms. The electric tingle warms me some, but I shove away from him. With the cloth still blinding me and my head still pounding from being knocked out, I’m off-balance. I’m sure my knees would have buckled if he didn’t steady me, but I don’t want his help. As soon as my dizziness subsides, I pivot on my right foot and swing my left knee up and into his groin. He harrumphs but doesn’t let go, and he has no trouble catching the fist I blindly aim for his nose.

I kick and twist and struggle. “Let me go!”

I try to swing my head into his, but he’s ready for me now. His arms encircle me, pinning my arms to my sides. I spin until my back is pressed into his chest and stomach, and I keep squirming until I wear myself out, which doesn’t take long since the gated-fissures siphoned most of my strength.

“Are you finished?” he asks.

I slam my heel into his shin one last time. “For now.”

A short pause, then, “I’m going to take your blindfold off. Do not turn toward the shadows.”

I can feel them lingering just a few steps away, and when Aren removes the cloth from my eyes, it takes all of my self-control not to glance over my shoulder. It’s always difficult not to be sucked in by the shadows. They tug on my consciousness, calling to me like the whisper of a siren’s song. I’ve gotten better at resisting their lure over the years, but Aren’s order not to turn has made them even more tantalizing.

I dig my fingernails into my palms, trying to distract myself. Then, instead of a forbidden glance over my shoulder, I tilt my head back to peer through the treetops to the sky—the sunlit sky.

Wait a second. It was pitch-black when Aren took me through the first gate, and he was so freaking impatient to get through the next two that no more than three or four minutes could have passed. My watch says it’s only ten minutes after midnight.