I’m not about to mention the sketchbook until I have it in my hand, so instead I ask what Naito’s reading when he closes the book. He says it’s a collection of notes he’s taken on the vigilantes, their names and where they’ve been seen before. I tell him about Lee and Nakano’s texts and about Boulder, and when I explain my plan, Naito agrees to it with only a grunt. I actually expected him to protest more, but I guess he doesn’t care because he’ll still be going back to Earth. He still thinks he’ll have a chance to kill his father. Of course, I don’t tell him what my prewritten text says. I wrote that the fae are burying Naito in Cleveland, Georgia. It’s kind of a random location, but that’s where the rebels had one of their safe houses. Nakano went all the way to Germany to kill fae before. I’m hoping he’ll want to do the same now and will leave his compound in Boulder.

That’s what Naito calls it—a compound. He says it’s an abandoned ski resort, but it sounds like a military outpost. Nakano’s probably made it into one. He has the weapons, equipment, and camo to supply half an army. Add to that the fact that he and his people are extremely good at killing fae, and I’m a little worried about what we’ll find there.

But we need to get to the serum and the research, so I slice open a roguia, a fruit with thick, bloodred juice, and squeeze it over Naito’s neck and chest. The picture I take with the phone comes out grainy and perfect—he really does look dead—and I just need to tell Lena and the others my plan, then have a fae fissure me to Earth so I can send the text and picture.

I stop by my room first, though. I have to wash the human girl’s blood off my skin.

I strip off my shoes, my clothes, the belt holding my dagger. The bath I take is cold—they always are unless I have a fae heat the water for me—but I don’t linger long, just long enough to scrub away the bloodstains. I can’t scrub away the guilt, though. The fae’s war has affected my world too much this last month. The girl in the club and the Sighted humans next door to it weren’t the first deaths. A little over two weeks ago, three humans died when King Atroth’s fae attacked a neighborhood near Vancouver. The neighborhood was home to a group of tor’um who sheltered the rebels. They were sane fae, born without the ability to use enough magic to fissure, but they were shunned by almost everyone else in the Realm. They moved to my world to start new lives in a place where they would be accepted. Only a Sighted human would know they were different. They weren’t harming anyone, but then Atroth attacked. He didn’t care who was caught in the cross fire. The war used to be almost completely limited to the Realm. It’s not that way anymore.

I step out of the tub and dry off, taking care not to put any pressure on the side where my ribs are an angry purple. My favorite pair of jeans is still lying on top of my chest of drawers. I slip into them, nearly sigh at their perfect fit. The best option for a shirt is a long tunic. It’s white and dips low in the front, but with the jeans, it doesn’t look too foreign. Besides, I plan to only be in my world a few minutes, just long enough to text Naito’s father.

I stick Lee’s cell phone into my pocket, then head to the throne room. Aren and Kyol are both there. So are Taber and a relatively large number of Kyol’s top swordsmen. I’m halfway to the dais at the other end of the room when I notice the latter are surrounding a fae.

No, they’re surrounding a tor’um. The tor’um. The one who mistook me for Paige back in Spier. The one who almost became Atroth’s sword-master. She’s standing there with her wrists shackled in front of her, rocking back and forth, heel to toe, heel to toe. Her long hair is pulled back into a ponytail, then into a tight brown braid that drapes over her shoulder.

As if sensing my presence, Aren turns toward me, and I swear his face pales. That’s when I notice he’s outside the group of fae. Like, way outside of it.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Aren’s eyes close in a long blink. When he opens them, he looks at the tor’um, then back at me. “I’m sorry, McKenzie.”

There’s so much regret in his voice that I would have to be an idiot not to put the pieces together. I freeze before I reach the group, and the stabbing pain in my side dulls to a distant ache when I realize that Aren did this. Aren turned this fae tor’um.

When I first saw the woman back in Spier, Kyol told me she was made tor’um years ago. I assumed Aren had nothing to do with it because he wasn’t fighting King Atroth then. I didn’t know about his history with Thrain.

It’s easier to ignore Aren’s past when I’m not directly confronted with it, but seeing what he’s done right in front of me and knowing that this woman isn’t the only person whose life he’s ruined makes me feel sick.

“McKenzie,” Lena breaks into my thoughts. “I thought you’d be with your friend.”

The tor’um turns to see who Lena is talking to, and when she spots me, her face lights up.

“There you are!” she exclaims. She takes a step toward me, then stops. Her brow wrinkles in confusion and, in a completely different, almost disappointed tone, she says, “There you aren’t.”

She’s looking for Paige, I realize, but the only thing I can think of to say is, “Why is she here?”

“She was found skipping outside the wall,” Lena says. She turns back to the tor’um, her gaze taking the woman in head to toe. “Clearly, she wanted to be caught.”

“Clearly!” the tor’um chimes in.

“Why did you want to be caught, Brene?” Kyol asks in Fae. His voice is low, but gentle, and I get the impression that this Brene is someone he admired, someone he’s saddened to see in this state.

She looks like a child concentrating when she frowns. She even has a slight pout to her lips. “I was looking for something.”

“Were you looking for me?” I try, thinking maybe the remnants sent her to find Paige. Aren did this to her, not me, and I know this is unreasonable, but I feel like I owe the tor’um, like I’m obligated to help her because I’m involved with the fae who ruined her life.

Brene squints at me, and I wonder if my pronunciation is off. Then, it’s like she’s looking through me. I glance over my shoulder, but no one is there. When I focus on her again, she shakes her head then tilts her head up to peer at the ceiling. Her demeanor feels off, more off than it was a second ago, at least. I think we might be losing her.

“Brene?” I try using her name. Maybe it will help her refocus.

Her coal gray eyes lock on me. “Un-Paige,” she says. “Tell them I dislike the bracelets.”

“Bracelets?”

She holds up her shackled wrists.

“Can we—”

“No,” Kyol, Lena, and Aren say in unison. Their responses are short and sharp, like taking off the shackles is the worst idea ever. Apparently, they all think Brene is dangerous, even in her semisane state.

I’m not so sure they’re right, though. Without warning, she plops to the ground like a child and starts tracing the edge of the blue carpet runner. She’s babbling in Fae, something about lightning not being able to tell the difference between skin and sky, but she’s using such a singsong voice, I don’t know if I’m translating her correctly.