I lose traction on the silver underfoot and land hard on my side. Pain, white-hot and nauseating, shoots across my middle. My stomach’s not completely healed. Gritting my teeth, I ignore the wound, crawl to the cart, and slide underneath.

It takes a moment to catch my breath. When I focus on the blood and chaos beyond the shadow of my shelter, I see him—Kyol, conquering his way through the rebels. A rush of emotion fires through me. I want to shout his name, to be at his side again, but I keep my silence because I’m afraid I’ll distract him. I don’t think he knows I’m here. If he did, he’d be searching past the fae he’s fighting, looking for me near the gate or the edges of the battle to make sure the rebels don’t take me away from him. Instead, he wears an expression of cold indifference as he cuts through his opponents. It’s a mask. He shuts off his emotions when he fights. I think Atroth and I may be the only ones who know how much the killing bothers him, but Kyol will do anything, slay anyone, for his king.

He’d even kill Aren.

I don’t know why the thought pops into my head. Maybe it’s because my stomach hurts and needs healing. Maybe it’s the Stockholm syndrome reasserting itself. Or maybe it’s because . . . because I don’t want Aren to die. Whatever the reason, I find myself searching the throng, seeking his tall frame and wild, disheveled hair.

I find him close to Kyol. Too close. They’re fighting practically back to back. If Aren turns a few degrees to his left and Kyol turns a few degrees to his right, they’ll see each other. They’ll attack each other. And one of them won’t survive.

It’ll be Aren who’s struck down. I’m sure of it.

Only two clashing men separate them now. One of those men is Naito. He hasn’t made it to the gate and, holy crap, his sword cuts through a Court fae’s defenses, cleaving deep into his cheek and jaw. I don’t know if the swordsman felt it, though. The blow itself was hard enough to snap his neck. The fae’s body crumples. It’s replaced by his soul-shadow a second later.

“Naito!” Kelia screams a warning.

Another Court fae swings his sword at the human. Aren turns, intercepting the blade before it finishes its arc.

“Go!” Aren shouts.

Naito sprints toward the gate, toward Kelia, who’s waiting for him in the circular area that’s free from silver. She dodges attacks while he closes the distance between them. When he’s almost to her, she dips her hand into the river. Stands.

A cry to my left. I turn in time to see Kyol pull his blade free from a rebel, in time to see him take three long strides toward Kelia. Her fissure splutters out when she staggers back and lifts her sword.

“No,” I whisper.

She deflects Kyol’s sword, but doesn’t duck under his fist. It slams into her face. Naito’s there the next instant, screaming. Kyol effortlessly parries the human’s enraged attack. By the time Kelia hits the deck, Kyol’s disarmed Naito. Within seconds, he opens a gated-fissure, wraps his arm around Naito’s neck, then vanishes into the slash of light.

“No,” I whisper again.

“Naito!” Kelia screams.

Aren skewers his opponent, turns toward Kelia, sees her crawl to her knees and stare helplessly at the twisting shadows. But she can’t read them. She doesn’t know where to go.

I do.

With a start, I look away, but Aren’s already seen me.

The next minute passes in a blur. Before I can scramble out from under the merchant’s cart, Aren takes hold of me. He pulls me out, holds me down on my hands and knees, and grabs a handful of my hair, wrenching my head back so I’m staring at the shadows.

“Read them!” he orders. He takes the paper, the map I started in Lorn’s basement, and unfolds it on the ground.

I shake my head.

“Now!” He jams a pencil into my hand. When a Court fae rushes us, Lena leaps into his path, thrusting her sword into the man’s gut.

I don’t move, don’t even flinch, when the body drops down beside me and disappears. I won’t read the shadows. I won’t send Aren after Kyol.

“Either she maps them or you kill her!” Lena snaps, deflecting another fae’s attack.

Aren raises the bloody edge of his sword to my neck. “Don’t make me do this, McKenzie.”

My breath empties out in a quick puff. No. He healed the gash across my stomach—or started to, at least. He’s not going to kill me now. He’s bluffing.

I close my eyes so I don’t see any more of the twisting shadows.

Aren yanks on my hair. “Look, damn you!”

His blade slices into my neck. My eyes snap open.

“I’ll do it,” he snarls into my ear.

The metal presses deeper. I’m too terrified for it to hurt, too surprised to manage a protest or a plea. Warm, thick liquid bleeds down my throat.

“Read them!”

I stare at the shadows. My hand moves. I don’t know what I’m doing until my map’s scale changes.

Red splatters on the paper, marking the edge of a forest on the west side of the Derrdyn Mountains. Kyol’s there. My reading is accurate enough for Aren to reach him before he fissures again. I can save my life with just one word.

Another drop of red hits the map. I don’t feel the blade at my neck, just the warm wetness that proves Aren is willing to kill.

He might be willing, but I’m not.

It’s suicide, my next action, but I carry it out nevertheless, ripping my shadow-reading in two. Seconds later, I’m engulfed in darkness.

FIFTEEN

I HAVE TO be dead. People die when their throats get slashed. They drown in their own blood. I’m pretty sure I’m not breathing. I’m cold, numb, and I don’t hurt anymore.I’m not breathing. I’m cold, numb, and I don’t hurt anymore.

IT’S oppressively heavy here. Vaguely, I remember the bite of the In-Between, but I don’t know how I got from the merchant’s cart to the gated-fissure or who took me through it. All I know is I’m not where I was before. I’m walking next to lightning. Stumbling next to it, really. My coordination is shot. I’m weak and tired. And cold. Why can’t I get warm?

The lightning holds out a hand. Something warm presses into my palm. It’s not enough to keep me going, though. My knees buckle. This time, I’m carried into the ice.

LUCIDNESS returns slowly, sane thought by sane thought. I realize my hand is pressed to my neck. I feel the cut beneath my fingertips. The blood’s almost dry now, but I don’t dare move. I’m afraid of opening the gash again. I have images of my throat splitting apart, of feeling my windpipe whistling red spittle. But Aren must not have cut deeply enough to sever whatever tissue protects my airway. Any more pressure, though . . .

We’re in a suburb of Vancouver, somewhere called Lynn Valley. I must have overheard the fae name this place when we fissured here. I honestly can’t remember. Shell-shocked, I think they call this. But we’re definitely in my world. Only the fae have chaos lusters on their skin, and the house in front of me with its shingled roof, arched windows, and white siding is definitely Earth architecture.

“You need to rest.” A voice to my left.

I slowly turn my head toward Sethan, see him standing behind Aren. I’m sitting against a wooden fence. So are a dozen hurt fae. Aren moves from one rebel to the next, laying his hands on them, easing their pain and healing their injuries. Even from this distance, Aren looks exhausted, and I wonder how long he’s been at this. From the slump of his shoulders and his shakiness when he rises, I’d say he’s trying singlehandedly to heal everyone here.