I blink, then frown. “Wager?”
He hands the dagger back to Lena. “Yes. A wager.”
Okay. I’ll play this game. For now. “Depends on what you’re bidding.”
His smile is full of mischief. “There’s only one thing you’re interested in, nalkin-shom. I’m willing to offer it.”
I pause, consider a snarky response, decide against it. “You’re offering me my freedom?”
He crosses his arms over his chest and leans a shoulder against the porch column. “If you can map one of my fae to within a hundred feet, yes.”
A hundred feet. Shit. That’s accurate. I’ve done it before—twice, in fact—but I’m pretty sure luck played a role in both of those readings. My luck has sucked these last twenty-four hours. I doubt I’ve had a sudden change in fortune.
“What do you want if I can’t do it?” I ask, though I know what his answer will be.
“You’ll shadow-read for me,” he says. He’s in all-out mirthmode now, and it’s getting under my skin. Even though he knows my reputation, he’s certain I can’t do it. For good reason, too. The best shadow-readers usually map their targets to within three, four hundred feet. I routinely do it in half of that. That’s why I’m an asset to the Court. When a fae fissures to the location I mark, he’s almost always within arrow-range of his target.
Lena steps forward. When Aren doesn’t look at her, she touches his elbow. “Even if she’s half as good as the rumors suggest, we can’t trust her.”
That’s true. I don’t know why he’s willing to make this bet. Does he think I’m less likely to send him into an ambush this way? Like if I lose a wager, fair and square, I’ll willingly work for them, and not pull any tricks?
It doesn’t matter. If there’s a chance to earn my freedom, I have to take it.
“If I lose, I’ll read one fissure.”
Aren’s eyes don’t leave mine. “You’ll read as many as I need.”
“Two,” I offer.
“All of them until I’m satisfied, McKenzie.”
I fold my arms. “If you’re going to be like that, then I’m back to offering one.”
His perma-smirk doesn’t waver. “I’m offering you your freedom.”
“You’re asking me to hurt the Court.”
“They’re not your people.”
No, but some of them I consider friends. I don’t have many of those. If I’m counting only humans, there’s just Paige. She overlooks my odd behavior and frequent, unannounced absences. She’s like a sister to me, and since I cut ties with my mom and dad, she’s the only family I have.
Kyol’s not family. He’s something else entirely.
I ignore the ache in my chest and straighten my shoulders. There’s only one solution here: I won’t let myself lose the wager. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Good.” Aren turns his silver gaze on the gathering of fae who’ve been watching our exchange, and then he trots down the steps. He pulls Trev a few paces away and whispers something—a location, I presume—into his ear. They’re standing by an old, wooden picnic table that sits on a bed of white rocks. My attention locks on to something resting on the end of one of its benches. My backpack.
I’m not sure if I’m allowed off the porch, but the closer I am to Trev when he fissures out, the more details I’ll be able to see in the shadows, so I take a chance and walk down the three steps. Plus, my backpack is right there, just a few more feet away. My cell phone is in its inside pocket. My wallet. My collection of anchor-stones.
None of the fae stops me as I walk forward, but hands move toward sword hilts. Worry is etched on some of their faces. Aren and Lena might not think I can pinpoint Trev’s location, but many of the others aren’t sure. A quiet murmur passes through them. I overhear nalkin-shom muttered more than once. They say the word like I’m some kind of monster.
“Ready?” Aren asks. Two more steps and I’ll be standing over my backpack. I want to fish out my phone, turn on its GPS, and call for help, but I stop short. There’s no way the fae are going to stand there and let me dig through my bag. There’s no way I can grab it and run. Attempting it might get me killed.
I plant my feet in front of Aren and nod. “I’m ready.”
Trev rips open a fissure. The slash of white light makes me squint, but it’s only there a few seconds. As soon as Trev enters it, he becomes lost in the brightness. It winks out of existence a moment later, leaving only its afterimage behind. I blink until that image blurs and shimmers, darkens and twists. Shadows creep in from the edges of my vision. They start out as large, elusive outlines. Continents. A continent. I blink again and the shadows shift, shrink, then narrow to a bony spine. A mountain range. East Coast, I think. Yes. Definitely East Coast. Trev’s traveled to a region of the Realm known as Mashikar.
“Give me pen and paper,” I say.
“We don’t have any,” is Aren’s languid response.
I scowl, but don’t look away from the shadows. When I read for the Court, Kyol always has a fae carry what I need. I know there’s paper around here somewhere, but Aren’s being difficult, stalling, because the shadows will stay in my memory for only so long.
“I have a notebook in my backpack.”
“Oh,” Aren responds. “We cleaned out your bag. Got rid of your tech and things.”
This time, I do glance at Aren. He smiles, and Lena laughs behind him. I clench my teeth, close the distance to my backpack, and lift its flap. Two big, bright blue eyes stare back at me. A kimki. It’s sort of a cross between a ferret and a cat with a long, supile body and mouselike ears. When the moon’s light touches its curled front paws, it crinkles its nose and a ruffle runs through its silver-tipped fur.
Aren lowers his hand to the bag, palm up. The kimki stares at me a few seconds more before it scurries up Aren’s arm and perches across his shoulders. Another ruffle runs through its sleek fur and the silver fades until the animal is snow-white.
Aren reaches up to scratch behind its ears. “His name’s Sosch. Kimkis flush silver when they’re near gates or other things they’re attracted to, so he must really like you. He curled up in your backpack the moment he caught your scent in it.”
Sosch blinks innocently at me.
I glare at Aren. “I . . . You . . .” The bastard’s tricked me. This is why he was willing to make a bet. He set me up to fail, and now he looks so . . . so entertained by my reaction.
No. No way. I am not losing like this.
I reach down to the bed of rocks beneath the picnic table and pick up the largest one I can find. It’s sharp on one end, and as I straighten, it takes all my self-control not to chuck it at Aren’s head. I don’t have time for that. My memory of the shadows is fading fast.
I face the two fae sitting on the table. “Move.”
They glance at the rock in my hand, at each other, then back at me. I’m about to shove them both off the table when they scoot off its edge and stand out of the way. I fist my rock pointy-side down in my right hand and begin to carve the shadows. The wood is old and damp with humidity. It gives way to my makeshift knife. I sketch quickly, seeing the shimmers and shifts of the shadows in my mind’s eye. I draw the curve of a river down the craggy side of a mountain. A village lines its west bank, but that’s not where Trev fissured to. He’s somewhere in the farmland on the opposite bank.
My map’s scale changes when I narrow his location down to a smaller area. I focus in on that, trying to remember distinguishing features in the shadows. There was an orchard, I think. Right there.
I mark the spot, but I have no clue if Trev is in the orchard or in the farmhouse half a mile away. Where is he? Where?
The shadows tell me nothing, and a moment later, they vanish from my memory. Shit. In frustration, I stab my rock into the orchard.