I slide my dagger back into its scabbard. Aren is still opening his doors quietly, but Trev has given up caution. He holds his dagger ready in his left hand as he pushes his last door open with his right.
No remnants leap out, but Trev just stands there in the doorway.
I move to his side.
I stare inside the room.
It takes a millennium for me to process what I see.
“Oh, God,” I choke out.
FIFTEEN
MY HAND COVERS my mouth. I stare at the four blood-soaked bodies just long enough to know they’re all human, then I have to turn away.
I hold on to the doorframe, digging my fingernails into the painted wood. The smell…It’s sour and stagnant and sickening, and suddenly, the air feels too hot. Too humid. It’s like the spilled blood has moistened everything. I look at my arms, expecting to see my skin misted red.
“McKenzie?”
I barely register Aren’s voice. It sounds distant, cavernous. I can’t respond; I just turn back to the tiny hotel room without saying a word. I focus on the body nearest me because I can’t look at the one that’s sprawled across the bed, the one that’s missing its skin. The cuts on the body near my feet aren’t straight lines. They’re small and jagged, like tiny bolts of red lightning. I’ve seen death before—fae who were beheaded before entering the ether, humans who were caught in the cross fire of the Realm’s war—but I’ve only seen this kind of twisted torture once. It was in Lyechaban, a city on the eastern coast of the Realm. The fae there loathe humans, and when I was in the city with Kyol nearly seven years ago, two humans were tied up on a dais. The Lyechabans tried to cut the lightning from their skin. I thought they were dead until one of them twitched and…
With horror, I force myself to focus on the person on the bed. Please, please let him be dead.
“What’s wrong?” Aren freezes beside me. He’s close, but I don’t feel the warmth of his body, just a bone-chilling dread that makes my stomach churn. Is the guy’s chest moving?
“Sidhe,” Aren whispers.
I think it might be moving, but the way the light from the room’s single window slants across his chest, it could be my imagination.
Aren takes my arm. “We’re leaving. Now.”
Did a lip twitch? I hold on to the doorframe, refusing to move.
“Aren,” I say softly. “Make sure they’re dead. Please.”
“They are.” He urges me to move again; I stand my ground. Two of the bodies are female. One has hair bleached the same shade of blond as Paige’s. She’s propped up against the foot of the bed, but her face is turned away. I can’t tell if it’s her.
Aren squeezes my arm. “Okay.” He kisses my temple. “Okay.”
He steps into the room. The soles of his shoes leave tracks on the blood-drenched floor. He’s wearing casual, high-ankled fae boots. I didn’t notice them before, but they look odd paired with his jeans and shirt. Foreign. Atroth didn’t include shoes in his stash of clothing. I should tell Lena to add footwear to the collection.
Why the hell am I thinking about shoes?
I shake my head, attempting to reboot my mind so I can focus. Aren is squatting by a body. He touches a wrist, checking for a pulse. Jaw visibly clenching and unclenching, he rises then moves to the next body. When he squats beside that one, I swear I see movement from the next, the blond girl who looks like Paige.
I take a step toward her. I know I saw movement, but she’s in the same position as she was before. I don’t know what…
Oh. Her hair. A lock of it flutters, caught by the draft coming in from the window. The window’s lower portion is pushed out, allowing air in. Allowing air out, too. How is it possible the people on the street can’t smell this death? How could they not hear the screams? The humans had to have screamed. None of these deaths were quick. They were slow, painful.
“Look at me, McKenzie,” Aren says. He’s standing in front of me. He cups my face between his palms, and edarratae tickle down my neck. “We have to get out of here. You can’t panic right now. Do you understand?”
I feel a crease wrinkle my forehead. I don’t think I’m panicking.
“These are the missing humans,” he says. “The ones who worked with Atroth.”
What?
“Are you sure?” I ask. The remnants need Sighted humans as much as we do.
“I’m sure,” he says, “The walls list their names.”
My stomach churns, but I look over his shoulder at the blood painting the walls. Now that I’m focused on the smears of red, I recognize the Fae symbols. I still can’t read it, but it’s definitely their language.
“Why would the remnants slaughter them?” I ask, focusing on the blond girl. I recognize her now. Her name is Anya. She is—was—Russian. Sixteen years old. The same age I was when I began working for the Court, only she started when she was fourteen. While working for the king, I met fae who disapproved of my presence in the Realm, but they accepted it because I hunted down the Court’s enemies. I can’t imagine any of those fae doing something like this. This is beyond barbaric.
My nostrils flare. I clench my fists at my sides and feel the fury sink in with each blood-tainted breath I take. Lena has been trying to make contact with the remnants to negotiate with them, but screw that. Anyone who can do something like this can’t be reasoned with. Once we find out who’s organizing them, I’ll track him and his supporters down. I don’t care how long it takes. I won’t let something like this happen again.
This time, when Aren urges me to move, I do, turning my back on the desecrated bodies. We retrace our steps down the hall and are no more than four paces from the staircase when Shane’s voice rings out, “They’re here!”
He sprints into our hallway a second later. “They saw me.”
“The other staircase. Go,” Aren orders, pushing us down the hall before taking up position in front of the steps Shane just ran up.
I stumble, brace a hand against the wall, then turn, looking back at Aren and Trev. Trev remains in this world only for a second more, then he disappears into a fissure.
I turn to Shane. “How many remnants—”
“Come on!” He cuts me off, grabbing my arm and forcefully yanking me down the hall. I shake him off but run for the second staircase. Trev will bring back help, and Aren won’t fissure out until I’m safely away from here.
My heart beats in time with the hard, fast music pounding next door. We sprint to the other end of the corridor then down the stairs. Shane reaches the bottom first. A glass door leads outside, but, of course, this one is chained shut.
Shane doesn’t hesitate. He sidekicks his foot through the glass. I’m right on his heels, ducking under the chain after he does.
We don’t exit onto a street. We exit into the tiniest courtyard I’ve ever seen. There’s just one door, wooden and curved on top, in the wall opposite us.
Shane runs to it, grabs the handle, attempting to pull it open.
No luck.
I scan the area, feeling boxed in by the four brick walls. The music is louder out here. Between drumbeats, I think I hear fissures opening in the building we just left.
Shit.
My gaze locks on a metal ladder. It’s almost hidden behind an outcropping of a chimney. It climbs the wall, stopping at a small platform one level up. There’s a door there, cracked open.
“Shane. Here.” I jump, grabbing the highest rung I can reach, then I climb, making it to the platform in a few seconds. I make sure Shane’s following me before I slip inside.
Strobe lights flash in the dark. I’m in the club. Backstage. Thick curtains hang from floor to ceiling to my right. To my left, a writhing, screaming horde of people crowds the floor.