I quick-trot down the stairs and am halfway to the bottom floor when someone shouts. I glimpse a pair of humans in camo at the inn’s front door, see their guns firing, spraying bullets across the greeting room in a line that begins to arc up toward me. Instinctively, I cover my head with my arms and dive. But I’m on the stairs; it’s not level here. I tumble. Flowered wallpaper twirls around and around before I slam into the L-shaped banister at the bottom of the steps.
When I’m able to focus again, my eyes lock on an arrowpierced head staring at me from the other side of the rail. The crossbow bolt goes straight through the human’s blood-filled mouth, pinning his skull to the wall behind him. The memory of the fae’s severed head superimposes itself over the human’s. I close my eyes, trying to block out both images.
Someone wrenches me to my feet. I’d cry out a protest if the sharp twinge of pain in my lower back didn’t drive the air from my lungs. Black spots murk my vision as I’m dragged away from the inn’s front door. I’m thrown to the ground before I can suck in a breath.
Freaking hell, I hurt. The pain radiates up my spine and into my neck. Nauseous, I force myself to my hands and knees and wait as my stomach tries to empty itself. A few dry heaves, but nothing comes up, and after another minute, the pain ebbs, becomes more manageable. I settle onto my haunches and try to get my bearings.
I’m sitting on the kitchen floor. Naito and Kelia are crouched down by the cabinets, too. They’re both smeared with the soot in the air. She’s wearing a very thin, baby blue nightie but Naito has on nothing but a pair of jeans. Long, red scratch marks curve over his shoulders and down his chest. They’re clearly not the result of this attack. Kelia’s cheeks are flushed and the edarratae scurrying over her flesh quiver with pent-up energy.
“Who’s outside?” I ask them, though my gaze is drawn to the window in the breakfast nook where Lena and another fae crouch, bolts nocked and ready in their crossbows. A few boxes, a couple of swords, and an extra crossbow are lined up against the wall beside them. My backpack and some other bags are thrown there as well.
“My father,” Naito responds. The acid in his voice could corrode iron.
“Vigilantes,” Kelia clarifies. “Humans who kill fae.”
My frown triggers a headache behind my eyes. Humans who kill fae? “Why?”
“Because they hate,” Naito all but snarls.
“They have the Sight?” I press. Kelia nods. “Are any of them shadow-readers?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Naito says. “They can’t follow fae into the Realm without a fae to take them through a gate.”
Kelia lays her hand on his shoulder. “The vigilantes won’t touch us.”
Something in her voice tells me that “us” is really a “me.” The vigilantes won’t touch her, or so she’s trying to assure Naito. Sounds like there’s an interesting story there. Could it be?
I turn my attention back to Naito. “You used to be one of them.”
The tension in his clenched jaw indicates I’m right. I sniff. How Romeo and Juliet of them.
I glance in the direction of the front door. The humans seem to be concentrating their fire on the upper floors. Whether that’s because the fae up there are drawing their fire or because a few humans invaded the ground floor, I don’t know, but that’s not what’s worrying me. The humans have slowed their attack. The spluttering of gunfire is more intermittent now. They’re taking their time to aim. What if they are running out of ammunition? If they have to retreat, will they return? I don’t want to miss this opportunity to escape, but if I make a mad dash out the door, will the fae upstairs take a shot at me?
“Don’t think about it,” Naito says, reading my mind. “The vigilantes will kill you just for being here.”
I throw him a quick glare. “I’m not with the rest of you.”
“They won’t care. You work for the Court. A fae is a fae to them.”
“Then I won’t broadcast my job,” I snap. It’s been a week since Aren healed my arm, and this is the first, possibly the last, chance I might have to escape.
“Listen to him, McKenzie,” Kelia says. “These people are the worst of humankind. They’ll kill you on sight.”
I stifle the “whatever” I want to snap out when a flash pulls my attention back toward Lena. Out of arrows, the fae beside her has set his crossbow aside. He rises to his knees now, holding a handful of flames.
“No fire,” Lena orders in their language. After a brief hesitation, the fae makes a fist, extinguishing his small blaze. Almost all fae have the ability to create and manipulate fire, but having enough skill and power to throw it—as I assume this fae was about to do—is impressive. I wish Lena hadn’t stopped him, though. A forest fire would undoubtedly draw more humans here. Normal humans. I won’t admit it, but Naito and Kelia’s claims about the vigilantes make me nervous.
I can’t stay here, though.
I rise into a low crouch, prepared to sprint for the front door, when another niggling thought causes me to hesitate. Something’s not right here, something aside from the vigilantes and the fae. I’m not sure what it is until I glance again toward the breakfast nook. Lena’s staring back at me, her face pinched.
“Go ahead and run,” she says. “We need a diversion.”
They’re fae. They shouldn’t need a diversion.
“Why isn’t anyone fissuring?” I ask.
“We can’t fissure,” she says as if I’m the densest person she’s ever met.
“You can’t fiss . . .” My voice trails off. I survey the kitchen, the countertops and floor, then my jeans and my palms. It’s not soot in the air; it’s silver dust. Everything’s coated in it.
Shit. The rebels are totally screwed. These humans are brilliant. Not only are they keeping the fae from escaping, they’re severely limiting their ability to fight as well. The fae rely on their fissures to avoid and initiate attacks. They’re crippled without use of that magic.
Their problem, not mine. I’m getting out of here.
I don’t want to get a crossbow bolt in my back, so I wait until Lena takes aim outside the window before I make a dash for the kitchen’s exit. I don’t get far. A mass of intertwined arms and legs barrels past me. I spin around as Aren and a human crash against the counter. Both men grapple and curse, but Aren’s stronger, more agile. He wraps his arms around the struggling human and body-slams him to the linoleum.
Something skates across the floor. A gun. Naito grabs it on his way to help Aren; then, together, they wrestle the human across the kitchen and heave him into a chair.
“How did you find us?” Aren demands, inches from his captive’s face. I think the man’s one of the two humans who charged inside when I tumbled down the stairs, but I didn’t get a good enough look to be sure. Besides, he’s been roughed up so badly he’s barely able to sit upright. His nose looks broken, his mouth and chin are covered in blood, and his cheek is so swollen he can’t open his left eye.
Aren’s face looks better, but he’s hurt, too. Blood runs down his back and chest from a bullet wound in his upper left shoulder. He’s not wearing a shirt. I’m pretty sure the round went straight through his muscle. If it had struck a few inches lower, he’d most certainly be dead.