I blinked at him. He couldn’t be insinuating that these rifts, these holes in the barrier between our worlds, were being created on purpose. It was a wild enough theory when my uncle had proposed it but my uncle was a dreamy academic. This was the DAA.
“What we are certain of,” Wyn continued, “is that they know more than they’re saying.”
My lips parted slightly.
“Men,” Wyn barked again and the soldiers lurched forward and then suddenly, so suddenly, fell to the ground, their throats all split open, gurgling and choking on their own blood.
I let out a scream as my eyes darted from the dying men to the bloody knife in Rook’s hand, his hair gently flowing in the breeze he must have created with how fast he had moved. My eyes bulged from my head as I stared at him.
But then something else drew my attention. A familiar sound that caused dread to pool in the pit of my stomach. A low groan, a sinister whirring. I turned to find Lark standing nearby, his hand outstretched. From it poured the darkness.
Wyn screamed something and his men backed away. He backed away, running again.
“Lark,” I screamed over the groaning. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t bring it back.”
But it was already forming. Not in the sky, but in front of us. A flat plane of black swirling and contorting into a familiar shape. Realization hit me hard, like a punch in the gut, as I stared at the dark shape. A door.
Oh.
I understood just a moment before Rook was stepping through and I hadn’t gotten the chance to say goodbye. I scrambled forward, stumbling in the snow, as Wyn commanded his men to aim, to stop the Fae. I hardly heard him as I reached Lark, gripping him by the sleeve and staring up into those dark, churning eyes.
“Thank you,” I whispered, a tear freezing on my cheek.
He raised his hand in a caress against my face, running the warm, calloused pad of his thumb across the tear. It melted away. He cocked his head to the side, that penetrating gaze still firmly on my face.
“Goodbye,” I told him softly.
He didn’t say a word, just turned and stepped toward the darkness.
I turned away from him, not wanting to see the moment he disappeared, already preparing myself to be captured and questioned by the DAA. I would tell them everything now. It couldn’t hurt for them to know about Lark’s banishment or that he and his friend hadn’t told me anything at all about their plane, about the deal I’d made with them to ensure the safety of the mortal realm. They couldn’t fault me for that. They would question me about my parentage, about the other half of my ancestry, but they would find that I knew even less than they did.
Perhaps capture was my fate. Perhaps this was always how it was going to end for me. I had been a fool for believing that I could live in the mortal realm forever, could work with the government and the academic institutions without the longevity of my life ever being discovered, ever being questioned. So if this was my fate, I would meet it with my chin held high, knowing that I had closed at least a few of these rifts, had helped my people significantly, before they caught me.
But before I could say anything, before I could call out to Wyn and tell him not to shoot, someone grabbed me by the elbow and jerked me forcefully backwards.
I only had time to gasp before I fell into that swirling vortex and darkness swallowed me whole.
Chapter seven
A Captive Audience
Myscreamfollowedmeinto the next world, a realm of brightest orange.
“Get her out of here,” Lark hissed before my body even hit the cobblestones.
Rook obeyed, pulling me upward, bodily, and dragging me away from the crowd.
Crowd.
I blinked once, twice. There was, in fact, a crowd of onlookers surrounding the swirling black mass that Lark was now closing with far more ease than he had before, simply snapping it up and walking away, his black coat trailing behind him despite the uncommon heat.
Heat.
I blinked again. I was sweating, I realized, under my turtleneck. It was hot here, so hot that it was nearly suffocating. The people who had stopped to watch had moved on now, merging back onto the busy streets in their clothes of varying shades of orange, made mostly of sheer gauze and light linens so that all the parts of their bodies that weren’t considered private were exposed. Men’s bare chests glistened beneath orange mesh shirts or bare legs poked out from beneath linen shorts. Women wore pants of gauze, billowing around their bare legs, thickening at the top so that nothing above their upper thighs could be seen. They wore no shirts at all. Just bright orange brassieres or bandeaus.
They rushed in and out of buildings, also painted varying shades of orange and garnished at the top with amber and fire opal. The streets were an orange clay brick, stacked meticulously and worn down to smoothness over the years. Everyone was walking. Everyone was moving, going somewhere. No one was paying attention to the mortal being dragged away by two Fae in deep black tunics.
“Let me go,” I yelped, lashing out at my captor, landing a kick to Rook’s calf.
