The fae remain standing. I hate having to look up at them, but I cross my arms, lean back, and wait for Aren to speak.

“Tell us what you know about the Court.”

Even though my stomach twists into knots, I keep my gaze steady and—I hope—defiant.

“It’s your system of government,” I say, sticking with a universally known fact. Well, universally known in the Realm, at least. “It’s led by King Atroth, a Descendant of the Tar Sidhe, who was elected by the high nobles of the thirteen provinces. The king’s—”

“The king told you there are thirteen provinces,” Sethan interrupts. It’s not quite a question.

“He’s shown me maps,” I say, then immediately wish I hadn’t.

“What kind of maps?”

“Paper ones,” I snap. I know what he’s fishing for. He wants to know if gates were marked on those maps. That’s what this war is about, after all. Control of the gates means control of the Realm’s commerce. While fae may be able to fissure from whatever point they choose, they can’t drag along wagons full of goods unless they open their fissure at a gate. Anything more than what they can carry will be lost in the In-Between. Several decades ago—long before I first met Kyol—King Atroth’s predecessor began regulating their use, requiring merchants to pay a tax to fissure their wares throughout the Realm. The merchants didn’t like that, of course, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why so many have started searching for an alternative Descendant.

Sethan remains unperturbed. “How many gates were there?”

“None,” I lie. There were thirty-one, over a dozen more than are marked on the Realm’s public maps.

“Then why were you shown the maps?”

“For the same reason he”—I nod toward Aren—“probably shows maps to his shadow-readers: geography.” I needed to memorize the Realm’s provinces and regions. Without knowing the name of a place, my maps might as well be random scratches on a page. I have to say the name of the region out loud for the magic to lock in, and for the fae I’m with to be able to fissure to the location I mark. It’s the one teensy bit of magic that shadow-readers like me can claim.

Lena pushes off the wall. “She’s lying. She knows where the Missing Gates are. She’s used them.”

“I’ve used the Provincial Gates,” I tell Sethan. I’m not sure why I feel like I have to explain myself to this fae. He’s important—of that, I’m certain—but why haven’t I heard his name before?

“We monitor the Provincial Gates,” Lena says. “We would have abducted you long before now if you used only those to travel.”

I keep my expression neutral, trying not to give any indication that she’s right. The Realm used to be made up of hundreds of small kingdoms, each with its own gate, but three thousand years ago, almost all of those gates disappeared in the Duin Bregga, a brutal war that translates roughly into “The Dissolution.” According to Kyol, the Missing Gates were said to be destroyed, but there were always rumors that some of them remained, and that the locations had just been wiped from the minds of the fae using a magic that’s extinct today. When one of King Atroth’s aids, with the help of a silverflushed kimki, stumbled upon a gate not marked on any map, those rumors were confirmed. Ever since then, Atroth has been searching for—and finding—other Missing Gates.

“If you want to extend your life,” Lena says, taking a step toward me, “you’ll give us those gates.”

“Lena,” Aren cuts in. Then he speaks in their language. She fires something back. Calmly, he speaks again. Whatever he says, she’s obviously not happy about it. Sethan barely has time to move out of the way before she yanks open the front door and storms inside, grumbling a litany of what I’m betting are fae curses under her breath. Most likely, they’re directed at me.

Whatever. I’m glad to see her go.

Sethan turns his attention back to me. “I’m truly sorry you’ve been brought into this war. We never wanted to involve humans, but Atroth made it necessary when he began employing your kind against us. His shadow-readers, you in particular, have almost destroyed us. We had no choice other than to take you away from him.” He pauses, his silver eyes boring into me as if he can read my thoughts. He can’t. Telepathy isn’t one of the endangered magics; it’s one of the extinct and forever lost ones. “We would like your help, McKenzie. And we’d like to help you.”

“Help me?” I snort. “The only thing I need from you is permission to leave.”

“And allow Atroth to continue using you?” He shakes his head. “That’s not an option.”

“What if I agree not to work for the Court again?”

Sethan’s brow wrinkles as if he can’t comprehend my question. His eyes narrow and he studies me. I hope he can’t read my expression. I hope he sees my offer as the biggest concession I can make and not as something I’ve been planning to do for several weeks now. Next Saturday, the day I was supposed to graduate if I hadn’t flunked my final exam—and I’m certain I did flunk it—I planned to announce my retirement to the Court. Avoiding the Realm and everything fae is the only way I’ll be able to live a normal, human life, and in anticipation of my degree, I filled out an application for an entry-level editor position in a suburb outside of Houston. I made plans to make new friends, to join a book club, to go to movies and concerts and clubs and all the other places normal people have time to go, but that’s not going to happen now, not unless I escape these fae and discover some way to convince my professor to let me retake my final.

Thinking about escape makes me turn my attention to the dark forest. A gentle breeze blows, and I half expect Kyol to step into the clearing, a silent, deadly figure in the night. A little tug of longing pulls at my heart.

Aren speaks over the rustling leaves. “She thinks they’ll let her go.”

I shift my gaze to the false-blood. “Of course they’ll let me go. They’re not the ones who’ve kidnapped me. They’re not the ones who are trying to blackmail me into working for them. I’m free to leave whenever I want.”

Aren gives Sethan a pointed look. “See.”

“See what?” I demand.

“Your ignorance.” He grins as if he’s just delivered the punch line to a grand ol’ joke. He crosses the porch and rests a hand on the knob of the front door. “Talk to her, Sethan. Then tell me what you decide.”

The door clanks shut behind him. My stomach twists and turns, but this time, I’m not sure if it’s because I’m starving or because Aren’s left me alone with an unfamiliar fae. It makes no sense, I know. Aren’s the man who’s abducted me, who’s brought me halfway across the planet, and who’s responsible for the massacre at Brykeld. The thing is, other than knocking me unconscious to keep me quiet in the engineering building, he hasn’t hurt me. In fact, he’s been almost kind. He could have—probably should have—ripped into me for my escape attempt. Instead, he healed me.

Sethan leans against the rail. “Aren thinks the Court has misled you. He thinks if you learn the truth of this war, you’ll work with us.”