Sethan’s lips thin. I don’t think he likes me much more than Lena does. I’m surprised he’s letting Aren have his way instead of his sister, who still wants me dead. But then, from what Kelia’s told me, Sethan and Aren are practically brothers.

Speaking of Sethan’s family, Lena’s voice carries across the clearing. I miss what she says, but she’s striding toward us carrying a cloth sack. An unfamiliar fae trails behind her, his face drawn and ragged.

Sethan stands, but I don’t move from my perch straddling the picnic bench, not until Lena overturns the sack and a severed head thumps onto the table.

I leap away. My boots slip on the rock bed and I crash down on my ass. The stench hits me a second later. My stomach lurches, but I can’t take my eyes off its eyes. The head rests on its left ear. The right eye is open, but the silver iris and gray pupil are nearly invisible beneath a white film. I can’t see the iris and pupil in the left eye because of the stake jammed into the socket. A part of my brain registers the fact that the metal also spikes through a bloodstained note. The other part of my brain registers nothing.

Aren pulls me to my feet. I don’t know where he came from. I hear his voice, but can’t make myself understand his words. He’s not talking to me anyway. He’s speaking in Fae to Lena and the man who followed her.

I make myself focus on them, on Aren actually, hoping his face can block out the image of the thing on the table.

He glances at me. “Is the Court not as benevolent as you thought?” he asks.

My gut tightens. I’ve heard of the rebellion sending heads with messages, but I’ve never seen it before. When fae die, they disappear in a flash of light and their soul-shadows—white mists visible only to humans with the Sight—dissolve into the air. Kyol calls it “going into the ether,” which I guess is their equivalent to going to heaven. Severing a fae’s head prevents that, though, and it’s considered exceptionally malicious.

“You do it, too,” I say quietly.

Lena snorts. “So of course that makes it okay for them to do.”

No. It doesn’t make it okay. A trace of doubt snakes through my confidence. What if I’m wrong about the Court? What if I’ve spent ten years reading shadows for the wrong people?

Lena rips the note from the spike and shoves it in front of my face. “This is a threat. The Court wants you back. If we don’t give you to them, they’re going to begin random raids on cities and encampments until they find you. They’ll kill or capture anyone who puts up resistance, even if they have no connection to us.” She slaps the bloodstained paper down onto the picnic table. “We should send you back to them dead. That’s what the king would do.”

She strides away before I can say a word. Not that I know what I would have said. I can’t defend this. It makes me sick, but it doesn’t fit with what I know of the Court. Kyol goes out of his way to capture the rebels, even when it would be easier to kill them. The swordsmen he trains are the same. I’ve never seen them do something cruel or ruthless.

But I don’t monitor them constantly. Uncertainty churns through my stomach.

“You’re pale,” Aren says at my side. His voice is soft, maybe even concerned.

“I’m just . . . I just need to sleep.”

I hate the way he nods, like he’s assessed my condition and determined sleep is exactly what I need in order to think clearly.

Before I head toward the inn, I force myself to look again at the note. I can’t read the words, but I’m certain it’s not Kyol’s script.

My next breath comes a little easier. This is just one instance of cruelty committed by one of the king’s supporters. If Kyol finds out about it, he’ll punish the fae responsible.

I glance at Aren as I pass by. Immediately, I jerk my gaze to the ground. I think I caught a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. It was so brief I almost missed it, but I’m sure something was there.

A new wave of uneasiness runs through me.

He wouldn’t . . . ? No. Surely not even Aren would do this to one of his own fae. He wouldn’t commit this crime just to plant a seed of doubt in my mind.

Then again, how do I know the head belongs to a rebel?

EIGHT

A CACOPHONY OF gunfire jars me from sleep. I bolt upright and blink the room into focus.

Wait. Gunfire? The fae don’t use guns.

A single mason jar bathes the floor in a dim light. I must have been dreaming. For a moment, I don’t hear anything except the distant rumble of thunder.

Pow-pow-pow.

What the hell? That’s definitely gunfire.

I whip off my thin blanket and lurch out of bed. Shouts ring out from within the inn. The hallway comes alive with creaks and groans as fae rush past my closed door. There’s too much noise for me to understand the rebels’ words, but I don’t need to. The shooters have to be human.

Bullets splatter against the outside wall—somewhere below me, I think—and I swear the inn shudders like it’s in pain. I hurry to the boarded-up window and pound on the planks.

“Help! There’s a human up here!” I scream. Ridiculous words in any normal situation, but the people outside have to be able to see the fae to shoot at them. They’ll understand. They’ll help me. “Hello!”

Another volley of gunfire drowns out my plea and the inn quakes again. I crane my neck to stare at the ceiling, fairly certain it’ll come crashing down if the humans keep up this barrage. I’ve never suffered from claustrophobia before, but the air filling my room tastes stale and the walls press in too close.

I abandon the window to pound my fist against the door. “Let me out!”

No one answers.

My heartbeat races in time with the stuttering of gunfire. I’m blind up here. I have no idea what’s going on outside, how many humans there are, or why they’re here. I’d like to believe they’ve come to rescue me, but they’re pelting this building with so many bullets they can’t possibly be aiming to get me out alive. They don’t know I’m here.

Damn it, I will not die like this.

I grab my jeans, pull them on under the satin slip Kelia gave me to sleep in, and then stuff my feet inside my boots, not wasting time putting on socks. I hurry to the door. It takes four awkward, half-balanced kicks to break off the doorknob, but the damn thing still doesn’t open.

I’m about to pound on the door again when it flies open. A dagger-wielding fae bursts inside, rushing past me. He uses his blade at the boarded-up window to pry up the lengths of wood, one by one. While he works, two more fae sprint inside carrying crossbows and quivers of arrows.

Crossbows and arrows against guns? I don’t wait around to see how effective they are. I escape into the hallway and run for the stairs. It’s not until I reach the second-floor balcony that I stop to question where I’m going. Maybe it’s safer to hide and let the humans come to me? Their gunfire is relentless now, almost as if they’re attempting to mow down the inn with their bullets. The muted thunks of the fae’s crossbows are much more disciplined in comparison. If the inn doesn’t fall, the humans could run out of ammo before they kill all the rebels and . . . Is that smoke?

I peer over the rail to the floor below. A gray cloud of something smears the air. It doesn’t smell like anything’s burning. It smells . . . metallic? I don’t think it’s poisonous, but I’m torn on what to do now. Hide out up here or go downstairs? I try to picture myself cowering in a dark corner somewhere and realize I’d go insane not knowing what’s happening. I’ll go down. I can always run back up if it’s necessary.