The Faerie War by rachel morgan Read Free Book Online Page A

reptiscillas, no one should mind if I start some private training. The reptiscillan guards or warriors or whatever they call themselves probably have a special training area. No way am I going to embarrass myself in front of them, though.
    The longest tunnel I can find is one that feels like it’s taking me right into the heart of the mountain. I don’t know where it ends, but I’ll turn around before I arrive anywhere important. If this is an off-limits tunnel, I don’t want to land myself in trouble.
    After I’ve walked a good distance, I turn around and run back. Then I run it again. I repeat the process, trying to make each lap faster than the one before. When I’m gasping for air and can’t possibly push my legs to move any faster, I slow down. I lean over and breathe deeply.
    That felt good.
    Without giving myself time to worry about how it will work, I straighten, shoot my hands out toward an imaginary foe, and—nothing. No sparkly weapon. I turn, sweeping my hand through the air as if slicing it with a sword—but still nothing. Great. Am I supposed to be thinking something specific? Is there a spell that goes along with these weapons?
    I drop down to the ground and do some push-ups before trying the weapons again. After a while, I’m doing stupid things like snapping my fingers and shouting ‘sword.’ Not surprisingly, it doesn’t help. I run a few more laps to work off my frustration, then head back to Farah’s.
    I suppose I should start thinking of it as my home too, not just Farah’s. It’s not like I have anywhere else to call home. I reach her tunnel, which isn’t pretty like the one she lived in Underground, and push open her door. Jamon is in the kitchen frowning down at a piece of paper in his hand. The kitchen is a tiny room with barely any space around the table to pull the chairs out, which is probably why he’s sitting on one of the stone counters.
    “Hey, what are you doing here?” I ask.
    He hurriedly folds the paper and shoves it into a pocket at the front of his pants. “I thought you might want to know about everything we’ve learned from the prisoner you helped us capture.”
    “Oh, yes, definitely.” I lean against the back of a chair and wipe sweat from my forehead. “I’ve been dying to ask, but I thought it was probably only leaders who got to know information like that.”
    “Well, usually, yes. But since you were instrumental in his capture, I thought you deserved to know what we’ve found out. And my father thinks you have the right to know everything that’s happening with the Guilds now—since that used to be your life.”
    Right. It’s probably a good thing I don’t remember anything of that life right now, or this would be a difficult conversation. “And everything he’s told you is the truth?”
    “Of course. My dad can make a mean truth potion, you know.”
    “I didn’t, actually, but thanks for the heads up. I’ll be careful not to drink anything your dad gives me.”
    Jamon laughs, something I would have thought impossible less than a week ago when he was still perfecting his death stare on me. “Anyway, let’s go outside and I’ll tell you what we know. I feel like the walls in this place are about to squash me.”
    “I hear you on that one.” I open the door as Jamon hops off the counter.
    “Oh, and you might want to put that jacket on,” he adds.
    I lift an eyebrow. “Is there something I don’t know?”
    “Yeah. Winter’s arrived.”
    My lips part. “But . . . summer’s barely over. We haven’t even had autumn yet.”
    He sighs. “Welcome to the reign of Lord Draven, supreme commander of uncomfortable weather conditions.”
    I groan, grab my jacket and one of Farah’s jerseys from the hook behind the door, and head out after Jamon. He leads the way through the tunnels to the large room I delivered everyone’s belongings to, then down the tunnel that ends up outside. An icy wind cuts through my clothes before we reach the