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She glances around. “I’ve heard those from the Summer Court are nice.”
I raise a dubious eyebrow. “Nice? Or just not serial killers? Because there’s a difference.”
She laughs. “You’re right, they all suck.” She juts out a slim hand. “My name’s Mackenzie Fairchild, by the way. Everyone calls me Mack.”
I do the same. “Summer Solstice.”
“Summer Solstice?” A grin shows off her perfectly straight white teeth. “Your parents really got creative, huh?”
“Yeah . . .” I look away.
The problem with having dead parents—aside from the obvious—is explaining that in conversation. Most people either get really quiet or really talkative, but it’s always awkward.
Time to change the subject. “So,” I say. “What are we doing inside the cage, other than being ogled like fresh meat?”
“That’s basically it.” She tucks a hot-pink strand behind her ear. “Although I prefer the word ‘appraised’ to ogled.”
Appraised?
As my gaze travels over the others, I discover they’re all dressed in luxurious cool-toned clothes similar to the Winter Court attire. Even Mack. She sports a gorgeous ensemble of silver pants and a low-cut ivory blouse, dark blue embroidery lining the hem of her bodice. A royal blue jacket of expensive velvet tapers to accentuate her slim waist and curvy hips, and knee-high white Jimmy Choo boots pull everything together.
I pluck subconsciously at my dirty sweatshirt. Guess I didn’t get the Fae-inspired wardrobe memo . . . thanks, Evermore dickwad. Not that I’d ever be able to match their style with my goodwill inspired closet, but he didn’t know that. o;Her tongue,” the first girl suggests behind a deceptively sweet smile. She’s athletic with a thick head of beautiful caramel brown hair streaked blonde, piercing honey-brown eyes, and tawny skin.
The second girl, the smallest of the three, shakes her head at the idea, sending her chin-length black hair swaying around a delicate chin. Strange golden eyes more animalistic than human cut a sharp contrast against her bone-white skin. “Then she can’t scream. Why not freeze her feet to the ground so she can’t run, but can still cry out?”
Holy hell. They’re sociopaths. All of them.
“Fabulous idea, Kimber,” Inara purrs, her praise making the black-haired girl beam. “Just for that, I might let you drink from her before I kill her.”
Despite my fear, for a moment, I give the dark-haired girl a second look as my curiosity surpasses my survival instincts. She’s a real-life vampire, a member of the Mortal Beast’s court.
Welcome to Everwilde, Summer.
My awe takes a backseat as the pack of murderous girls close in, adrenaline flooding my veins. I fight the overwhelming urge to recoil. To run.
Too late. A blast of unimaginable cold bites my skin.
With a cry, I fall to one knee as frost crackles over my flesh and a marrow-deep chill fills my bones. At the same time, horrible, aching pressure begins to build in my skull like a brain freeze times a million.
I can’t move. Can’t call out. Helpless—I feel so helpless.
My sprite suddenly darts over my shoulder, putting her tiny body between me and Inara. Her papery wings flutter wildly as she holds up a tiny hand. “Wait! She will go . . . won’t you, human?”
The cold eases, if only a bit. Both sprite and Evermore glare at me. My sprite is nodding her head in an effort to convince me this is the best option. Magus, too, frantically nods his head as he tries to coax me into agreeing.
The rational part of me does agrees, but my body has entered fight-or-flight mode, and it’s determined not to enter that cage even if that means freezing to death.
I have a choice: let fear control me and refuse, in which case Inara will turn both the sprite and me into popsicles.
Or overcome my terror and let myself be caged.
I glance to my right at the Winter Court crowd and lock eyes with a lithe, beautiful Fae male. Even standing in a crowd of gorgeous beings, his arresting looks draw the eye. The hood of the silver cloak he wears covers most of his head. White fur lines the cloak like snow. And two owl pins glitter on each shoulder.
Still, I can make out short, messy hair the deepest blue I’ve ever seen tumbling over his forehead. Rich silver-blue eyes strike a stark contrast to his pale, almost bloodless skin.
The terrifyingly beautiful Fae from last night.
A tremor reverberates straight to my core. As if he can feel it, he smirks at me, and something about the tilt of his totally kissable lips dredges up the memory of not just the roof, but the forest . . .
