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“You don’t have years. You have ten minutes.”
I glare at my bossy new roommate overlord as she hops up, rifles through her clothes, and then pulls out a Nespresso coffee maker. “Technically we’re not supposed to bring any modern technology that isn’t school related to the academy, but everyone does it. Memorize those bios and you get one of these bad boys.”
She waggles a shiny orange espresso pod in my face.
Hell. Yes. I haven’t had coffee in years, and the chance of a fresh cup fills me with motivation. After making her show me how it works—to make sure it indeed can make coffee—I blow through the photos, carefully repeating details in my head until I’m pretty sure I know them by heart.
When I set the stack down, Mack flicks up her eyebrows. “You still have a minute.”
“I don’t need a minute. I need some of that bean juice you’re hoarding. So test me and then let’s get over-caffeinated in this beotch.”
“Okay, hot shot. Give me Rhaegar Moorland’s story.”
“Pointy ears, super gorgeous, enjoys strutting around being ogled and saving damsels in distress?” Her eyes narrow and I laugh, adding, “Member of the Summer Court, his father is hand of the Summer King, who has no heirs, by the way, making Rhaegar presumptive heir to the Summer Throne.”
Her nose crinkles. “Anything else?”
“His elemental powers include fire and earth magic, his shifter form is a hawk, his best friend is your keeper, Basil, his mortal enemy is the Winter Prince . . . and you can bounce a coin off his ass.”
Mack laughs, a deep, beautiful belly laugh that solidifies my adoration for her. Then she takes a pink sharpie from a ziplock baggie of pens and actually writes that on the back of Rhaegar’s photo.
How in the world I landed one of the coolest humans in Everwilde as a roommate and friend is beyond me. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For her to yell surprise and then dump sheep’s blood or something on me.
Girls like Mack don’t befriend people like me. It just doesn’t happen. Except, apparently, in Everwilde.
I slay the rest of the quiz, impressing even myself. When we get to the Winter Prince, I hesitate. My anger messes with my memory as I try to recall the details listed on the back of his picture.
Then something occurs to me. “Wait. His last name is listed—Sylverfrost. But there’s no first name.”
“In Everwilde, names have immense power. No one knows the prince’s true first name. And he’s never told anyone.” She’s whispering as if he can hear us. “Now—” She snaps her fingers. “Stop stalling and give me his deets.”
“Heir to the Winter Throne, and leader of the Elite Unseelie Six,” I begin, wracking my brain for the rest. His list of magical skills was longer than most. “Powers include turning me into a popsicle and shifting into winter animals, elemental powers include ice, storms, and wind. Best friend is Asher Grayscale, a dragon shifter, and his familiar is a snowy owl. It’s rumored the prince can fly, has healing powers, and he’s mated to the daughter of the Winter Court’s general, Inara Winterspell. What am I missing?”
I pretend to think for a moment. “Oh, right. Total douche canoe.”
Mack picks up his photo and shivers, making a face. “I am not going to write that on the back, in case he’s watching. I’ve heard his powers are so strong and volatile that even his father is scared of him.”
Rolling my eyes, I snatch his picture away. Admittedly, he looks hot in his portrait. A crown of jagged ice sits atop a mop of blue-black hair, a few dark curls falling around sharp ears. Dark lashes frame serious blue eyes ringed with silver, and a snow-white owl, similar to the one that shadows me on the other side, perches on his shoulder.
Frowning, I stick out my tongue. I swear one corner of his lips quirk.
Why do you want me as your shadow? I think, wishing he could answer. Why me?
Instead of responding, his magical picture smirks cruelly at me. A moment later, the owl takes off, disappearing from the picture altogether and sending a single feather floating to the dusty floor.
A real feather. On our floor. What the eff?
Dread coils around my gut, and I crumple the photo into a ball and then toss it into the trash bin.
Not long after, a white owl lands in the tree outside our window where a blizzard still rages. Fluffing out its wings, the owl stares into our room until I stomp over and rip the emerald-green drapes closed.
Suddenly, magic isn’t so cool anymore.
“All right,” I growl as Mack carries over a steaming cup of coffee. “What next?”
I’m ready to slay my studies so when Rhaegar wins the Nocturus, I’ll be the best shadow to him in Everwilde. It’s the least I can do for Rhaegar saving me from Mr. Douche Canoe.
And Rhaegar has to win. If he doesn’t . . .
