Page 42 of Prince of the Sun

Comic books?

I sigh, taking a paper from the top and passing the stack to Berendir. Of course Infix wants a fucking cartoon. Remind me again why I chose this major?

Infix fancies himself to be not-your-typical professor. As a “fun” way to end lecture each week, he does live translations to the phonetic alphabet on the board. Anyone is welcome to call out a suggestion. Daerios and Berendir are his top participants. Past suggestions include:blow me(bl?? mi?), please butter my muffin(pli?z 'b?t? ma? 'm?f?n),andthe prince is a pompousdickhole(ð? pr?ns ?z ? 'p?mp?s d?kh??l). If Infix recognizes that we aren’t taking the translations seriously, he doesn’t show it.

With only a few minutes left in the lecture, the professor starts the exercise as the assignment papers make their way through the crowd. Someone in the back row calls out a suggestion, and Dr. Infix turns to the blackboard to write.

While everyone else distracted, I tear a scrap of paper from my notebook and scrawl “partners?”in messy graphite. Then, before I can second-guess myself, I ball it up and toss it at Daerios.

It bounces off his cloak and lands on his lap. He glances up and, finding the professor translatinghuge knockerson the blackboard with painful precision (answer:hju?? 'n?k?z), quietly unwraps the note. With one quick look at the question, he glances at me and grins.

“Yes,”he mouths.

I slide down in my chair. I tell myself I asked him because he’s my best chance to get more answers about the elves’ weakness. I try to believe it.

That night, I invite Daerios over to brainstorm project ideas and write up the proposal together. We could easily meet in Lamont Library, which stays open twenty-four hours a day, but I tell him I don’t want to fight with others for the private rooms, as we’ll need to discuss in a regular tone of voice. His response:

UNKNOWN: Your voice DOES tend to run on the louderside of obnoxious.

I roll my eyes. I still haven’t saved his number.

I’m about to put my phone down when it buzzes again.

UNKNOWN: I’m bringing donuts.

And again.

UNKNOWN:

He’s due over at 8 p.m. so I spend the hour before flitting about the common room, straightening things, then re-straightening them when I forget I’ve already done it once. Cara watches the entire thing while leaning against her doorframe, arms crossed, eyes sparkling beneath her bleached pixie cut. She’s wearing a light blue robe and fuzzy slippers.

“Someone’s nervous,” she says after I rearrange the leaves of our plant for the third time.

“I amnot,” I snap, tugging the stems as if they might somehow shift in the soil.

“Tell me something.” She moves from her left shoulder to her right. “If you’re Daerios’s partner, then who the hell agreed to work with Berendir?”

I pause, grinning over at her and mimicking her tone. “Someone’s jealous.”

She shrugs. “It’s not like that. Me and Ber—we just get each other. I told you: we’re friends.”

“For now.” I wink and dart through the doorframe into my bedroom, frantically picking articles of clothing off the ground. “He’s working with another Ikarith Punch.”

“And tonight? Are you and Daerios planning to spend the timeworkingin your bedroom?”

“No,” I say with too much emphasis. “I can’t risk him seeing my underthings.”

“That’s not all you should be worried about him seeing.” I don’t need to look to hear her grin.

“God, you’re even starting tosoundlike Berendir.”

I’m spared any more of her comments when a knock sounds on our door. I startle. Nearly shriek. Cara has to physically cover her mouth to keep in her cackle.

“Not aword,” I say, fixing her with a glare as I rush to the door. She smiles innocently. Then I smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in my shirt, tug at my purposefully messy bun, and open the door.

For a second, I almost don’t recognize the boy standing in our hallway. He’s dressed from head-to-toe in athleticwear: black Nikes, grey sweatpants, black t-shirt. Both articles of clothing are loose-fitting, but somehow cling to his body even better than the tuxedo did. They reveal his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and—God above—a pair of muscular arms I’ve never seen before. Not bulging, but ringed with visible veins. I have to tear my eyes away from them before it becomes staring. In his hand, a pink donut box.

I look up. Daerios is beaming.