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A swarm of sprites flutter out from a door to our left below a sign that reads, The Pink Pixie.
Mack guides me away. “Don’t ever go in that bar unless you want to end up drugged and wake up somewhere deep in Everwilde, enslaved to a woodland nymph or worse, a troll. The sprites think selling us into a thousand years of slavery is an entertaining sport.”
That sounds exactly like something Ruby would do.
When we near the end of the street, Mack leads me down crumbling stairs to a black steel door. There’s no sign other than a symbol with rounded ears inside a circle that Mack explains means ‘human friendly.’
The second we enter we’re enveloped in bass-thumping music and strobe lights. My focus immediately goes to a row of cages near the stage. Half-naked girls dance inside the cages, and I’m shocked to see they’re human. Fae males clamor around their cages, slipping money into the shreds of clothing they do wear.
But the dancers’ unfocused eyes stare off into the distance, and they hardly seem aware of the customers.
Glamoured. A surge of anger washes over me, and I have to look away.
I duck out of my coat and tie it around my waist as Mack leads us past a packed dance floor, up a flight of stairs, and into a VIP lounge area bespeckled in mirrors and red leather.
The bouncer, a warty, green-skinned orc, tries to stop us, but Mack holds out her wrist, showing off her new cuff mark: ram’s horns inside a circle for Magus’s Mythological Creatures Court.
We don’t get tattooed with our keeper’s mark until next year, but Basil must have given her that to use for occasions such as this.
When the bouncer’s tiny flashlight beam rolls over my tattoo, he frowns, showing off a mean underbite and bottom fangs that stick out. But he moves to let us pass quickly.
At least this dumb mark comes with perks.
We settle onto a gold couch with cigarette holes and questionable sticky stains. From here, we have an unhindered view of the dance floor and stage.
“Do you see those slave-girls dancing near the stage?” Evelyn says, peering over the edge of the bannister.
“They’re slaves?” I say, clenching my fists as another surge of rage barrels through me.
“Yep,” Evelyn answers, oblivious to my anger. She points. “See that one there?”
I follow her gesture to a petite brunette to the far right. Her mind might be glamoured into oblivion, but her mascara smudges around red, swollen eyes. She’s been crying.
“That’s Ashley Hall, a second year student last year. Her parents live in the same building as mine. I heard the rumors, we all did . . .” She leans in close. “Supposedly Ashley slept with a third year Evermore. Why would she be so stupid? I mean, they’re attractive, sure. But there are other things you can do that don’t get you in trouble.”
I glare at Evelyn. “So, what? She slept with him, and then they expelled her for it? What happened to him?”
“Nothing,” Mack says, the low growl in her voice making it clear she doesn’t approve. “But that’s just the way it is.”
“That is so backwards,” I mutter. “But why not send her off to fight in the scourge?”
“Usually the students busted for hooking up with an Evermore get sold to the clubs as . . . dancers, or worse. Once we sleep with an Evermore, we’re marked forever as a Fae-whore.”
I roll my eyes. “Sounds like my high school.”
Evelyn tugs at her skirt, a mini leather thing that barely hides her goods. “I heard the Winter King himself bought her slave contract. I’d rather die than suffer that humiliation. Can you imagine belonging to the Winter Court? Being forced to work in their sleazy clubs and wear their brand?”
I don’t point out that we’re in one of those sleazy clubs, and I wear their brand. But her gaze flicks to my arm where the tattoo swirls over my flesh, and her eyes go wide as she realizes her mistake.
“Evelyn,” Mack says, rolling her eyes, “insert foot in mouth.”
Evelyn doesn’t know why I have the prince’s mark; only Mack knows that secret.
Before Evelyn can apologize, the door on the other side squeaks open and a boy around my age appears, carrying a metal tray that holds four flutes full of fizzing liquid.
“Finally,” Mack groans.
His back is to us as he sets the tray down on the desk. Wow. He’s a big one. I start to make a joke just as he turns around—
