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Perhaps I’m wrong, but his voice has lost some of its iciness.
I nod and drag a hand over my eyes, unshed tears pricking my throat. I have an embarrassing habit of crying when angry. “Sort of. I mean, yes. Not by blood, but that doesn’t matter. There are—there are four kids, plus me.”
Not sure why I add that last detail. If one starving human fails to sway his dark heart, four will hardly make a difference.
Without a word, he buries his steel back into the silver scabbard at his waist. At the sound, my blood rushes back into my toes and I release a ragged breath.
“What is your name, mortal girl?” This time his dark tone leaves no room for denying his request.
I clear my throat. “Summer. Summer . . . Solstice.”
In East Texas, my name gets a lot of attention, along with musings about hippy parents and too many drugs. Not everyone names their kids for the day of the year they were born.
But apparently such names aren’t odd to my tormentor, because he hardly blinks. He does, however, stare at me for what seems like minutes, seemingly torn on how to proceed.
“And your name?” I ask carefully. For the Fae, names have power, and just asking implies an intimacy we don’t have. Actually, I’m not sure why I asked, except to keep this conversation going as long as possible.
Pretty sure I read somewhere that if I’m ever taken by a murderer, talking to them helps humanize me.
He ignores my request entirely and dives straight into a speech. “Summer Solstice, for the crime of thievery against the Winter Prince you are hereby enslaved to the Evermore.” Another pause. “Your punishment will be carried out at Evermore Academy for four mortal years, or until your heart no longer beats. Whichever comes first. After the four years, you may buy your freedom.”
“I’m sorry, what?” My mind races to understand. Words like punishment and years tumble around my skull. “Enslaved at your stupid Fae Academy? For . . . years? Over apples?”
I try to remember everything I’ve heard about this academy. Humans can serve there, but they’re typically from families outside the Tainted Zone. Families with money, who hail from the most elite echelons of our society.
Basically, not me.
They go. Some come back. Some don’t. It’s all very hush-hush.
“Consider it a mercy.” His voice has once again regained its gruff, icy exterior.
“A mercy? What planet do you live on?”
Ignoring my outburst, he sweeps a hand toward the Shimmer. “Arrive back here at midnight, by the time the moon crests the ridge. Even a second past, and I promise, you will not like the consequences that befall you.”
“Be punctual, got it.” I sound torn between laughing and crying, and my skull feels wrapped in bubble wrap. The shock and the terrible cold make a dangerous combination. “Any other advice before I head off to my prison? What to pack, perhaps?”
There’s no emotion in his voice as he says, “You’re allowed to bring only the clothes you wear. Preferably warmer than your current attire, if you value your fingers and toes.”
I go to argue when a searing heat bites my right arm. I fling it up to examine, desperate to find the source. Metallic lines of gold and black appear over my forearm, twisting and crossing. I watch, horrified, as they snake up my elbow, claiming my flesh all the way to my shoulder.
The pain is unreal.
With a scream, I fall to my knees and gouge my arm into the snow, trying desperately to cool the flames. But the fiery ribbons keep unfurling, claiming more and more of my aching flesh.
Devouring and devouring and . . .
Oh, God, the pain.
Darkness consumes me. I blink, trying to keep hold of my wits. I’m sure my arm is gone, sure whatever is ripping chunks from my flesh will devour me whole. I feel my body rolling around trying to buck out the torment, and I don’t even care how silly I look.
Hot bile slaps the back of my throat.
Right before I hurl, the ravaging pain stops, like water thrown on a fire. My cries become whimpers as I double over, holding my ruined arm close to my body. Snow presses into my cheek; tears wash down my face.
I don’t want to look, but I have to look.
Unscrunching my eyes, I force myself to assess my arm. Because of the otherworldly pain, I’m one hundred percent positive I’ll be met with a mess of blistered, ruined flesh.
