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I gape at the picture, blinking, trying to reconcile my hope and excitement with the gut punch I feel staring at the girl on the screen.
Me. In my underwear and sports bra, no less. Shivering and pissed. This is from . . . today, at breakfast.
Just like I edited the prince’s photo, someone has edited my picture. I don’t recognize the phone number, but it doesn’t take a genius to peg Inara as the one behind the message.
I stare at the words Fae whore scrawled above my head. I stare and stare at them, at my half-naked image, at my eyes—which still have a shred of dignity.
I wonder if they’ll still manage to retain that spark at the end of the school year, or if Inara will have broken me by then.
I’ll never let that happen. Jaw clenched, I delete the photo.
Another text pops up.
Think that’s bad? Just wait, Trailer Trash.
Shoving my phone into my pocket, I glance back at Inara and the others. Hate burns in her eyes as she stares over her books at me. Somehow, if it’s even possible, the incident earlier today made her despise me even more.
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.
It takes every bit of my dignity and willpower to turn around without giving her the satisfaction of a response. As much as I would love to tell the snowflake psycho exactly where to stuff her phone, my survival instincts have taken over.
And they inform me that provoking Inara now, after the humiliation she suffered earlier, would end in my blood leaving my body by various routes. Unfortunately, Ruby has no such filters. Leaping onto my shoulder, she thrusts her tiny fist into the air. I watch, equally horrified and spellbound, as she turns an invisible lever that slowly lifts her middle finger toward the Six.
“Sit on this and spin, Evermore scum,” Ruby cackles.
Someone just kill me.
Thank the Shimmer class is dismissed before Inara has time to retaliate. But by the glares both the Six and Prince Hellebore throw me on their way out, I know both will fight for the right to stamp me out of existence.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I wait until everyone files out to gather my things. This day just keeps getting worse and worse.
Now, more than ever, I’m determined to win the first gauntlet and prove to everyone I deserve to be here.
8
I wake up thrashing and clawing at my throat. Blood wets my fingertips. Crap. Not again.
Pressing my hand lightly to the broken skin where my neck meets my collarbone, I staunch the bleeding as I focus on dragging air into my lungs.
That was . . . awful. The nightmare still clings to my skull like the cloying aftertaste of store-bought tea. Blinking up at the metal rungs of the bunk above me where Mack sleeps like the dead, I count the metal slats.
One, two, three . . . see, you’re fine. Fine.
The bobble-head Eclipsa gave me—an alarmingly realistic version of her right down to the silver braid and dagger dripping blood—watches me from my nightstand.
“The nightmares are getting worse,” I inform the bobble-head assassin. “And considering how bad they were to start with, that’s not good.”
Bobble-head Eclipsa openly judges me with her silence.
Groaning, I jackknife to a sitting position. Goodbye, sleep.
It’s the third night this week that I’ve slipped into Valerian’s dreams, which aren’t really dreams but fragmented memories that make most horror movies look tame. Wiping at the sweaty strands of my hair pasted to my forehead, I try to make sense of this new vision.
Valerian is young, not much older than twelve. He’s tied to a post in the Winter palace courtyard. The air is crisp, cold. Enough that his ragged breath spills from his lips in crystalline clouds.
It’s the middle of the night, the moon, a swollen ivory globe, hung low in a dark winter sky. The entire palace had been dragged from their beds and gathered around the courtyard.
Even dreaming, I had enough sentience to understand it wasn’t real. And yet, I still felt everything.
