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The pain becomes a touchstone. A fiery inferno that eats away at every part of him, so that when the first strike of the whip cracks open the skin of his back—it’s swallowed by the miasma of writhing agony claiming every cell in his body.
Willingly inflicted agony.
Bile tickles my throat. He was twelve. Twelve. And he purposefully brought himself to the brink of death as a giant eff you to his grandfather, King Oberon.
I press my knuckles into my damp temples, trying to chase away an oncoming headache. Not for the first time, it comes to me that there is so much more to Valerian than what he reveals to me. Maybe he’s smart to hide the darker side of himself.
Because, quite frankly, that part of him terrifies me.
I kick off the light gray sheets, slide from bed, and cross the floor, desperate to purge the memory from my brain. Phantom needles of pain still prick my skin. As unnerving as the memory-dreams are, once my horror fades, the pity takes hold.
If Valerian knew I was reliving his most painful memories every night, he would feel violated. I still haven’t figured out if we’re actually sharing a dream, which is just another layer of fuckery in this whole effed up situation—because that would mean he also relives that agony every night—or if I’m somehow receiving his memories.
Wonderful. I’m a radio set to the Valerian’s Soul-Crushing Memories frequency.
Same as the last few nights, I pluck my phone from where it’s charging on the dresser, check the screen for a text from him, and sigh.
Nothing.
My blurry-eyed focus slides to the date on the glowing screen. Three days—it’s been three days since Hellebore announced the gauntlets, and I don’t feel any more prepared than I did then.
Maybe less, considering the nightmares and my lack of sleep.
After school combat training doesn’t start until week two. Meanwhile, Eclipsa canceled our last few morning training sessions.
I double-check our text chat, relieved to see this morning’s session in four hours is still on.
Four hours. I wipe at my groggy eyes. Just thinking about the first gauntlet sends my adrenaline into overdrive. If there was a shot in hell of waking Ruby from her snorefest, I would force her to use one of her calming spells—which she’s aptly named sleepy-sleep magic—to lull me into my dreams.
If the past two nights are any indication, I’d have more luck talking the moon from the sky than rousing her.
I shoot a longing glance at my bed. It’s not you, buddy. It’s me.
Now fully committed to getting up, I run through a short list of ways to use my time. Study. Finish the pile of laundry in the corner. Write out my weekly email to my aunts . . .
I exhale. Too restless. My body feels jacked, my legs twitchy and wired.
Only one activity cures my increasingly anxious moods.
As quietly as I can, I slip on my last clean pair of gray jogging pants, my sports bra, which is still a bit damp after last night’s handwashing, and my Nike trainers. My phone goes into my handy pants pocket—a luxury only brands you can’t find at the dollar store employ.
After brushing my teeth, slapping my tangled hair into a ponytail, and grabbing one of my new AirPods—Mack’s other birthday present—I slide out the door.
When I get to the bottom of the first floor stairwell, I freeze.
Oops. I forgot about the new dorm monitors.
Each mortal dormitory now has a lower Fae guard who ensures shadows aren’t sneaking out at night. After what happened with Evelyn, they’re being extra cautious.
Lucky for me, our nighttime chaperone is an ancient gnome who sleeps—and snores—all night long.
Must be nice, I think as I tiptoe past the lime green club chair she’s sunk into.
The second the brisk morning air meets my sweat-damp skin, I set my music to my favorite new band and burst into a sprint. From Eclipsa’s torture sessions, I know the track around the lake is three and a half miles.
Three and a half freaking miles. That I’m going to run willingly. With no one chasing me.
Why do I hate myself?
