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I blink, swallow. Hoping toys doesn’t refer to mortals.
“Ask that Lunar assassin you train with, Kid,” Ruby adds. “She’ll explain.”
Oh, geez. How involved were Hellebore and Eclipsa?
Magus and the others begin separating us into three groups. The second year and beyond mortals who already have keepers are placed into Seelie or Unseelie sides. The first year shadows without keepers go in the middle. My heart tugs as I watch the first years nervously clump together, their huge eyes darting over the Evermore.
I throw Mack one last fleeting look before we part. She joins our friends on the Seelie side, while I’m forced to squeeze into the Unseelie crowd.
I make sure I’m on opposite sides of Reina and her crew before returning my focus to the gazebos. Clematis the size of my hands adorn the structures. The blooms are different colors for each quadrant: pink, ice-blue, an unusual green, and burnt orange.
“They’re grouped by seasonal courts,” I say aloud. Inside each gazebo, luxuriously dressed Evermore sit on . . . thrones.
“Oh, crap,” I hiss, halting so abruptly a boy runs into me from behind. “Is that—”
“The Winter King,” Ruby finishes.
My blood goes cold as I scan the Fae inside. The Winter King and Queen occupy frosty thrones of ice. Inara stands with her parents beside them. And next to her—
A spike of excitement slams through my heart as I take in Valerian. His thick ink-blue hair has that familiar just-stumbled-from-bed messiness, his sensual lips tilted in a lazy smile that doesn’t quite reach his silver eyes.
My body reacts with such fervor at his presence that I bite my cheek to tamp it down. As if he can feel my reaction, his bored gaze slides to me. Catches.
I thought I couldn’t want him any more. But the moment our eyes meet, a chasm of need breaks open inside me—
I rip my gaze away and focus on my toes. The black lacquer Mack insisted on applying sparkles softly.
Yes, focus on your toes. Toes aren’t sexy. They’re weird, that’s why we paint them.
Images of Valerian’s bare feet from our one night together pop uninvited into my head . . . except they’re not weird at all, but masculine and beautiful.
Get a hold of yourself, Summer!
I drag my attention away from Valerian, looking for something else—anything else to focus on. Beneath the Spring Court pavilion, Hellebore leans casually against a throne made of thick, tangled wisteria vines, obviously too cool to sit in the thing. The giant lavender buds match his silky purple shirt. Spring insects hover around their gazebo. Giant jewel-toned dragonflies, blue and yellow butterflies, and fat bumblebees.
His sister, Freesia, is dressed in similar colors. Beside her, their aunt, the Spring Court Queen, sits erect in a throne made from an enormous buttery-gold daffodil.
The sun seems to set all at once, bathing the courtyard in delicate champagne light. As if on cue, Cronus takes the stage that’s been erected in the center of the platform. “Welcome to the Evermore Academy Selection ceremony,” the Master of Ceremonies drones. “This time-honored tradition spans centuries and features mortals from the finest stock. Each one hails from the wealthiest, most powerful echelons of human society. And each match benefits not only the Evermore they’re paired with to protect, but your court as well. With the right shadow, you gain access to their invaluable connections in the mortal world.”
I fight the urge to duck as a few shadows cut their eyes at me, snickering beneath their breath. They know what I know: My connections include a barren farm in the Tainted Zone, a group of orphans, and two stubborn, tough-as-nails aunts.
Not exactly invaluable, unless one needs to know how to make the perfect pitcher of sweet tea or sew a hem.
Don’t worry about that. You’re Valerian’s shadow. This is all for show.
A low thrum of applause stirs the courtyard as Cronus beckons Hellebore to the stage.
The Spring Court Prince seems to grow taller with every step he takes toward the microphone. If he were mortal, he’d undoubtedly be a politician or an actor. He feeds off the adoration of the crowd. Devouring it in greedy gulps.
“At Whitehall Academy,” he begins, “the Selection ceremony is one of our proudest traditions. It’s also one of the most dangerous. We believe that to properly claim something, the prize must be won with violence and power.”
My stomach hollows out as his words take hold, each one burrowing deep inside my chest and triggering alarm bells.
Violence and power.
The bloody Nocturus battle between Valerian and Rhaegar comes to mind. When I thought Rhaegar was going to kill Valerian—
I drag in a calming breath, but it does little to ease my growing fear. I can’t go through that again. What if Valerian is hurt? What if whoever knows his true name is here?
