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Why is she protecting me?
Hellebores chuckles, obviously enjoying this. “Sponsoring insolent shadows and questioning our customs? Careful, Queen Larkspur, or one might think you’ve gone soft toward mortals.”
“Soft? Questioning the deaths of mortals when our very survival may rest upon peace between our worlds isn’t soft, it’s clever. You should try it sometime.”
I might not recognize the bond I shared with my Fae mother, but damn if I don’t feel some sort of kinsmanship already.
My dead-beat Fae dad, on the other hand, has a lot to live up to. The Summer King’s mouth tightens as he glances over at his wife, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
Hellebore grins. “True, most mortals flinch from our rules, yet still, the greedy amongst them willingly give us their children and strike bargains with us, all for the sake of power. I would suggest our kind and theirs are more similar than they’d like to admit.”
Liar. If Mack’s dads knew how dangerous the academy was, they would have found a way to buy out her contract.
“Still,” the Summer Queen stubbornly argues, gaining my immediate respect. “Forcing the shadows of the academy to endure the primal savagery of the Wild Hunt seems rather . . . cruel, even for Faerie. The hunt will drive every Evermore student to their primal state. Many will be crazed by the excitement of the hunt and the dark magic conjured. I fear, beyond what the hounds inflict, more shadows will be injured.”
“The shadows of Evermore Academy have been allowed to forget what we truly are. They’re too comfortable around us, too”—the mofo’s gaze slides to mine—“insolent. This little lesson will be a lasting reminder. But, so that you can’t say the Spring Court isn’t clever, the hounds may only take one mortal. Satisfied?”
The Summer Queen nods.
My gut clenches as Hellebore raises the horn. All the shadows quietly look around, wondering which one of us the hounds will take.
My lips wrench back in a snarl that’s every bit Fae. If they try to hurt Mack, I’ll rip their throats out.
I steal one last look with Valerian. Something dark and predatory glints in his eyes, making him almost unrecognizable. That raw, animalistic savagery pours from every single Evermore, the alarming prickle of danger permeating the air.
Some have already begun to shift. Wings of every kind beat the night. White fangs glisten in place of normal teeth, voices become the snarl of beasts, and footsteps become claws scraping against stone.
The feline glow of nocturnal eyes blink around the courtyard.
“Don’t look at them,” Ruby hisses into my ear. “They’re not your friends right now. When that mofo blows that horn, you run. And you don’t stop running until I tell you it’s safe.”
Oh, hell. As if on cue, Hellebore presses the magical horn to his lips just as the last golden rays of sunlight begin to fade. The haunting wail of the horn blasts across the lush grounds.
The ancient song worms deep into my core, eliciting a mindless, instinctual terror.
Birds startle from the woods in the distance, the noisy swarm darkening the face of the rising moon as they take to the night sky. Heavy mist seeps from the velvety lawn like a thousand angry ghosts awakened from their graves.
My head whips to the sound of baying, the frenzied call of the hellhounds seeming to come from every direction.
Crap. My back and chest are suddenly damp, coated with sweat. Sweat. Aren’t hounds attracted to smell? Did my stupid tendency to perspire when I’m nervous just mark me as the sacrifice?
I work to calm my mind, but it has the opposite effect. The chaotic din of my hammering pulse and wheezing breaths drowns out the world, my own personal soundtrack of horror—because being hunted by hellhounds and chained by frenzied Fae wasn’t fricking terrifying enough. Shimmer save me, I’m like a giant dog toy that’s been stuffed with peanut butter and a squeaker. My body is basically screaming eat me please.
A shout drags my focus to the north just in time to spot the first hound. The giant ebony beast bursts from the churning sea of mist blanketing the hills. The size of a truck, the creature appears more wolf than hound.
Frozen, I take in the glowing red eyes and snarling snout, lined with jagged fangs and slobber.
Then I’m sprinting with the others as we run for our lives.
13
Despite being gripped by absolute, blind panic, my mind somehow decides it’s helpful to remind myself this is the second time this week I’ve had to literally run for my life.
Gazelle. You’re a mother-freaking gazelle.
Just like a gazelle, I fight and claw my way to the inside of the pack. National Geographic taught me the animals on the outside get picked off first.
Strength in numbers. I leap over a falling girl just before she disappears into the mist. My sandals are long gone, my dress riding up my thighs.
