Asher frowns. “Are you guys going to actually say what’s on the flyer or what?”

“Sorry, Asher. I forgot you only read things with pictures,” Eclipsa teases, ignoring his low growl. “Apparently, the Summer Queen is offering up spots at Larkspur and Associates to second and third year shadows. Shadows that are accepted can forgo their fourth year at the academy for a paid internship. They still have to pass the exams, but they live in Manhattan, in the new Fae district, and also learn about Fae law.”

My heart skips a beat. Forgo my fourth year? Paid internship. Right now, both of those things sound like heaven. “What are the requirements to apply?”

“Looks like you have to have straight A’s . . .” Eclipsa peers at the flyer. “A recommendation from a professor, and . . . pass the final gauntlet.”

Just like that, my dream dies a quick, undignified death. “What? How does that make sense when we’re not allowed to participate in the final gauntlet until our fourth year?”

Mack gives me that look—the one that says I should pay more attention. “Anyone is allowed to participate in the final gauntlet, but only the fourth years are required. Second and third years are opting for the less dangerous final exams instead because we really like staying alive.”

I would laugh, if she wasn’t being completely serious. “Does the invitation to apply open again next year?”

Eclipsa peers at the flyer. “It specifies the application window closes after this year. You must enter and then pass the gauntlet to even be considered.”

“Maybe she’ll reopen the applications again next year?” I say, totally aware of how desperate I sound.

“Those internships are extraordinarily competitive and usually only available to shadow graduates with at least five years of experience. I assume the queen is doing this for the PR, since the recent deaths at the academy have brought bad press for all the Fae, including those pushing hard to expand new businesses in the mortal world.”

I pretend there’s a spot on my shirt, picking at it to hide my disappointment. Not just that the internship is so far out of reach, but that my mother isn’t doing this for altruistic reasons.

I shouldn’t be surprised, but a part of me needs to know that she’s good. Or, at the very least, that she’s marginally good. Like a socialite who goes to fancy charities for the status aspect, but also tips well when no one’s looking.

Just enough kindness that I can reasonably not hate her.

With my hopes of skipping fourth year well and thoroughly dashed, the others leave to let me rest. Apparently the antidote to the darklings’ corrupted magic inside a mortal is nymph tears, which also happens to make mortals sleep. Like, a lot.

I should be fully back to normal before school tomorrow, and Eclipsa promises an early morning training session—if I’m feeling up to it.

Valerian is the last to go. Before he can slip out the door, I blurt, “Can you stay? Just until I fall asleep?”

It feels childish. I haven’t been afraid of the dark in years. But I keep reliving Evelyn in her monstrous form, her eyes pleading for us to end her eternal nightmare, and I don’t want to be alone right now.

Especially knowing her fate was also nearly mine.

Valerian Sylverfrost doesn’t just stay. No, the beautiful, complicated Evermore male crawls into bed beside me, wraps those gorgeous arms around my body—one cradling my head, the other draped over my waist—and strokes my hair.

Proving once and for all that the Ice Prince has a heart. It may be tiny and shriveled, and black as Aunt Vi’s coffee, but it’s there.

At some point in the night, I wake up to Valerian asleep in the bed facing me. His eyes pop open. Bathed in a square of starlight, with both of our guards down, we calmly stare at each other.

There are no words.

No assumptions.

No defenses to wade through or truths to dredge out.

Just a Fae and girl, possibly in love—or whatever the frick the Fae want to call it—and trying to find the courage to trust one another.

“Truth,” Valerian says, his voice husky with sleep. “Are you scared of what you feel for me?”

“Yes.” Maybe it’s the lingering antidote or my sleep-drugged mind, but the truth flows from my lips. “Are you?”

“Yes. Terrified.”

As I close my eyes, on the threshold of my dreams, an uneasy thought comes.

What if Hellebore is right and I have this all backward? That instead of Valerian endangering my life, I’m the one endangering his?

What if by choosing to love me the way I demand, he ends up losing everything?

31

Two weeks after Samhain, I’m called to the headmistress’s office to give my account of the darkling attack. Mack and the others were interviewed the night after it all happened, but since I was out cold on nymph tears, they had to wait until an officer from the CMH organization could come back to do a proper interview.

The interviewer, a human man with steel-rimmed reading glasses, an auburn combover that does nothing to hide his thinning hair, and yellowing teeth, reads a file on the desk while I yawn, wishing they could have scheduled this interview at any other time than the butt-crack of dawn.

As the interviewer shuffles around some papers, I find myself studying him. I’m so used to the Fae, who are all beautiful, graceful, and ageless. Being confronted with my own species’ mortality is a reality check.

Someday, my body will suffer the same effects of time as this man. Someday, my boobs will sag, my flesh will wrinkle and spot, I’ll need the same reading glasses, and my hair will turn gray and brittle.

Whereas Valerian will stay his stupidly gorgeous self.

I used to be okay with that. Aging is normal. Natural. A sign of wisdom and badassery. Now . . . I’m not so sure.

The man takes off his reading glasses and asks a series of questions about that night. When did I first see the darklings? Where were the shadow guardians? Who suggested going to the vault for weapons? Was that expected of shadow recruits? Are there drills in place for darkling attacks?

The questions aren’t hard, but when the interviewer pauses for a break, I’m exhausted. I eye the man’s lukewarm coffee. When I’ve stared long enough to make even the poor mug feel uncomfortable, the man sighs. “Would you like some?”

“Yes. Please.” Sighing again, he goes to stand, but I drag Ruby from my iridescent neon-pink fanny pack Mack swears is coming back in style and set her over the desk. “Don’t get up. My sprite can handle it.”

After the darkling attack, Ruby’s wing healed, but her spirit didn’t. She blames herself for my near death and has taken to binging straight packets of sugar she lifts from the comm, wearing all black, listening to Fall Out Boy songs on repeat, and scribbling soliloquies on the meaning of life.

I’m hoping giving her tasks will make her feel useful—and therefore better about herself—again.

The moment the man sets eyes on Ruby, a look of horror transforms his face. He jumps back, sending his combover flopping sideways like a dead beaver and his chair screeching into the wall.

Ruby ducks behind his mug as he emits a shrill little scream. “That thing. That—”

“Sprite?” I add helpfully.

“Yes. That dirty, poisonous creature. They’re infested with deliria lice and a whole host of diseases. I—I—I’m going for your coffee and when I return, I ask that you have that creature locked away.”

He disappears out the door before I can inform him how ignorant he’s being. Sure, deliria lice—the parasites that infest certain types of sprites’ wings and lay eggs in human brains—are understandably horrifying. But they only affect sprites in the Fall Court, and sprites at the academy are tested and up to date on their vaccinations.

“I’m a scourge on humanity,” Ruby laments, sagging against the coffee mug, her shiny wings drooping. “I’m the cause of all evil and sadness in this world.”

“You are not.” I go to pick her up, but she falls limp on the desk like the twins used to do when Zinnia tried to make them do chores. “Ruby, I told you I don’t blame you.”

“Just leave me. Sever our contract so I can die of shame like I deserve. It will be a horrible death. A horrible, noble ending to my pointless existence.”

Gently, I pinch my fingers around her waist and pick her up. She’s closing her eyes, pretending to sleep, but one eye surreptitiously parts.

“I can see you looking at me,” I scold.

“I’m not,” she insists.

Settling her floppy little body in my palm, I stroke her greasy magenta hair. “You didn’t cause Evelyn to become pregnant and turn darkling, and you are not the one controlling her. None of this is your fault. Do you understand?”

“But I knocked into that helmet. If I hadn’t snuck that kid’s flask of Faerie wine,” she continues, her one eye opening wider, “and my secret stash of brambleberry liquor, and that guard’s fermented gourd—”

“Ruby, we can discuss your drinking problem later . . . wait.” I glance around.

I’m in the main office. Alone.

Evelyn’s file is completely unguarded, as are the other ones I saw lumped with hers the other day.

“Want to be of help?” I ask. “Go outside the door and keep that interviewer from coming inside.”

Ruby’s eyes snap open. “What if I fail you again?”

“You won’t, Ruby. Know why? Because I believe in you.”

She goes from limp and flat to animated and full of confidence as she zips through the partially open door.

The moment it clicks shut, I rush to the ancient filing cabinet in the back alcove. Red, cobalt, and amber light from the stained-glass window discolor the cabinet’s scratched and peeling green paint.

Hardly daring to breathe, I rip open the drawers, searching for . . . what? A file that says students impregnated by Fae? Top secret?

My clumsy fingers leave sweaty fingerprints over the manila file folders as I push each one aside. Finally, in the second to last drawer, I spot an unlabeled file.