An overwhelming mixture of conflicting emotions surges through me as I scan the rest of the Unseelie side. On one hand, I’m thankful I get to stay at the academy and not slave away in the Unseelie Courts. But I’ve also basically pissed off all the Unseelie, by the way they’re all staring daggers into me.
Especially the Elite Six.
Fae-freaking-tastic. I’m so screwed.
But screwed or not, Aunt Vi would die if she knew I wasn’t using manners. So I turn to Rhaegar and say, “Thank you for making sure I don’t get kicked out.”
He smiles, a nice, warm grin that somehow makes him even more beautiful. “It was nothing. Besides, I’m interested to see how you shake things up.”
I raise a confused eyebrow, and Mack jumps in to explain. “This part is the official Selection, but most of us have already been claimed, unofficially, by an Evermore.” She tilts her head to Basil, the Faun who was in the boat earlier. “Basil has already promised to claim me. But you . . . you’re the wild card. You haven’t been claimed, and no one really knows anything about you.”
I release a nervous breath and sweep my gaze over the crowd. Thankfully, the Selection ceremony is well underway, and attention has drifted from me to the shadow candidates, who mill nervously near the front. I follow Mack to a spot near the back of the group.
When our names are called, we go stand on a small stage in a circle of crystals. A dark blue Fae, who introduces himself as Cronus, the Master of Ceremonies, reads out a little spiel on our lives. I try to focus on his words and not the deer antlers rising high above his head.
Unsurprisingly, the Unseelie choose the humans they deem cruel or cunning. I study their ranks, trying to catalogue the different courts. According to Wikipedia, the Unseelie are made up of Winter Court, Autumn Court, Lunar Court, Dusk Court, and the Mortal Beasts Court.
The Winter and Autumn students are easy to recognize; Winter wears silvers and blues and ivories and loads of fur, their hair varying shades of the same. Autumn Fae dress in Fall colors, orange and brown and red.
The Lunar and Dusk Courts are harder to pinpoint because the students dress similarly.
On our side, the Seelie side, the courts are what you would expect. Summer, who wear loads of green and gold, Spring, clad in vibrant pinks and yellows and purples. The Star Court wears light, gauzy clothes that sparkle under even minimal light. The Dawn Court sport colors of the sunrise, mainly orange and red, and Mythological Creatures Court have adopted earthy colors like juniper and coffee-brown.
The Mythological Creatures are fascinating. Along with centaurs and fauns, there are countless beasts from the storybooks like orcs, pixies, and even mermaids.
It’s interesting, and if I wasn’t about to be chosen like a slab of meat, I’d probably enjoy this part more.
When Mack enters the stage, several Seelie look interested in choosing her, but just as she predicted, she ends up with Basil. He smiles kindly at her during the process, running a hand through his short red hair. A pang of disappointment sweeps over me knowing I may not be as lucky.
I’m a loose cannon, a bad bet, and I’ll be surprised if anyone selects me.
Still . . . my generally optimistic nature makes me hope. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to end up with an Evermore like Basil instead of Inara. Someone who thought to cover me with a blanket and actually looked sad when a human drowned.
I don’t think that’s asking too much from the universe to match me with someone who isn’t spawned from Satan and surrounded by a pack of beautiful mean-girl sociopaths.
A girl can dream.
My name gets called near the end. As I walk up to take my place in the circle, the crowd goes silent. The bubble of heat still protects me from the wintry air, but goosebumps ridge my flesh anyway as the cruel gaze of the Evermore scrapes over me.
The boos start right away as Cronus calls out, “Who claims this mortal as their shadow?”
He has a flair for the dramatic, all grins and bows, but I can feel his anxiety all the way from here.
Right there with you, guy. I shift on my feet, nerves making it hard to stand still. My gut twists, and I wrap my arms around my chest to keep my arms from shaking. Now I know how cattle feel when they’re auctioned off at livestock shows.
Maybe no one will choose me? What happens then?
My sprite zips above my head and hands off a tiny scroll to Cronus.
The Master of Ceremonies squints down at the scroll, held between his delicate blue fingers, and begins to read from it. “This human female is eighteen years old. She hails from the Tainted Zone. Her hobbies include hunting and stealing, and she was kicked out of her high school for assault. She’s thin, but with proper food she could look decent.”
I glare up at the sprite. Who made this bio?
“Although untrained in the fighting arts, she’s feisty, mean, and prone to violence. All useful traits when you need your shadow to travel to the scourge lands for rare herbs, or desire protection from a darkling.”
Feisty and mean? Pfft. I roll my eyes.
Cronus peers down at the scroll for a breath, frowns, and then rolls it up. “Any takers for this human?”
Wow. This is sad. Worse than all those times I was chosen last in gym class.
Compared to the illustrious bios of the other humans—private schools, numerous awards, speaks five languages, already accepted into Ivy League colleges—mine is pitiful, and if I didn’t recognize how lacking my life was before, I’m all too aware now.
I’m tugging at my hoodie when a voice rings out . . . no, make that two voices.
“I claim her,” both voices say.
Sure I misheard, I whip my head up to see who spoke . . . as does the rest of the crowd. The second I take in the Summer Evermore, Rhaegar, striding toward the stage, my face breaks into a sloppy grin.
The other Evermore walks on the opposite side of Rhaegar. She’s the Lunar Court girl I admired earlier, the one with the crescent jewelry and beautiful silver hair.
Someone wants me. Two people, in fact. I barely manage to keep from fist pumping the air in triumph.
I. Am. Wanted.
I’ve already decided that if I get to choose, I’m going with the Summer Evermore. But I have no idea how this works. None of the other candidates had more than one Fae claim them.
“I claim this mortal for the Winter Prince,” a third male voice chimes in.
Whoa. I glance to my left and nearly die of shock. My former tormentor and rooftop crush stalks to the stage, his silver cloak rippling out across the snow behind him.
Where did he come from?
Everyone has gone completely still. I recognize the emotion tightening their faces: fear.
Everyone but Inara, who somehow manages to look even more homicidal than before as she watches him approach me. Maybe she has a thing for the Winter Prince’s lackey.
For his part, he seems oblivious to the effect his presence has on the crowd.
Those arresting eyes lock onto mine and another strange shock carves up my spine, similar to what I felt when I touched the lock earlier and somehow broke it. A raw emotion burns through me, expectation and something . . . else.
Something so close to desire that I take the inside of my cheek between my molars and bite, hard, just to make it disappear.
When the metallic taste of blood chases away all emotions except loathing, I allow my gaze back on the offending Fae. He’s still watching me as he strides up to the stage.