Well, now I know what it sounds like when an entire crowd sighs with relief. Just like that, the blizzard stops. With the threat of a fight gone, murmurs break the silence as students stop holding their breath and begin to whisper.
“Oh, good.” Eclipsa rolls out her shoulders before sliding a pointed glance at the prince. “For a moment I thought you two idiots were about to fight. But it’s just a testosterone-fueled stare down. Gotcha.”
Despite my annoyance at the situation, her sarcasm makes me smile.
Rhaegar opens his mouth to speak then seems to think better of it. Instead, he switches his focus to me.
Whatever he sees, it must not be good because pity flashes across his handsome countenance, his green eyes widening.
God, I hate that emotion.
“Summer, I’m sorry. I didn’t know . . . and why in the scourge aren’t you wearing a coat?”
“Because she can’t afford one,” the prince reminds him. “She came from the Tainted Zone, remember? And in case you aren’t familiar with humans, they aren’t like the lesser Fae slaves your father keeps. They do need sustenance and the occasional rest. Even the poor ones.”
“You would know,” Rhaegar growls. “Considering all the human slaves your father forces to work at his clubs.”
Anger warms my cheeks. I’m tired of being used by both of them as a pawn to piss each other off. “I’m fine.”
The Winter Prince scowls at me as if my human frailty is a mortal sin. Unfortunately, his fierceness only makes him more beautiful. Especially the way his wavy blue-black hair falls around his forehead. And his lips curl at the edges, a small dimple forming on one side of his face . . .
I shake my head, trying to dispel my random musing about my former tormentor’s looks. What in the Shimmer is wrong with me? Rhaegar is just as handsome as the prince, but I’m not losing my mind over Rhaegar’s kissable lips.
The Winter Prince’s scowl rips me from my thoughts. “Fine?” he counters. “You were swaying on your feet, and your lips have turned a disconcerting shade of blue.”
I hate that he’s right. I also hate the way Rhaegar is now looking at me like some wilting flower. What if he decides not to fight for me now? That I’m not worth it?
Pushing past the prince, I plead with Rhaegar. “I was dizzy. I’m not used to this much standing. That’s all. I’ll find a way to buy a coat. I—”
“No.” Rhaegar’s jaw is set. “I’m releasing you from your shadow duties early. See you at combat class.”
His voice leaves no room for argument. It also makes his disappointment impossible to overlook. “Wait? You’ll be there?”
“Yeah. We train as a team. Now, go and warm up.”
The Winter Prince smirks at Rhaegar before stalking away, and Rhaegar frowns in return. It’s obvious he doesn’t appreciate having my perceived mistreatment pointed out by an Unseelie.
22
Once I’m back in our dorm room with Mack, glued in front of the fire, I realize he was right to let me out early. I’m exhausted. Mentally and physically. And we still have fight training in an hour.
I barely have time to eat the apple I stole earlier, down a glorious cup of coffee, and pull my hair into a high ponytail before we head off to training.
A huge gym awaits with several different arenas. We follow a bunch of first years to a locker room where we change into stretchy black athletic gear that melds to our bodies, leaving very little to the imagination.
Then our instructor, Mrs. Richter, a former shadow guardian with long black hair restrained in a loose braid and the buffest arms I’ve ever seen, leads us into the largest arena.
Other than Mr. Willis, she’s the first human instructor I’ve seen at Evermore Academy, but by the tight set of her lips and serious expression, I very much doubt she’ll have sympathy on us.
The room stinks of years’ worth of sweat and old socks, but the equipment shines like new. Black punching bags line the far wall and red wrestling mats are positioned around the area. The door to another smaller padded room is open, where students with little crossbows on their wrists shoot at targets along the wall.
Evelyn raises her hand. “Instructor Richter, when do we get to train for that?”
Our instructor follows Evelyn’s gaze to the other room and then purses her lips. “Shadows aren’t taught how to use class three weapons until second year.”
“Then how are we supposed to kill darklings?” a boy with spiky blond hair and acne jokes.
“With your hands,” Richter says dryly.
The boy snorts and mutters under his breath, “I’d rather have a wrist-mounted crossbow. They’re so freaking cool.”
Richter regards him with narrowed eyes. Then she retrieves a small wrist-mounted crossbow from the other room and hands the weapon to the boy. The class goes quiet, the only sound a dull thud as the bolts hit their targets.
“What do I do with this?” he asks, his eyes huge as they go from the weapon to the instructor.
“What’s your name, shadow?” Richter asks.
“Be—Ben.”
“Well, Ben. You said you wanted a wrist-mounted crossbow. Now you have one.”
He flicks a nervous glance at the weapon. “I’ve never—”
“Used one? I think not. This particular weapon is a semi-automatic wrist-mounted, laser guided crossbow, to be exact.” She closes the distance between them until the sharp end of the bolt is inches from her heart. “Pretend I’m a darkling and shoot me.”
“No, I . . . I can’t. Right?”
“If you want to stay in this academy, Ben, you can and you will.”
The crossbow shakes as he fastens it to his wrist. His finger moves to the trigger . . .
Right before the bolt releases, Richter side steps. At the same time, she brings her right hand down on his elbow. Her other hand lifts the weapon from the bottom and thrusts up, stripping it from his grip.
She tosses the crossbow away, and it clatters near Evelyn’s feet. Richter grins. “Now your freaking cool weapon is gone. What do you do?”
I’m pretty sure Ben is about to piss his pants. When he can’t come up with a solution, Richter holds up her hands, a clever look on her face. “Weapons have their place. But these”—she wiggles her fingers—“will always be with you, and they should be your most honed weapon.”
After that very convincing display, she sends us to do laps around the gym. We end the session with pushups and burpees, and I’m not entirely sure how I don’t vomit. My head spins. My stomach churns. I assume we’re done until Richter leads us through a small padded room into another even larger gym.
There’s no equipment here other than mats. Mirrors line the far wall. Our keepers wait on a large mat, stretching. They all wear similar tight black workout gear and are sweaty like they’ve been here a while. Except their sweaty and ours is entirely different.
They’re like the models on sports magazines who have been sprayed with droplets of water to get a picture. Gorgeous. Every hair in place. Not breathing hard at all. Skin all dewy and crap.
The Elite Six are off in a group by themselves. All except Eclipsa, who stretches over in the corner. Inara and her twin brother, Bane, whisper as they watch me. Meanwhile, Lyra, Bane’s lycan girlfriend, shoots daggers at me from his side.