Basically, not me.
They go. Some come back. Some don’t. It’s all very hush-hush.
“Consider it a mercy.” His voice has once again regained its gruff, icy exterior.
“A mercy? What planet do you live on?”
Ignoring my outburst, he sweeps a hand toward the Shimmer. “Arrive back here at midnight, by the time the moon crests the ridge. Even a second past, and I promise, you will not like the consequences that befall you.”
“Be punctual, got it.” I sound torn between laughing and crying, and my skull feels wrapped in bubble wrap. The shock and the terrible cold make a dangerous combination. “Any other advice before I head off to my prison? What to pack, perhaps?”
There’s no emotion in his voice as he says, “You’re allowed to bring only the clothes you wear. Preferably warmer than your current attire, if you value your fingers and toes.”
I go to argue when a searing heat bites my right arm. I fling it up to examine, desperate to find the source. Metallic lines of gold and black appear over my forearm, twisting and crossing. I watch, horrified, as they snake up my elbow, claiming my flesh all the way to my shoulder.
The pain is unreal.
With a scream, I fall to my knees and gouge my arm into the snow, trying desperately to cool the flames. But the fiery ribbons keep unfurling, claiming more and more of my aching flesh.
Devouring and devouring and . . .
Oh, God, the pain.
Darkness consumes me. I blink, trying to keep hold of my wits. I’m sure my arm is gone, sure whatever is ripping chunks from my flesh will devour me whole. I feel my body rolling around trying to buck out the torment, and I don’t even care how silly I look.
Hot bile slaps the back of my throat.
Right before I hurl, the ravaging pain stops, like water thrown on a fire. My cries become whimpers as I double over, holding my ruined arm close to my body. Snow presses into my cheek; tears wash down my face.
I don’t want to look, but I have to look.
Unscrunching my eyes, I force myself to assess my arm. Because of the otherworldly pain, I’m one hundred percent positive I’ll be met with a mess of blistered, ruined flesh.
Instead, a meshwork of metallic lines crisscross my otherwise perfect skin like a tattoo.
“You’re branded now,” he says, casually, as if the agony I just lived through means nothing. As if I’m livestock. “There’s nowhere you can hide where we cannot find you, so don’t even think about running.”
I drag my gaze from my arm to his face, making sure the disgust and hatred in my expression is clear. “You’re a monster. You could have at least warned me.”
“If you think I’m bad, just wait until the academy.” There’s something about the way he says this that rubs under my skin. Like this is all some big joke.
“Looking forward to it,” I assert. Even though I am definitely not looking forward to it. “Will you be there?”
There’s no way to tell his age behind his shadowy mask. Even if I could make out his face, Evermore are immortal.
“Why?” There’s a whisper of amusement in his gruff voice. “Looking forward to that, too?”
“Looking forward to repaying your unkindness. And if I find this Winter Prince, well, he should pray I never do.” As soon as the words leave my big mouth, I cringe.
Yes, Summer, threaten a magical being who could turn you to ice and then melt you for fun. Grand idea. Better yet, threaten a Fae prince.
The Fae seems to agree. “I promise, you do not want to see me again. Keep your head down and your mortal lips shut, if that’s even possible, and you might just survive us.”
With that ominous warning, he bends down, plucks my lollipops from the ground—bastard!—and then turns on his heels and strides away.
Wrapped in a layer of shock, I watch him go. Watch his ice-blue cloak drag quietly over the snow, his tall form framed by the snow-heavy trees and illuminated by the too-big moon.
The moment I lose sight of him, reality bursts my nice little bubble and smacks me in the face. My anger, too, has faded with my tormentor. Stripped of that powerful emotion, my physical condition becomes impossible to ignore. Violent tremors thrash my body, my jaw locked together like a steel trap.
A brave look informs me my fingers are an alarming shade of purple.
Purple is way worse than red.
Staggering to my feet, I somehow make myself walk as the pain in my frostbitten limbs explodes, nearly overtaking my senses.
But it’s nothing compared to the pain in my heart.
Four years? I’m supposed to survive four whole years with the Fae, and then somehow pay for my freedom . . . with what, exactly?
More importantly, how will my family survive without me?
A potent mixture of horror and dread floods my slushy veins, and for a moment . . . a single frosty breath, I imagine laying down and giving myself to the cold and fear and frustration.
A snowy tomb seems better than what awaits me at this academy.
Something bumps into my leg, hard, and begins to purr. Chatty Cat. He meows up at me with a look like, c’mon already, let’s blow this joint.
Chatty Cat yanks me out of my pity party so hard I get whiplash.
Pity is for fools and beggars, and you are neither, Summer. I grind my jaw and picture my parents, the years I spent on the streets. The icy Fae bastard thinks I can’t survive one overhyped academy of puffed-up immortals, but he doesn’t know all I’ve already overcome.
Whatever happens, whatever they do to me, I can withstand it. I have to.
Determined to ignore the pain, I go back to the business of collecting the neverapples. My hungry, frozen body complains, but the promise of bringing real food home spurs me on.
My life might have just ended, but no reason the others have to starve.
5
Aunt Zinnia hums the tune for Dynasty as she bends over a baking pan, testing the doneness of her cornbread. Despite the heat, she wears a fuzzy pink and blue robe with cat faces. Her frizzy honey-gold curls are captured in a clawed clip, but a few have escaped and stick out at weird angles.
The window above the sink is open, the chorus of insect chirps mixing with the low static hum of the TV. Moths and June bugs swarm over the outdated brass light fixture centered on the water-stained ceiling.
The local news blares from the microwave-sized TV on the counter. “This grandfather from Briar county claims his granddaughter grew fangs while he held her in his lap, then bit him before escaping out a window. Could another darkling infestation be on the rise?”
Not wanting the story to alarm the children, I rush over and switch the channel to national news.
It’s easier to tune out the newscasters from the other side as they speak of the newest bill that’s supposed to help those in the Tainted Zone.
Yeah, right.
There’s also a huge concert for our benefit. All the biggest celebrities and Fae have gotten together to raise money that will undoubtedly end up in the Millers’ pockets. Sometimes I feel like we’re the most forgotten place on earth.
“And where did the cat come from again?” Aunt Zinnia asks. Luckily she’s too busy overbaking her cornbread to notice I’m wearing long-sleeves in the middle of summer, or that I keep rubbing my tattooed arm.
I shrug. “He just sort of showed up?”