Evermore Academy (Evermore Academy #3) - Audrey Grey Page 0,51
meeting her gaze. “Part of the problem with this school is that Guardians are seen as entertainment, not equal partners.”
“Equal?” She arches a red brow. “You sit in a box with servants to fetch you food and drink, on a throne made of gold. Do not mistake those mortals below as equals.”
I suddenly wish I had said no to the wooden stadium she insisted be erected for the occasion. It made sense at the time. There’s always a crowd for the Selection. There are the Evermore who opt not to choose shadows, fourth years who are exempt from the Selection, and outsiders who return year after year for the spectacle of watching mortals die.
Won’t they be disappointed.
In my defense, I had imagined gum-splattered metal bleachers, the kind that fold and unfold and leave your butt bruised for days. Not a giant stadium made of polished ashwood with boxes for each seasonal court.
“You do remember that I’m mortal?” I ask softly.
“How could I forget?” If the hardness in her tone doesn’t drive home that point, the coldness in her gaze rams it straight into my heart. “You went from being a glorious creature with the world at her feet to a plain, fragile, naive girl whose life is no more than a blink.”
I knew she felt that way, and yet, to hear her say it aloud—it feels like a kick to the gut. “That’s what you think of me?”
“Don’t take it personally. It’s not your fault you were forced into a human body, and I still love the girl I know resides inside.”
My mouth gapes open as my tongue struggles to form a response before I decide there are literally no words.
“The shadow Selection is a time-honored tradition,” she continues, oblivious to the insult. “But you are wrong about its purpose. Yes, the Evermore flock to the occasion for the bloodsport, but its true purpose lies in protecting your kind.”
“Protecting?”
“Yes. You see, the Selection is a public reminder to the mortal students that they are not safe here. That, while they may live and study on campus grounds and work closely with Fae, our world is dangerous. We are dangerous.”
“Believe me, mortals are aware.”
“No.” She studies a group of fourth year shadows resting in the shade of the stands, her expression curious but removed, the way one would watch ants work. “They always forget, eventually.”
“What about the mortal employees at your firm?” I think about Mack’s dad, Sebastian, who is slated to make partner someday.
“We have a very strict protocol to keep mortal and Fae employees from mingling, but yes, some have nice titles and attend meetings with the Fae. But I assure you, they know they will never be like us, and when the sun sets, not a single mortal can be found in my building.”
I sigh. I feel like she’s talking in circles. “Do you truly think mortals and Fae can’t coexist? That seems hypocritical considering your entire business model in the human realm implies the opposite.”
“Oh, we can all work together quite harmoniously as long as rules are followed and everyone remembers their places.”
The disdain in her voice churns my stomach, but I drop the subject, letting my gaze wander to the Winter Court box opposite ours. The Winter King decided to attend this Selection, the first one since Valerian entered the academy. He’s not here for the spectacle—although dying mortals seem right up his alley.
No, he’s here because his spies undoubtedly informed him what Valerian did, and now he has to remind Valerian to be a good little prince.
And Valerian is doing that in spades. The Winter Prince sits beside his father, his chin resting in his hands as he stares passively at the spectacle on the lawn. A frosted crown of ice sits atop his messy midnight blue hair.
The crown rests slightly askew, and my fingers itch to fix it.
The only time he moves is to take the silver goblets of sugared plum wine being served and demand more. The poor faun server hasn’t stopped moving, sprinting up and down those steps so fast he might as well be a contestant in the Selection.
For the millionth time, I let my gaze fall on Valerian’s features, greedily drinking him in like he does the wine. Both acts are similar, providing deceptive comfort that soon turns to a bitter ache.
The need to feel his lips crushing mine, to feel his hands around my body, his breath on my cheek, is all-consuming. I want to kiss him. To rest