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?”
“Well, can he just sort of go away?”
“Shh,” I scold. “He can hear you. Besides, look how friendly and adorable he is.”
Aunt Zinnia throws a dubious glance over her shoulder at Chatty Cat, who’s made himself right at home on the kitchen island and is busy hissing at any kid who gets close. “I might be able to explain him to Vi, but”—she nods her head at the neverapples—“those will need more of an explanation. Where did you find them anyway?”
“Can’t we just say they came from the same place the fresh eggs and milk needed for that cornbread came from?” I ask hopefully, eyeing the basket of large brown eggs on the table.