Spring (Evermore Academy #2) - Audrey Grey Page 0,128
need to figure out the other clue. The face of the portal is a metallic silver, like molten steel. I try to peer through the surface, but it’s completely opaque.
The group of shadows in front of us choose their first two items and leap through. I scour the rim, desperate for any clue as to what comes next. As I drag air into my lungs, working to calm my mind, a scent hits me.
“What is that smell?” I blurt. “A flower?”
Mack ducks beneath a butterfly, barely missing its gruesome touch. “What?”
“I think it’s mountain laurel.” I would know that scent anywhere. After realizing Hellebore’s obsession with poisonous plants, I insisted Eclipsa add those to our training. Thank God she made me learn their telltale smells along with their names.
Mack’s eyes stretch wide. “Yes! It grows deep in the Vanier Mountains of the Winter Court. That’s where we’re going.”
Someone shoves us from behind. As instructed, I put my hand into the pouch and whisper the two items I need, just loud enough that Mack knows what I conjured.
Axe—for helping climb high mountains and chopping wood.
Waterproof wool-lined gloves—because I really appreciate all ten of my fingers.
Our suits are spelled to protect our bodies from the elements, but our hands are bare. And I learned my lesson about what happens to exposed digits in the freezing Winter Court temperatures.
She conjures gloves as well as a long electric prod, the kind used in the menagerie for the more dangerous animals.
That’s when I recall what else resides in the Vanier Mountains. Something way worse than mountain laurel or the biting chill of winter.
Snow leopards. And not the adorable, normal sized mortal ones.
The massive, mythical, eat-entire-villages kind.
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“God, I hate being right sometimes,” I mutter, watching my breath crystallize in front of my face. The snow crunches beneath our boots as we race along a path. Once again, I’m reminded how much I hate the cold.
Will that change when the mating bond is consummated? Gosh, I hope so because this . . . this is miserable.
“I can’t feel my face,” Mack moans, casting a sidelong glance at my hair, which I’ve unpinned and am now using like a scarf to keep my face warm.
“Pretend we’re inside the smelly sauna from the school gym.”
“Oh, warmth. I would give one of my toes for a few minutes of heat—if I have any left. I can’t tell.”
I slow, frowning. “Should we stop and make a fire?”
“No.” She gives a stubborn shake of her head. “Not yet. We should be close.”
We’ve been running nonstop for at least two hours. Footsteps mar the otherwise perfect crust of snow ahead, which tells me we’re on the right path, at least.
It also says we’re not first.
How many have already passed through the second portal?
According to the map from my sigil pin, the next portal is on the other side of the mountain.
We quicken our pace. By the time we hit the gently sloping range, a soft drizzle of snow falls around us.
When we’re halfway up the mountain, I spot little fires drifting from below.
“Guess they didn’t bother with gloves,” Mack says, teeth chattering against the cold.
The last forty feet of the peak grows steep and treacherous. We take turns using the axe for a handhold, sinking the blade into the dark obsidian of the mountain. After what feels like an eternity, we hit the peak and begin our descent.
Mack’s breath clouds the air as she says, “Look.”
I glance at the horizon, assuming she means at the portal glowing like a beacon in the drizzly gray air. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful sight.”
“No, Summer.”
Something about her voice makes me turn, and I follow her gaze to the wide shoeprints below on our left. Whoever it was chose snowshoes as their item.
The wide prints end in a churned mess of earth, snow, and . . . blood. One snowshoe sits broken and abandoned.
“So much blood.” She rests a hand on the electric prod tied to her waist. “Should I check for tracks?”
I shake my head, and we fall into a quiet jog down the slope. No need to check for tracks. Only one animal could do that, and with that amount of blood . . .
No one could survive.
A hollow guilt fills my chest as we pass by the scene of the struggle.
Don’t think about it, Summer. Compartmentalize and mourn later. But my mind is a jerk and won’t let me get away with feeling nothing.