Aisling hugs me but not with her normal vigor. Her hugs are usually tight enough to inflict pain. Her hands land onmy shoulders. “It’s important, or they wouldn’t have let me go. They don’t trust anyone.”
“They locked you in the tower. I’m not sure they trust you,” Roark says.
“They’re just trying to control the lot of you. Make you feel bad so you cave to their demands.” Her blue eyes flash at me. I told her I think Raine is my thunder mate. That soon my thunder can take over and I’ll get her back to the academy where she belongs. “But this is important. Firested’sThessariis closed.”
“Barred. Why should we care? Their queen hasn’t been right for a decade.”
“No, not barred or caged. Collapsed. Intel came in this morning. They are claiming the lot of you did it in retaliation for two Firested shifters being in your village.”
“That’s not rational. Why would we take out a clan’s portal because two blokes were at a pub?” Evander says.
“But they haven’t attacked Crest Wing?” I ask.
“They haven’t attacked anywhere, not the academy, not Crest Wing. There hasn’t even been a battle in a month. Not a peep. Which is weird, right? Usually, they’re battling with us or Rivulet, sometimes even Elderglen. But nothing. It’s like they’ve all been called home.” Aisling raises her chin at me.
My brow furrows because it is weird. They’re always testing boundaries. Seeing what territory they can pick up that doesn’t belong to them.
“But wait, there’s more—and it’s not good, not at all. Mother and Father have announced the mating ball.” She shakes my shoulders.
“They’ve done what?” Roark growls.
“They’ve done it like they told you they would. They’re tired of waiting. They say the lightning would havehappened already and you need to pick a mate. There are scrolls up all over the realm.” Aisling fumbles with her innermost dress, pulling a parchment out of her pocket. “See here.” She holds it out to me, and I begin to read it to myself.
Aisling snatches it back and reads it out loud. “With the failure of their last candidate, the thunder of Prince Kieren Alder will hold a mating ball on the apex of Baltine.”
Roark tears it from her hand. “That’s not six months from the ceremony.”
“You know the queen. Six months is a random amount of time. It has never, in the lore of old, taken longer than a fortnight.” Aisling moves her hand to her hips, mocking our mother. Then she turns the parchment over. “I wrote down exactly what she said. ‘Tell your brother and his thunder they are done playing with human women. It is time to come home and pick a proper mate. War is coming, and we need to be prepared.”
“Fuck,” Evander says. His eyes flick over my head.
“Where is the beautiful, smart, kind, and loving Raine you speak so kindly of?” Aisling asks.
64
RAINE
Yes, I heard Kieren’s sister say all those nice things about me. But I also heard her say something about a mating ball. That the lightning should have happened in a fortnight and now they have to stop messing around. I’m keeping them from something important. Why am I even here? I shouldn’t be here.
I can’t believe I’ve gotten so deep into this. They’re princes. Princes. And I’m not a princess. There’s no mark on my skin. No way will this work.
I’m taking slow steps back to my suite when I realize I’m not even supposed to be there. Under false pretenses or not, I was hired to organize a collection, and that’s exactly what I should be doing. If I’m not going to be here for the full six months, I need to get pictures.
My chest squeezes. It’s not a heart attack. But it feels like one. I hold back the tears because what good does it do to cry over something that was never rightly mine? I stuff it down, but the pain’s hollowing me out, dredging up depthsof loss I didn’t know existed. I thought the pain of finding out that I wasn’t going to be able to finish school was a lot. But this, this is more than I can take.
Moving through the corridor, I keep my steps as silent as I can. I pass my suite, heading for the stone stairs, but then pivot back. In my suite, I lock the door and head to the back of the closet. To the door I haven’t opened since that first week. The lights are on. Perhaps this is being a little childish. Okay, no perhaps. I can feel it in my gut, but I also feel all kinds of other things in my gut right now: pain, regret, longing. And a whole lot of not being enough. Just like when my parents told me to get a real major so I could have a real job. One that would support me.
I turn down the interior hallway with the plaster and lath showing. At the corner of what I imagine is the end, near what would be the closet in the room next to me, there’s a short staircase down, barely half a flight, and it opens up into a full-size corridor with a short ceiling. Utility lights brighten the path, and soon I find a staircase that goes down a full flight and a door with a worn metal handle. I step out into a storage room full of canned goods. At the end of it, though, is another door. And when I go through, it takes me to the south hallway, right where I want to be.
I’m at the collection’s door when I realize the secret passageways have lessened some of my pain. But seeing the collection and looking at Kieren’s chair has my chest seizing up again. I sit in it; even though he’s had it a short time, I can smell him, cedar and pine.
Sinking deeper into the chair, I run over my options: go, or stay and confirm I don’t have the lightning and then leave brokenhearted. Which is still go. It’s just delaying the process. Kind of like how my roommate at school tried to get me to stay. She wanted to smuggle mein after my ID stopped working. But I didn’t see the point. I had to go. So I left on my own terms. Leaving with my dignity as intact as possible. I’ll be back, though. I’ll finish it.
That’s it, then. That’s what I should do.
I pull out my phone. When I left school, I talked it all through with Wren. I know I have an NDA, but I don’t care anymore. I need my sister. Kieren has his sister. His sister who was in a tower. That’s what they said. A tower. I... Now I’m replaying her tumbling through the portal. She wasn’t speaking English, French, or even Spanish. But I understood everything. Or at least the gist of it.
I pull out my phone and type the sort of text message that Wren hates. Like, absolutely despises. But it’s better than a voice memo—she hates those more. And also, I’d end up crying. Also, screw the NDA.
