Turns out she and Aunt Renee are in the middle of aHarry Pottermarathon. They’re rewatching each movie for approximately the 800th time, the books stacked beside themon the coffee table for easy reference in case the films get anything wrong, which, according to Mom, theyfrequently do.
Sorren stands stiffly at attention, like he should be wearing epaulettes on his shoulders. “I don’t know. I assumed my uncle would guess this was my destination, but perhaps I was wrong?”
I pull off a piece of cotton candy I got from the snack shack earlier. It’s pastel pink, the same color as the eggs that garden workers now place carefully on the lawn in front of us. I take another bite, my fingers tacky with sugar. It dissolves in my mouth like snow melting in sunlight. The sweetness hits my bloodstream, and I bounce lightly on my toes, like if I keep moving I won’t have to think about what’s coming.
I remember how Seth called me boring when he broke up with me.
Which is interesting.
Because I’m standing in a park eating cotton candy while waiting for a magical egg to open so my fate-bonded bunny-shifter prince and I can go inside and fight for an enchanted sword.
So, yeah.
Clearly Seth knew what he was talking about.
Idiot.
Sorren taps my shoulder and points to the edge of the grass where a long line of children has formed. They jostle and jockey for the best position. Bright plastic eggs scatter the lawn now, waiting for the hunt to begin. Somewhere among them is a golden one, with an extra-expensive prize inside, and every child is desperate to be the one who finds it.
Sorren and I are waiting for our own kind of hunt.
Not the one for eggs.
The one for weapons.
The crowd grows larger and larger until it’s finally time. A park employee in a neon vest raises a whistle to her lips. Forone strange, suspended moment, everything goes quiet. Parents lift phones. Children lean forward onto their toes. Wind moves softly through the trees.
Sorren’s hand tightens around mine.
Not nervous.
Calm. Steady. Dangerous.
The whistle shrieks.
Children surge forward with delighted screams.
Sorren goes stiff as his head snaps toward the garden entrance.
I follow his gaze just in time to see them, the men who walk through the gate. Tweed coats. Leather patches at the elbows. The same bland, forgettable faces I saw in the lobby. All three of them are here.
The cotton candy slips from my hands, forgotten. Pink sugar collapses against the grass.
“They found us,” I whisper.
A sound begins. It’s low at first. A buzz. A vibration more than a noise, like something vast shifting beneath the earth.
Sorren tenses beside me.
The buzz builds. Higher. Louder. Like a swarm of angry wasps. Until it drills straight through my skull, and I clap my hands over my ears. Sorren does the same, his teeth bared.
Around us, children rush from egg to egg, scooping them into baskets while parents laugh and shout encouragement.
Phones are held high. Cameras flash.
None of them seem to notice the thick plume of smoke that now bleeds from the crown of the giant egg. The ground shivers beneath my feet. The air smells suddenly sharp, like lightning before a storm.
A crack splits the egg’s surface with a sound like ice breaking across a frozen lake. A seam of golden light rips from the very top to its base. It widens. Peels apart.
