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Sensing my discomfort, Fi steps in front of the photo. I see before anyone else when the blue marks on her wrists snap from faint to brilliant, a glow so bright it’s visible even in the daylight. For a second, every eye in the corridor is on her. The responses are physical and immediate—shoulders tense, jaws set, and press members flinch. Two of the mothers look at her with naked disbelief; the mayor’s lip curls so fast it nearly detaches.
Eira’s eyes widen for a split-second before she clicks the mask back in place and tries to redirect the moment, but the damage is done. My mate drops Khol’s hand, but he’s ready—his arm moves to anchor her at the small of the back. Dezi slips to her other side, his stare cold as the glass behind the awards. My bodyguard moves behind me, the gap deliberate, but he’s clearly making sure he’s within reach.
My mate’s breath is so controlled that it looks like calm fury, but I know when she’s going to blow. The slow dilation of her pupils and the way her left heel lifts off the floor, as if she’s braced to run or fight. Tilting her head to the side and back again, the sound of it cracking loudly echoes in the quiet hallway. I watch Khol’s hand slide into his pockets and come out with Fi’s knuckle dusters. Sassy’s grin widens, and she stares at the headmistress, the mayor, and the women who have been pushing my buttons.
“Who the fuck raised you people to treat guests like this?”
Eyes wide, Eira lets out a laugh so brittle it could cut glass. “Whatever do you mean? We’re so honored to have you see what we’ve built here. I do hope it reflects the future the Midnight Court is working toward. We pride ourselves on our traditions, but we are also eager to move forward—together.”
Khol rolls his eyes, tsking as he snarks, “If this is what you take pride in, there’s a lot of work to do later.”
I shoot him a look, warning him to be cautious of what he uses to belittle the idiots here. The goal is not to start a war we can’t finish yet. Turning to the nasty principal, I paste on a smile that reads as genuine to anyone who hasn’t spent a life learning to spot the difference. “You’ve set a remarkable standard,” I say.
Fiadh’s marks glow brighter, and she winks at me. I know something bad is coming, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
That’s when every pane of glass in what feels like the entire fucking school shatters at the same time, and I see a purple magical bubble cover my family as the shards explode into the air.
Forty-Six
FIADH
The shriek of shattering glass is a single, raw nerve of sound, somehow louder for ending all at once. Then there’s a brief silence, except for the hiss of a million tiny crystals pattering down onto marble and silver and skin. No one but my guys seems to understand what happened during that infinitesimal moment in time, and I’m a little surprised myself.
Maybe ancient blood in my veins broke free and demanded respect before I could stop it—not good.
I’m standing with my arms loose at my sides, the tattoos burning with blue light that blazes through the fabric of my sleeves like spotlights. There’s a fizz-pop pressure that says the magic is still going in my veins. It wants out of me and even though I didn’t mean to do it, we’re going to pay for its fury. All I wanted was to stop being the court’s little punchline and for them to stop dogging Revelin as well. But my wrists are lit up with blue-white so bright it hurts to look at, and I feel the lines up my neck throbbing in time with my pulse.
Fidget is plastered flat against my scalp, his claws dug in so hard it’s like he’s about to pop the top of my skull. He’s silent, but his wings are furled and trembling. My only movement is the rise and fall of my chest and the odd shiver of energy crawling down my hands. I don’t want to trigger my angry magic by doing anything else until it calms.
Across the corridor, the world is in slow motion. Eira is frozen where she’d just begun another dramatic gesture toward a wall of trophies. The glass that was supposed to frame her is gone—just empty air and sunlight, the wind scattering her hair around her sharp jawline. The smile she was wearing is dead, and her lips peeled back, but not in a way that has anything to do with charm. She’s staring at me as if I just morphed into a bomb and then proved it by detonating.
Which is true, I suppose, but that’s on her for not respecting her guests.
The mothers—every one of them in their matching, silk-wrapped couture—are cowering behind the nearest sculpture, all sense of dignity obliterated. One’s hat is halfway down her face, the brim bent into a jagged crescent, and her pearls are swinging in a wild pendulum as she shakes. Another has collapsed onto her hands and knees, clutching her purse like it’s a rosary. They’re shrieking, but the sound is thin, more animalistic than human.
I smirk at that, enjoying their terror. These are people who feed on denigrating others, even those supposedly in their own fancy echelon or higher. Being humbled in the place where they train their children to perpetuate that nonsense is somewhat fitting, and I enjoy that their bravado has been reduced to cowardly whimpering.
Nearby, the mayor has gone the color of decomposing chalk. His suit, already too small for his gut, is plastered with a thin snowdrift of glass dust, and he’s wedged himself so hard against the corridor’s far wall that his ear is mashed flat to the stone. He’s whispering to his security, who is looking at me with the wide, fearful eyes of someone who is very much rethinking their career in public service.
Shocked students are visible everywhere—through the newly open walls, through what used to be doors and windows, and every shattered seam of the building. None of them are running; they’re just… watching. Some stand with mouths open and others with hands clamped to their mouths, but not a single one looks away. A few that are close actually step closer, peering past the line of faculty and staff as if the show isn’t over yet.
It might not be, depending on what happens next.
The press pixies are everywhere. I have no idea how more got in here so fast, but the air is thick with their humming and wings so clear you only see the shadows flicking on the walls. Dozens—no, hundreds—of bitty cameras trained on me, on my men, and the chaos, live-beaming every frame to anyone in Faerie with a scry-screen or phone. Some of the pixies get right up in my face, their cameras no bigger than a pinky nail, the lenses flashing in a blizzard of blue-white and purple.
It pisses my barely controlled magic off and the blue light that emanates from my skin in response is blinding. Where it hits the wall, it rebounds, shattering again into fractured arcs that run along the marble and up to the ceiling. The leftover crystal inlays in the walls grab the glow and shoot it in every direction, so the effect is like being at the heart of a strobe-lit hurricane that shatters cameras and sends the tiny beings roughly scattering across the corridor.
It’s beautiful, if you don’t mind the whole ‘possible death by magical discharge’ vibe.
Suddenly, I remember to breathe and close my eyes so I can talk to the rioting forces within me. I keep my inner voice soothing, but firm about listening to me. There’s a push back inside, but I keep coaxing and demanding in alternating statements because Rev says that it will bend if I pursue it until it gives.
When I finally feel like I might have the reins, I open my eyes. Khol is the first thing I see—he’s standing inches away, a perfect picture of carnivorous pride. His mouth is pulled open in a grin so wide it almost splits his face and he’s clapping his knuckle-duster-wrapped hands together in slow, deliberate arcs. He catches my eye and winks, making the magic pulse within happily. That’s not the help I need at the moment, but a small part of me is wriggling happily at his praise.
My vampire has shifted positions, standing between me and the headmistress like a living wall. He’s drawn up to his full height, chest out, and his eyes are so bright red it looks like he’s bleeding from them. The way he stands is meant to say ‘come for my mate, and I will paint this whole building with your entrails’. There’s no effort to hide it; he simply radiates ancient menace, and I understand exactly how he was able to get free of his coven. Dezi, in this mode, would terrify most normal people, and the energy he’s radiating is full of unspoken threats. I almost want them to try it to see what he’ll do.
Sue me, it’s pretty fucking hot.
Our professional bodyguard snow leopard is already a tactical half-pace closer to the nearest exit, his eyes running constant checks on every possible threat. He’s muttering into his earpiece in a low, urgent tone, but my ears are buzzing too loudly to discern what he’s saying. His face is a stone mask, but the way his hands are flexing says he’s about three seconds from giving the order to yank us from this place.
