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I grin bigger when Revelin nods, and Dezi clears his throat. “Fine. We leave the shitty manager to deal with the fallout, but I want to grab a few more things downstairs before we pile into the SUV. I saw things we can use that were not available in Briarvale, though I personally am not the one who can use them.”

Arching a brow, I ask, “Then how do you know?”

“He’s older than dirt; how many times does he have to say it, Sassypants?” Rev jokes as he takes my arm. “Let the mosquito do his shopping, and then we’ll load up the car to go to Thornwright. I’m curious as fuck about whatever is going on there that causes us to go running back like our tails are on fire.”

I have to admit—I’m a bit worried about that, too.

Fifty

KHOL

We roll through the necropolis district in the car built like a panic room: four inches of reinforced metal, glass thick enough to take a spell or a bullet, and every point of entry spelled and counter-spelled. Whoever built it had a paranoia I respect because we have vehicles like that for the gang. I ride shotgun, one boot up on the dash and the other wedged against the floor mat for leverage, so I can survey the street in comfort.

As we move away from the center, the necropolis drops all pretense. Windows here are bandaged in plywood and doors are armored in metal. The lampposts go from sleek to black steel, half of them burned out or bent sideways from old collisions. A couple of blocks back, the streetlights burned a bright green. Now it’s a dark wine-colored flame in every sconce, and more than once I see clusters of them flicker and go dark as we pass, like the city knows we don’t belong.

But we do, some more than others, and I’m not concerned by its rejection.

I feel a scale lift on my jaw; and I flick it to my knee, then brush it to the mat. No point in worrying about this shit when I’m almost done. The others are silent as we drive through the poorest part of Ravenhold. Tier’s got both hands on the wheel, driving like someone who expects a crash. His eyes are up, mirrors checked every twenty seconds, and that earpiece is jammed in so tightly it’s probably fusing with the cartilage. Even the snow leopard’s shoulders look tense, and he usually drives as if he was born to it.

Rev sits behind me, scrolling his phone with his thumb in a way that says work but feels more like avoidance of reality. He’s probably monitoring the press, or the Daybreak court’s media, though maybe he’s just doomscrolling memes. He speaks only if Tier says something first, and then only in monosyllables.

The vampire rides at the rear left, his red eyes fixed on the window. He counts alleys as we pass—never looking at the same one twice, so if something moves, I bet he’ll know before the rest of us. His face is so still it could be a death mask, but I know he’s humming with that pre-fight charge.

We shouldn’t be geared up for a fight, but everything in Midnight has been one, so I can’t fault him.

My mate is in the center with Fidget in her hair, and she’s got the look she wears on bad mornings. Her eyes are on the windows, fists in her lap, and her jaw set to pissy. I watch her in the glass, and when the city sags from nice to nasty, she doesn’t flinch. Instead, she relaxes into it. I recognize that, because you can trust a bad neighborhood to be honest about its intentions. The posh districts put on a mask until they show you the teeth.

Tier turns left, then hard right, and I catch my own reflection in the window—a flash of pale, old scars, the line of peeling scales at my throat—and I wonder if the school here will have uniforms that even try to hide the monsters. I hope not; Silvergate’s polish made my skin crawl.

Thornwright Academy comes into view around the next corner. It doesn’t hide what it is—the main building is three stories of sooty white stone with a crust of moss running halfway up the foundation. The windows are old glass, each pane warped and thumb-printed by time; more than half are cracked, a few patched with tape or plastic. The gates are heavy metal, and the sign above them is welded in crooked, rust-colored letters. One of the hinges is held together with a bolt that doesn’t match, probably yanked from a car’s suspension if I’m right. The wall around the school is pitted from decades of weather, stains leeching down from the spikes and the heads of old bolts.

Now this feels more comfortable than any place we’ve been to in Faerie so far.

A homemade banner hangs between two posts as we enter the drive. It reads Welcome, Prince Revelin, the letters uneven and thick with glitter, with paint that’s probably still wet in places. Under the sign, there’s a group of kids. At least thirty, maybe more, faces await our arrival on the lawn. One glance and you can tell they’ve split into factions, but for now it’s the curiosity and maybe the prospect of a famous face that’s keeping them together.

I catalog the first row quickly—a moth-winged girl with ink-stained knuckles and blue in her hair, a kid with shifting green and gray patches on his skin, with a jaw like a boxer and a pair of goblin twins sharing a notebook, both wearing mismatched shoes and carrying satchels that look like they weigh more than their owners. Further back is a tall figure with a fox tail wrapped tight around its leg, leaning back with both arms crossed and an expression that says it’s not impressed. Mixed in are a handful of straight-up Fae, but even they wear it like an old coat—uniforms mended so many times the seams have seams, and more patches than original cloth.

Tier parks directly in front of the school, blocking the view for the kids until the lights flick off and the doors pop open in sequence. I’m out first, and I clock the periphery for whatever little shit is waiting to see if we’re an easy target. I spot them easily, having been one in the past. Three older teens leaning against the farthest edge of the wall. One is smoking something with colorful smoke, one is peeling the label from a can, and the third is picking at her nails and not hiding the disdainful glance she gives the car. Close to them, in a window, is the face of a teacher or maybe a security guard, their eyes narrowed and following us.

I could feel sorry for this school, except I’ve seen what kind of people come out the other end of a place like this; most often, they’re our recruits because the elite discounted them.

I round the SUV and as the others pile out, I scan the faces surrounding us again. Most are looking at Revelin in awe, some at Fiadh with wide eyes, but a couple lock onto me and I see the recognition. They know I’m that I’m something else, something that feels familiar, and that it matters here. It means the bad apples might hold back, and the ones who don’t feel seen might find someone who looks like them walking with a prince. I vow not to disappoint either, should the moment arise.

The blue in Fiadh’s tatts is mostly hidden by her sleeves, but I know these kids will notice every millimeter that escapes. The girl with moth wings is already whispering to her neighbor in a hushed tone. Sassy clocks it, too, and Fidget shifts, his little claws gripping her with the pure, amped anxiety of a bat at noon. She’ll be okay here, I think, as long as it doesn’t go completely sideways.

I won’t count on that, though.

“This is the one that matters, Pricklypants,” I mutter to him as I pass. Tier’s mouth ticks up at the edge as Revelin looks at the crowd with his chin lifted, prepping for the performance of his life. Our quiet bloodsucker sighs and rolls his shoulders once as if he’s prepping for a fight, as he faces the crowd of not-yet-adults that he is not remotely comfortable being around.

I glance back at Fi, who squares her shoulders and walks toward the gate without waiting for any invitation. The kids part for her, and the gate swings open with a creak loud enough to echo down the block.

Here we go… once more into the breach before we exit Faerie for home.

The noise level changes as we pull open the doors to go inside. The raw thrum of voices, not staged like before but organic and loud. I can almost taste the chemical flavor of old cleaning fluid over the baseline of sweat and teenage smell. Kids funnel into the hallway as we enter, breaking into patterns that I immediately recognize. There’s a loose mob that’s all elbows and shoes, a couple running to beat us to the door, and one or two hovering like they’re deciding whether to bolt or stay for the show.

Where the hell are the people who should meet us? All I see here are fucking kids.

I lag a step behind as the others move inside the double doors. Stones underfoot shift with every footstep—some tight and flush, some loose and clacking like teeth. A vase of flowers on an old table glows faint blue next to a clipboard with a pen next to it. They must be Midnight flora, and I bet half the kids here know how to distill poison from them if they get bored on a weekend. I’m not sure if the board is a sign-in or sign-up for kids because it’s written in a Fae dialect, but I know that none of us are touching the damn thing out of caution.