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And then I kiss him.

Four Hours Till Midnight

LONAN

He’s kissing her.

I’m going to kill him.

Chapter Nine

Ihad my first kiss at thirteen—Hugo. I know. Call it momentary insanity driven by hormones and a natural proclivity for chaos. Either way, I kissed him.

Hugo is one of the few other students to practically grow up in the halls of Gossemort—his mother is one of our professors. One day we were sneaking food in the kitchens. I grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him. He was so shocked he fell backward into a tub of dishwater. All I remember is vaguely thinking he tasted like chocolate and wondering if that was normal. Did all boys taste like chocolate? No, as it turns out. Just Hugo after a kitchen raid.

But Galvin—he tastes like surrender.

He presses his lips to mine, and every ounce of longing I’ve buried deep in my heart, every stifled pang of loneliness, comes rushing to the surface. He scoops my head into his hands, almost preciously, and I think, This is what the poets write about.

And then there is a sting.

And I feel the hunger.

It starts as a tingle at the base of my skull—something instinctual and animalistic screams at me that something is wrong, that I shouldn’t be here, that I need to run, run, run.

I think there are moments when life turns like the hand of a clock—suddenly I am going another direction, and things unfold very differently than they might’ve. I know I can pull away. Maybe I should. But I don’t. Instead I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. I let myself be swallowed by this fairy tale.

When the kiss finally ends, I meet his eyes. They crease at the edges when he smiles. They’re just as blue, just as soft as they were moments ago. So I smile back, clawing for that feeling of perfection from a few moments ago, ignoring the abruptly unsettled feeling that’s growing in my stomach.

“I have to go speak with the headmaster,” he says. “I’m meant to give the commencement speech shortly.”

My spirits sink a little. He just kissed me, and now he’s eager to leave. I tell myself I’m being sensitive, paranoid, so I smile and say, “Of course.”

I want to spend more time with him. I think it’ll smooth over the odd writhing in my stomach, the strange discomfort that’s forming like a bruise in the back of my mind. Galvin reaches up to my face and strokes my cheek lightly with his thumb. Then he bends down to kiss my knuckles, and my heart flips.

“I’ll return before you know it,” he says as he backs away. He gives me a little wink, turns on his heel, and strolls toward the faculty table. I tilt my head as I watch him leave, noting the pleasant way his trousers hug his hips.

With him gone, I feel suddenly out of sorts. I don’t know what to do with myself. The storm is louder than ever, mixing with the whine of string instruments from the balcony in a bizarre cacophony. The dim alcove feels lonely.

I watch Galvin ascend the steps of the grand staircase. All eyes turn his direction, and the instruments playing overhead fade their music until all is silent and all are watching the prince.

For a brief moment, it occurs to me that I still haven’t seen Lonan. He’s disappeared since Galvin, his strange doppelganger, appeared at the feast. But then Galvin starts speaking, and my attention is drawn back to his words.

“Meigas, champions, warriors of Gossemort and loyal servants of Gault . . .” He smiles benevolently, his eyes roving over the sea of students. “It is my great pleasure to congratulate you all on your completed semester and to wish you a very happy Winter Solstice. I was sent here with the blessing of my father, King Marcel, to usher in a new season. Autumn has passed. Winter has come. And with it comes a new age . . . for . . . for the students of . . .”

His words taper off. He blinks slowly. Galvin’s eyes are set somewhere distant, and I look over my shoulder, searching for something that could have captured his attention, but there is nothing. When I look back at him, a trail of ice travels down my spine. His face has paled. He looks like he might be sick.

I take an instinctive step toward him. Is he going to collapse? Saints, has he been poisoned?

He stands there, saying nothing. Students and faculty are beginning to glance at one another uncomfortably. And then Galvin exhales, long and slow, and . . . his eyes. It’s subtle enough that I blink, ensuring that I’m really seeing what I think I am. The whites of his eyes grow—they spread, swallowing the blue irises first and then the pupils.

Galvin’s tongue slides over his teeth, and something in me, some strange instinct, forces me to take a step backward.

“My apologies,” the prince croons. His voice is entirely different from the clear, deep voice that laughed with me moments ago. There is an uncomfortable texture to the sound, like his voice snakes across sand. “I’d like to welcome you all to a very special night, one that hasn’t been seen in the halls of Gossemort in quite some time; centuries, in fact.”

A few people in the audience look worried now, glancing at their neighbors. My godfather’s stern face watches Galvin with intense focus.

Galvin swallows and retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabs his forehead and replaces it. His skin is tinged with blue, and his hands tremble slightly. Something is very wrong—he’s sick or . . .