Page 40 of Vicious Kings
I turn to find Professor Wyngrave watching me with those unsettling golden eyes.
"Yes, Professor?"
"A word of advice." She moves closer, voice dropping so only I can hear. "The suppressants are indeed available to all omegas at the clinic on campus. But they're not without cost, and you can only take them for a certain length of time without a break. Use them wisely."
Before I can ask what the fuck that means, she's gliding past me, leaving me standing in the doorway with more questions than answers.
The hallway is chaos, omegas clustering in groups to dissect every moment of class. I catch fragments of conversation as I push through, mostly gossip about my complete lack of omega knowledge. As if hunters dedicated time to learning how omegas work when we exist to kill their masters.
I grit my teeth and keep walking. Let them talk. Let them think I'm just some ignorant backwoods girl playing dress-up in their world.
I have access to suppressants here on campus. That's all that matters.
For now.
Thirteen
BILLIE
The campus clinic is about as obnoxiously posh as the rest of this place, but there's no line when I arrive and I'm in and out within thirty minutes.
I pocket the suppressants the doctor gave me, little white pills that look innocent enough but represent my only defense against my omega biology, and head for the door. The nurse, a human with the dead-eyed look of someone who's been serving the Fae too long, barely glances up from her paperwork when I pass her desk.
"Remember," she drones, "no more than three consecutive cycles. After that, you need a minimum two-week break or risk permanent damage to your endocrine system."
No need to worry about that. These pills just need to last until I can lop off the prince's head.
I push through the clinic doors and into the afternoon sunlight. My next class, The History of Fae-Human Relations, starts in twenty minutes. I'm sure it will be acompletelyunbiased account, too. But at least I have plenty of time to navigate this architectural fever dream they call a campus.
The path curves through another one of those impossible gardens where roses bloom in colors that seem too intense tobe real. Blue roses. Actual fucking blue roses, because regular red ones aren't special enough for the Fae. The scent hits me like a smack across the cheek. Everything here is too much, too beautiful, too perfect, too designed to make you forget you're cattle in a very expensive pen.
I'm checking my schedule, trying to figure out if the Rosewine Building is the one that looks like it was designed by a drunk fairy or the one that appears to be made entirely of stained glass, when I hear them.
"Look who's trying to play dress-up."
The voice drips with manufactured sweetness. I don't need to look up to know it's the brunette from the stairs this morning—Baby Blue Ruffles, as I've mentally christened her.
She's collected a posse since then. Five other omegas arranged behind her like backup dancers, all wearing variations of pastel. They look like a box of expired Easter candy. I guess Fae are allergic to bold, primary colors.
I'll have to remember that. Make sure the knife I cut Prince Corvinus's head off with is pastel pink. I'm sure Olivia has something I could borrow.
"Aw, did the little hunter get lost?" The question comes from a redhead whose dress has so many bows I'm genuinely concerned she might take flight in a strong breeze. "Maybe if you'd attended proper preparatory school instead of learning how to gut rabbits, you'd know how to read a map."
I could tell them I've successfully navigated through unmapped supernatural territory while being hunted by things that would make their pretty little heads explode. I could mention that I can find true north with my eyes closed and track a target through a rainstorm.
"Just trying to find my way," I say instead, injecting what I hope sounds like uncertainty into my voice. "Everything here is so different from?—"
"From your little murder cult?" Baby Blue Ruffles steps closer, and her perfume hits me like a chemical weapon. It's supposed to smell like jasmine, I think, but there's so much of it that it's more like being waterboarded with flowers. "How adorable that they're lettingyoupretend to be civilized."
The others titter, and I mean actually fucking titter, like she's said something clever instead of just stringing together words she probably practiced in the mirror this morning.
"I bet she doesn't even know how to properly address a Fae lord," says a blonde next to her. "Probably thinks 'Your Highness' works for everyone."
"I'm sure you could give me some pointers on proper greetings," I say, unable to keep my tongue in check any longer. Besides, I reason, if I come across as too compliant, I'll draw more suspicion. If omegas are expected to be at each other's throats here, it can only lend to the authenticity of my performance. "I'm guessing it involves a lot of time on your knees?"
Blondie's face goes completely blank, then turns a shade of pink as intense as the shoes the girl next to her is wearing. "You mouthy little bitch!"
She raises her hand and rears back as if to slap me. My brain naturally processes everything in bullet time, the world slowing down around me so I could easily dodge her if I wanted. But getting some victim points wouldn't be the worst thing, considering I need the Fae to see me as physically less capable than I really am.
