Page 34 of Vicious Kings
Charm. Right. More like part of its plan to keep humans constantly off-balance and dependent on Fae guidance.
"Your room is on the third floor, east wing," he says, handing me a final piece of parchment. "Classes begin tomorrow at eight sharp. I suggest you use the remainder of today to familiarize yourself with the campus and perhaps make some acquaintances among your fellow omegas."
Make friends with the competition. Sure, that'll go well.
"Thank you, Headmaster," I manage, taking the paper.
"Welcome to Valemyre University, Miss Moreau." His smile is sharp. "I have a feeling you're going to make quite an impression."
The door closes between us, leaving me standing alone under that glowing archway. The weight of the new collar sits heavy on my neck, along with the reality of where I am, what I'm about to walk into.
But I'm here. Inside the beast's belly, exactly where I need to be.
Eleven
BILLIE
Istep through the archway, and a hundred eyes lands on me. The courtyard opens into what I can only describe as a fever dream.
The dormitory, if you can even call this monstrosity a dormitory, rises before me like something out of a twisted fairy tale. Gothic spires meet Renaissance balconies meet Victorian gingerbread trim, all of it somehow cohesive in that uniquely Fae way that makes my brain itch. It's like they went shopping through human history, picked out all the most ostentatious bits, and mashed them together with magical glue.
Is this supposed to make us more comfortable at Valemyre? The thought almost makes me laugh.
The omegas draped across the courtyard furniture look like they've been posed by some invisible photographer. Every single one of them is dressed to the nines, hair perfect, makeup flawless, draped artfully over the expensive furniture. One girl perches on a chaise lounge that seems to be made of ivory. Another lounges in a chair that looks like it was carved from a single massive pearl.
And every single one of them is staring at me.
The whispers start immediately.
"Is that her?"
"The hunter?"
"Look atwhat she's wearing."
"I heard she tried to kill a Fae lord before they brought her here."
"No, I heard sheateone."
I've been here for thirty seconds and already the rumor mill has turned me into some kind of cannibalistic monster. Though honestly, letting them think I eat Fae for breakfast might not be the worst reputation to have.
I check the paper Headmaster Valemyre gave me. Room 313, East Wing.
I stride past a cluster of omegas who look like they coordinated their outfits, all pastels and pearls, like a sorority that got lost on the way to a debutante ball. They pull back as I pass, as if being a hunter is a condition that might be contagious. One of them, a redhead with more diamonds than sense, actually holds her breath. I guess I smell like hunter trash to her.
Good. Let them be afraid. Fear is easier to work with than friendship.
The entrance hall continues the theme of "what if we just threw all the money at it and see what sticks?" Marble floors polished to a mirror shine, walls covered in paintings that definitely move when you're not looking directly at them, and a staircase that spirals upward.
More omegas lounge on settees and divans scattered throughout the space, all of them turning to watch me pass. I count at least fifteen different fashion eras represented in their clothing, from elaborate Victorian gowns to what looks like haute couture from a future that hasn't happened yet. The Fae really did go through human history like it was a shopping mall, didn't they? Take a little Rococo here, some Art Deco there, throw in some Medieval touches for flavor, and call it a day.
Ever since they stepped through the first portals, they've been treating our world like a buffet. They take what they want and leave the rest, but they'll never be able to truly recreate it. Humanity, no matter how much effort they put into studying or consuming it, is not something they'll ever possess.
Even the fucking stairs are luxurious. My boots, already slightly worn from taking every opportunity to walk the grounds outside the Academy, look positively barbaric against all this finery.
Second floor. More stares. More whispers. A group of omegas playing some kind of card game. They all stop mid-game to track my movement, like a herd of deer spotting a predator.
If only they knew how right they are. But they're not the prey I'm after.
