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“If you’ve trained and studied to be the very best,” Hellebore continues, “you’ll pass. Otherwise, you’ll fail or die. Both are undesirable options, I can assure you.”
The prick smiles at that. Psycho. I can’t wait for Valerian and the others to expose him for the snake he is.
As if he can feel my burning hatred, he meets my glare with a smug look. “Make no mistake. This race will define every single one of your futures for the rest of your brief lives. Now run, little shadows. Run for your lives.”
Awed murmurs stir the morning air and quickly turn to shrieks. When I see why, I understand that Hellebore was being literal when he said run for your lives.
A swarm of huge blue butterflies the same color as Hellebore’s eyes descend on us from above.
“Caeruleum mortem!” Mack hisses as she shoves me into a sprint. “The blue death!”
Blue death. Blue death. Ominous as heck, but where have I heard that?
I watch one of the delicate blue butterflies land on the arm of the fourth year boy to my right. The fabric of his suit disintegrates as if something eats away at it.
An ungodly scream rips from the boy’s chest. He grabs his arm, blood spurting beneath his fingertips as the butterfly flits in the air and lands on his cheek . . .
I jerk my eyes away before I can witness what happens next, but I suddenly recall where I’ve heard the blue death.
They’re butterflies from deep in the Spring Court territories, and their touch is like acid to mortal skin.
The portal looms. Azure fire licks along the portal’s rim. Not fire. Magic. Snowflakes drift from the other side . . .
“The first phase is the Winter Court!” I yell to Mack. We push through the stampede of panicked shadows as students scream around us.
I need to figure out the other clue. The face of the portal is a metallic silver, like molten steel. I try to peer through the surface, but it’s completely opaque. The group of shadows in front of us choose their first two items and leap through. I scour the rim, desperate for any clue as to what comes next. As I drag air into my lungs, working to calm my mind, a scent hits me.
“What is that smell?” I blurt. “A flower?”
Mack ducks beneath a butterfly, barely missing its gruesome touch. “What?”
“I think it’s mountain laurel.” I would know that scent anywhere. After realizing Hellebore’s obsession with poisonous plants, I insisted Eclipsa add those to our training. Thank God she made me learn their telltale smells along with their names.
Mack’s eyes stretch wide. “Yes! It grows deep in the Vanier Mountains of the Winter Court. That’s where we’re going.”
Someone shoves us from behind. As instructed, I put my hand into the pouch and whisper the two items I need, just loud enough that Mack knows what I conjured.
Axe—for helping climb high mountains and chopping wood.
Waterproof wool-lined gloves—because I really appreciate all ten of my fingers.
Our suits are spelled to protect our bodies from the elements, but our hands are bare. And I learned my lesson about what happens to exposed digits in the freezing Winter Court temperatures.
She conjures gloves as well as a long electric prod, the kind used in the menagerie for the more dangerous animals.
That’s when I recall what else resides in the Vanier Mountains. Something way worse than mountain laurel or the biting chill of winter.
Snow leopards. And not the adorable, normal sized mortal ones.
The massive, mythical, eat-entire-villages kind.
46
“God, I hate being right sometimes,” I mutter, watching my breath crystallize in front of my face. The snow crunches beneath our boots as we race along a path. Once again, I’m reminded how much I hate the cold.
Will that change when the mating bond is consummated? Gosh, I hope so because this . . . this is miserable.
“I can’t feel my face,” Mack moans, casting a sidelong glance at my hair, which I’ve unpinned and am now using like a scarf to keep my face warm.
