Chapter 3
3
In Elytheum, no one ever has a hard time finding parking.
I’ve rounded the quiet streets of Hollisboro four times during my hunt, desperation growing with each circumnavigation—feeling probably much like Val when he knew Kethryn was captured within Nightfell’s walls with the hourglass running out on her life. Except, of course, for the smell of the “Cherry Evening” air freshener pervading the interior of my sister’s Prius.
When I finally find parking outside one of the neighborhood’s overwhelmingly common frozen yogurt places, I’m frustrated. I hate being late. If you’re late, you’re late. If you’re early…you’ve just given yourself extra time to read the book you have inevitably brought with you.
I have no welcome reading opportunity now. I’m late. Well , I remind myself, isn’t acting out of character the entire point?
My new plan is very out of character, honestly. Instead of comforting myself about the end of yet another relationship with ice cream and my favorite Elytheum Courts chapters, I called my sister, Sarah, took the NJ Transit to her condo, picked up her fruit-scented Prius, and drove eight hours into the wooded heart of North Carolina.
I don’t need another Jordan , I decided with new resolve. I don’t need another relationship. I don’t need to pretend dinner and Netflix and decent sex once a week is the height of romance for month after month.
Why do I keep dashing myself against the rocks of online dating when I have the love in my favorite series, where it’s never disappointing? Did a date ever measure up to a night of reading about the passion and connection of Lord Valance and Queen Kethryn in Elytheum? Where men are noble warriors and devoted lovers?
Okay, not exactly men—what with the wings and horns. Still—when they say “I love you” it means something.
I didn’t even return home from the office on my way to Sarah’s. Very conveniently, I had the box of everything I needed from Jordan, toiletries and clothes and all. Plus, I didn’t want to lose my nerve, which I worried would happen in my cozy apartment with favorite rereads on my shelves and peanut-butter-pretzel ice cream in the freezer.
I grab my cloak from the Prius’s passenger seat, resenting the reminder of my ex when my fingers catch the Elytheum emblem I embossed into the fabric. When I made the garment for Halloween, Jordan said I looked hot, referring to what I wore underneath, the leather video-game-character costume I felt reasonably approximated Kethryn’s Royal Vanguard armor.
The compliment helped me ignore the obvious fact that Jordan had no idea the cloak was from my favorite series. Honestly, I’d liked how I looked—how my dark brown hair fell over the stripes of leather crossing my skin. For the night, I wasn’t average-height, average-everything Jennifer. I was a heroine.
I pull on the cloak over the blouse and jeans I wore to work. I could use some less strappy Elytheum options for the week, honestly. Fortunately, Amelia says the Experience will include opportunities to buy or craft other Elytheum-appropriate costuming.
Hollisboro is wonderfully warm in the summer night, cooling off enough for me to fling the cloak over my shoulders without overheating. I hustle down the quaint streets with Google Maps’ guidance in the direction of the College of Hollisboro’s campus, ignoring how my driving-wracked stomach yearns for coffee—the Experience started an hour ago, and I won’t miss one second more.
Passing grad students and college-touring families, I feel a little ridiculous. A grown woman, walking around in her costume .
I hate the ingrained reaction, knowing I wouldn’t feel the same if it were a sports jersey. It’s just hard to fight when I hear often how embarrassing my reading preferences are, from guys I date, and even from colleagues—including, of course, Scott Daniels. He’s never outright mean, just dismissive and occasionally judgmental whenever Elytheum or romantasy comes up in office conversation. I’ll read whatever I damn well please, Scott!
Whatever. None of my exes are here. No grumbling coworkers. No judgmental literati. No one is here who will make me feel uncool for loving Elytheum. I don’t have to hide my cloak or myself.
The College of Hollisboro’s high gates finally appear amid the college town. They’re just like the caricature rendered them on the Elytheum Experience website. I must admit, they’re the perfect entry point. Imposing, wrought iron, stretching high into the air, they say, fantasy awaits.
I step onto campus emboldened—and am impressed. The Experience’s location is perfectly chosen, with sculpted archways of gray stone under intricate Gothic spires. Ironically, the grounds look fit for the courtly intrigues, clandestine cunning, and dark magic rituals of Elytheum, not for Economics 101.
Reaching the dining hall, I pause, remembering how I felt in my office. How foolish, idealistic, and delusional. How hope has led me right into the stupid, painful, frustrating end of another relationship.
I fight the feeling. No. I’m not hurting. I’m in Elytheum.
Pushing open the door, I walk into another world.
None of the vivid dreams I’ve had prepare me for what I find inside. The Elytheum Experience is…enchanting. Intricate production design has converted the college’s dining hall into the Great Hall, the imposing room where fae declarations of war are delivered and queens mourned. Only candlelight illuminates the hall, into which romantic violin music plays quietly from musicians near the fireplace. Everyone is dressed much more elaborately than me.
At the front of the room, a stunning woman in armor sits on an actual throne.
Chills spread down my arms. Kethryn . Which means…
Heart pounding with excitement, I gaze eagerly around the room until I find him.
With prosthetic horns peering out from his sweep of ebony hair, he’s unmistakable. The man in ornamented dark garb watching Kethryn from the corner of the room was the central preoccupation of a good number of my aforementioned dreams—or, his character was.
Lord Valance is exactly how I imagined him.
I find I’m grinning my first grin of the day. Elytheum really is magic, one way or another.
“Okay, I’m amazed you got here in time.”
Only Amelia’s voice pulls me from my unabashed scrutiny of Val. I haven’t seen her in months, and just hearing her has me immediately emotional. I spin, crushing the clipboard she’s holding with the hug I sweep her into.
“You did not exaggerate,” I say when we part, referring to the room.
Amelia shrugs, smug. She’s shorter than I am, and even the heels she’s wearing as part of her impeccable courtly look don’t bring her to my eyeline. Her hair is braided into an elaborate black crown, her thick mascara accentuating her dark eyes. “I really didn’t,” she says. “Here, I snuck your key from check-in so you can go up after this.”
While the key card she offers me is plastic and obviously nonmagical, reasonably required for use of the dorms for the summer week, it’s painted to resemble a playing card, one whose design I recognize from fan art. Of course . Demoniaca is the recreational card game of Elytheum, a cross of poker and Pokémon over which deals are struck or secrets exchanged. Spindleshear , mine reads, with the demon’s portrait. I hold it up.
Amelia smiles. “Cool, right?”
“God, I’ve missed you,” I say.
“You too, girl.” Her expression shifts into hesitant sympathy. “Are you—is everything…?”
While I know she means well, I don’t welcome the distraction of the hurt welling up in me. “We’re not supposed to talk about the outside world here, right?” I reply. It was on the email confirmation’s list of rules, emphasized to prevent “bleed” from the real world.
Amelia’s mouth flattens with my evasion. “Convenient for you,” she remarks. “Well, we’re going off campus for coffee and you’re telling me what happened,” she orders me.
It’s how Amelia is, always on the fine line separating domineering from encouraging and defending me like no one else in my life ever does. “It’s really not worth talking about,” I say weakly.
“Yes,” Amelia replies. “It is.” Excusing my further resistance, her eyes catch on a girl waving her over nervously. “Heather’s assistant needs me,” Amelia says with forced patience, her gaze returning to mine. “We’ll catch up later,” she promises me meaningfully.
I nod, my stomach knotting. Honestly, I don’t want to discuss my pathetic love life—not when Elytheum is here to experience.
While I walk over to sit at one of the long tables, another epiphany descends over me in the rose-scented room. For the next week, I’m not Jennifer Worth. I don’t have to be the woman who spent the past year dating a man who gave me only what a relationship needed —consistency, fidelity—while never giving me what I wanted . I don’t have to be the Jennifer who wasted her time or had her time wasted.
No, I’m… whoever I want to be . Warrior. Princess. Fae. Demon.
I don’t know yet. I just know the options are exhilarating.
Sampling the cheesy stuffed mushroom one of the many footmen has delivered me, I listen, scouring the snatches of conversation surrounding me for inspiration. The man and woman next to me make illicit plans, their offers to “exchange sensitive espionage information” sounding like pretense to exchange something else.
I stay silent, still figuring out what I want my story to be.
Darting unhidden glances at Val in the corner, the women across from me swap fictional war stories from the Western Court Campaign. It’s wonderful realizing I’m following every reference, every detail. Who knew a fantasy world could feel like home? I’m about to chime into their conversation when I hear a familiar laugh.
No. No way.
I look over my shoulder while the room seems to enter slow motion, as if under the Forgotten King’s hourglass magic. The man who laughed is chatting animatedly with an older woman in elf ears, his grin upturned roguishly. In full leather armor, he looks like he’s in the Queen’s Guard.
Or, that’s how I know he looks to everyone else here.
To me, he just looks like Scott Daniels.