Chapter 3
It doesn’t take long for Daerios to collect.
In Linguistics two days later, I wait anxiously at the back of the lecture hall. I’ve kept the textbook for far too long, unwilling to return it to Widener for fear I’d run into Daerios or Berendir again.
Mercifully, they don’t. Eyes snap away as quickly as they found me. They head for their usual seats, right up front.
I spend the entire lecture reminding myself to breathe. Our professor, a wizened human with oversize glasses and age spots on his wrists named Dr. Infix, draws morphological trees at the front of the classroom. I try to copy them into my notebook but my hands shake too hard.
I first took notice of Daerios Ariar when I was eight. Like every other elf on the planet, Daerios hasn’t aged a day since then—a permanent college-aged dickhead.
It was the first of November, and I’d just sat down with my family to watch the Elvish Press Conference.
It is held once a year, and is the only time the king and his general appear publicly.
One glimpse to let us know they’re still alive, still hold dominion over us all.
The conference provides a platform from which the elves can “update the world on the progress of their search.”
Translation: spout cryptic nothingness meant to appease the human race.
That year, Daerios and Berendir showed up to the press conference blind drunk.
At first, they did nothing but teeter in the background, making faces at the cameras over their fathers’ shoulders.
My eight-year-old self homed in on their unabashed silliness right away.
I giggled when Daerios crossed his eyes and mouthed along with his father’s predictable speech in perfect sync.
But then the king began to list the elves heading up each branch of the search.
At the time, of all the Elvish Princes, Daerios was the only one not stationed at a university to direct an arm of the search.
Even his little brother, L?th, had been at Yale for over twenty years.
Rumor had it that, when his father offered Daerios the position at Harvard decades before, he told the king to, and I quote, “kiss my royal bottom.”
“As you already know,” King Varith said into the microphone. “Three of my sons are spearheading our search at the following universities: Oxford, Yale—”
Daerios jumped in front of the microphone, elbowing his father out of the way and interrupting in the middle of the list.
“People of the Earth,” Daerios said, flashing a white-toothed grin.
“There has been much talk in the media as to why I am the only prince not leading the search. Allow me to provide clarity: as the resident family disappointment, it is generally understood that my talents are better used elsewhere, such as drinking, gambling, and using my obscenely good looks to bed as many women as poss—”
It was only then that General Melde managed to seize the microphone away.
Michael and I dissolved into a fit of laughter as we watched the elves scramble to reestablish order on stage.
The King was frozen. The General sputtered some words into the microphone before grabbing Daerios by the scruff of his tunic and dragging him off the stage.
Even my parents had to cover their grins.
From then on, Michael and I were card-carrying members of the Daerios Ariar fan club.
Daerios was by far the most public of all the royal family.
After that press conference, Michael and I followed his adventures with wide-eyed amazement.
We watched as he scaled the towers of Notre Dame, boated off the coast of Ibiza, ran alongside zebras and giraffes in Tanzania, and snorkeled in the Great Barrier Reef.
We trolled gossip websites, clicked paparazzi photos, scanned through blurry iPhone footage on YouTube.
Everywhere he went, he was gorgeous and charming and lavish in his displays of magic.
How could Michael and I, two kids from a small, midwestern town, who’d never even left Minnesota, let alone been on a boat in Ibiza, not become a little bit obsessed?
Everything changed after that day in the parking lot.
That day, any admiration I felt toward Daerios dried up faster than a well in the desert.
No longer did I see his exploits as fun or mischievous; they were dangerous.
I delved even deeper into the gossip websites, digging up every bit of dirt that I could.
And, oh—there was plenty. Stories of him and Berendir luring smitten women into nightclubs, only to get them drunk on elvish wine and do God only knows what else.
Stories of them manipulating kalwe-sanya—Maevish (n), translation: “thought-opening” or “telepathy”—to send terrifying thoughts into unsuspecting human minds.
Or abusing the elves’ ability to lay curses and blessings, placing blights upon any creature who pissed them off.
Or, my personal favorite: the time they hid in a tree in Central Park and shot arrows at passersby—only to scare them, they said—until one of the arrows went straight through the left eye of an NYU med student, ending her career before it began.
All of it was fuel for my fury. Evidence that, beneath their poised, ethereally beautiful surface, the elves were violent, hateful creatures. Shiny-skinned fruit hiding a curdled core.
And Daerios—he’s the most rotten of them all.
The prince’s fun came to a head a year and a half ago, the spring of my senior year of high school.
On a trip to him and Berendir’s favorite party locale, Mykonos, Daerios very publicly cursed an entire club’s worth of humans to look like a stampede of ugly green goblins.
Dozens of videos surfaced of the event. The music ground to a halt, and there was screaming, and tears, and calls for the prince’s head on a stake.
Daerios’s only response was to take a swig straight from a bottle of Belvedere, rip his tunic off his body with one hand, and holler, “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart! ”
Apparently, Mykonos was the final straw. A week later, King Varith announced that Daerios Ariar, third-born Prince of the Sun, would enroll as a student in the fall at Harvard University. One of six colleges to which I’d just been accepted.
And me?
I knew exactly what I needed to do.
In the end, I chose Harvard because of Daerios. Because of his reputation.
While he might be the angriest of the princes, the most prone to violence, he’s also the most careless.
The least invested in their “cause.” Rather than serenity and secrecy, he and his best friend enjoy public mayhem.
They’re twin pieces of flint, knife-sharp points of obsidian tossing sparks on the same fire.
Spreading it thicker, egging it higher. The fire is chaos.
Drama. Loud parties, lewd jokes, drunken barfights.
I came to Harvard to slip through the cracks Daerios would inevitably leave behind.
I’m not leaving until I find them.
At the end of the lecture, the humans in the lecture hall stay seated. We always allow the elves to file out before us. Normally, Daerios and Berendir beeline for the door, having paid very little attention in the first place. This time, they linger.
I stiffen in my chair. Oh, sweet hell. They can’t mean to—
But my luck has well and truly run out, because as soon as Sever 214 clears of every other set of pointy ears, the prince turns around. His smile stretches wide as he meets my eyes.
I straighten in my chair. Lift my chin.
I will not look afraid.
I tear my eyes away from the prince’s and start loading my textbooks into my backpack. It takes every ounce of concentration to keep my hands from shaking.
I rise from my seat and start down the aisle. I brush past Daerios and Berendir, making sure not to lock eyes with either one. I keep walking, out the classroom door and into the hallway. Don’t say anything. Please don’t say any—
“Quinn!”
Damn it.
I come to a stop in front of a big, cheery corkboard on the wall. The board advertises innocuous human events and activities—Quentin Tarantino Movie Night! Freshman Formal! Tryout for the CALLBACKS: an a capella group!
I turn.
The prince and his best friend swish into the hallway, cloaks brushing along the floor tiles.
They’re both dressed in Imperial Grey, the official color of High Elf royalty.
With dark brown archer boots and bows slung over their shoulders instead of backpacks, the elves look ready to slay an army of dragons.
I am suddenly all too aware of the high-waisted jeans and boring white crop top I’m wearing.
I roll back my shoulders, pretending none of these discrepancies bother me. “Yes?”
Berendir breaks out into a smile. He glances over at Daerios. Clearly, it’s the prince who has something to say. But for some reason, rather than just saying it, he’s staring at me like I have twelve heads. Berendir nudges him.
Daerios straightens. Clears his throat. “I wish to speak with you.”
“And you need the help of your butt buddy to do so?”
“What’s a butt buddy?” asks Berendir. “I want one.”
I wave a hand. “Human expression. What I meant was—do you really require Berendir’s assistance to speak with me?”
“Ah!” Berendir claps. “The human knows my name.”
I roll my eyes. “Everyone in North America knows your name.”
“Oh? And what about Europe?”
“N? afarreth.” Don’t flatter yourself.
His eyes widen, the way they did when I first approached them in the library. “Daer, I think I like this little human of yours.”
Oh. That does it. “Excuse me?” I turn to glare at the prince. “Human of yours?”
“Oh, dear.” Berendir presses his fingers to his lips.
“I belong to no one. Do you understand me?” I feel the heat rising up my neck, the hatred I so carefully keep quiet now climbing into the driver’s seat.
“And while you two might be used to every other human trembling at your knees because you’re both High Whatever, I couldn’t give less of a shit.
So don’t expect me to grovel just because you’ve deigned to speak to me. ”
I’m causing a scene. I know I am. Whispering with the prince in the library is one thing; telling him off in the middle of a crowded hallway is quite another.
Berendir holds up both hands. “Apologies, my lady. Not what I meant. In fact, this is a good cue for me to take my leave.” He bows, grinning up at me through his eyelashes. “Pleasure speaking with you, Quinn Who Belongs to No One.”
He turns and glides down the staircase.
Shit.
I keep my eyes trained on the now-empty second floor landing. I don’t want to look at Daerios. I already know what I’ll find there: red cheeks, flared eyes. Fury capable of conquering an entire planet.
Shit, shit.
“Well, that went well,” says a bemused voice next to me.
To my utter surprise, when I turn to look at Daerios, he isn’t mad. Not even close. In fact, he, too, is watching the empty stairwell. And trying not to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I demand.
He turns to meet my gaze. I’m struck by just how slowly, how gracefully his body moves, like the languid sweep of an eagle’s wing through the sky.
I watch his eyes travel down my face, pausing at my lips, taking in the hint of stomach peeking out the bottom of my shirt.
His lips curl with distaste. “I believe that would be you, Quinn.”
God. I know I’m no elf princess, but doesn’t he have the decency to at least pretend he isn’t disgusted by me? “And what,” I ask, ignoring the heat burning my cheeks, “is so funny about me?”
He opens his mouth, then pauses, seeming to think better of it.
“Well?”
“Well…” Daerios’s eyes narrow, as if contemplating something. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, his entire face brightens. “Would you go to the Ikaric Ball with me on Saturday?”
“Will I-I—” I’m sputtering. I must have heard him wrong. “Excuse you?”
“The Ikarith Ball.” His amusement only grows. “Held once a year? During Punch? We have to bring a date.”
“A date.” My voice comes out flat. Disbelieving.
“Yes.”
“And you want to bring me.”
“Yes. This is my favor. I’m calling it in.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. Once it starts, it’s hard to stop, because the more I think about it—the more I try to picture me arriving on the arm of an elvish prince to a final club date event—the more hysterical the idea becomes.
“Did I say something funny?” Daerios asks.
I gasp for breath. “Oh, man.” I wipe a tear from my eye. “Oh, sweet lord. Did I say something funny, he asks.”
He folds his hands behind his back and waits.
When at last I gather my wits about me, I rise to my full height. “Daerios Ariar,” I say. “Third-Born Prince of the Sun. Why on Earth would you want a human to be your date to an all-elf social event?”
“It’s not an all-elf event.” He furrows his brow. “And I don’t want a human as my date. I want you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. No elf has ever brought a human to one of these events.”
It’s true. I’ve caught glimpses of various Punch events through the windows of the final clubs, and I’ve only ever seen clusters of tall, willowy bodies through their uneven glass. The men might invite women or they might invite men, but they’re always elves. Never humans.
Daerios shrugs. “Well, maybe I want to make a splash.”
“Ah.” Understanding dawns. “There it is. Party Boy Prince wants to piss off Daddy.”
His eyes flare, burning for a moment with the anger I first expected. I step back, alarmed. But, as with all elves—the even-keeled, secret-keeping creatures that they are—the emotion quickly vanishes, replaced by a familiar unreadable veneer.
“Fine,” he says tersely. “Message received.”
He turns to leave.
“Wait.” The word comes out of my mouth before I can stop it.
Daerios turns around, eyebrows lifted. Oh?
I pause, chewing my bottom lip. On the one hand, this could be a trap. An obvious ploy to sucker a hapless human to their festivities, get her blind drunk, and then laugh as she does a strip tease to Elvish music. Whatever that sounds like; I’m picturing flutes.
On the other hand…
I think of my plan. The one I started dreaming up at just twelve years old, still deep in the suffocating fog of grief and guilt. The plan that, in the end, was the lifeline that pulled me out.
For years, I’ve been searching for a discrete avenue into the notoriously secretive world of the elves. Daerios doesn’t know it, but he’s just dropped it right into my lap.
“Fine,” I say, voice cracking. Then, more clearly: “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Daerios’s eyebrows leap up his forehead. He corrals them quickly, pulling at the sleeve of his cloak, all business. “Good, then.” He starts to turn, then hesitates, casting one last look over his shoulder. “And Quinn?”
I say nothing, which, for some reason, makes his lips curl into a smile.
He winks once. “I’ll be in touch.”