Chapter 8
On Thursdays, I have no classes or lectures, which means I usually spend the day holed up in the stacks of Widener Library, catching up on any work I’ve neglected from my late-night spying missions.
Between that and the hours I spent studying the elves yesterday, I’m at risk of falling behind on my real homework.
But when I get to the front desk, I find myself asking the librarian for directions not to the Linguistics section, but to any books they have on the history of Elaerion.
I’m acting on a hunch. The way Daerios and Berendir looked at each other after I referred to their home realm, the conversation that passed between their eyes…
There was an undertone to it that I couldn’t pin down.
But it was more than just the regular awkwardness of a human committing a social faux pas. Of that, I’m certain.
It made me want to dig. Into Elaerion, specifically.
The section to which the librarian sends me is on the bottom floor of the stacks, eight floors underground, tucked away in a dusty back corner.
The sort of place you’re likely to find students having sneaky, closed-mouth sex—an age-old Harvard tradition that I’ve never partaken in.
The books’ location feels intentional, as if the human librarians are trying to protect the identities of their authors.
To keep the elves from seeing exactly which humans are studying them.
It’s a wasted effort. The elves see all.
The books’ spines are pristine, albeit coated in a thin layer of dust. I choose three: Everything We Know About Elaerion: The Collected Works; They Came From Above: A History of the Crossing; and, on a whim, Bow and Heart, a children’s book on the history of Elemental Wars.
I take them up twelve flights of stairs—ignoring the elevator, lest I meet an elf on board—to my usual carrel in the above-ground stacks.
I settle in and flip open the first text.
It’s a bound collection of all the references that the authors could find to Elaerion in verifiably elf-written publications, as of its issue date on November 6th, 2008.
Most of the book is written in English, but the authors included side-by-side translations of all of the source material from Maevish and Lukkarin.
I skim over most of the English, preferring to read straight from the originals.
It’s tedious work, and after fifty pages of reading, I’ve learned nothing new. Though I do notice a grammatical error in one of the pieces of source material, which makes me snort. Maybe the elves aren’t so brilliant after all. Though it’s far more likely that the error came from the human editors.
“Bow and Heart, huh?” says a familiar voice, at once gravelly and song-like, behind me. “If you wanted a bedtime story, Kallister, you should have just asked.”
I startle, twisting around in my chair, and there he is—Daerios, dressed in his usual grey cloak, leather satchel hanging from one shoulder, face partly obscured by shadows cast by the stacks.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“It’s nice to see you, too, date. Who says I want something?”
“Well, you’ve come to my typical place of study, which is a far cry from the high ceilings of Loker Reading Room. You must have some reason to stoop to such… human levels.”
He steps toward me, moving out of the shadow. Revealing the sharp curve of his mouth. “Maybe I like it up here.”
I snort. “That’s like saying you prefer the Marriott over the Ritz.”
“Maybe I do.”
“Your royal ass has never stayed anywhere with less than five stars.”
“You clearly don’t know what it’s like to sleep outdoors in Elaerion.
Although.” He leans over my shoulder, running a thumb over the history books sprawled across the carrel.
A shiver rolls down my spine, as if it was me he’d touched, not the book.
“It appears you want to find out.” He glances down at me, grinning.
“Trying to learn more about me, Kallister? I wasn’t aware you cared. ”
“I don’t,” I say, cheeks burning. I slam the book shut, nearly flattening his long fingers. “It’s for a class.”
“Right.” He smirks, withdrawing his hand. “A class.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I came to discuss logistics for Friday night,” he says. “The party starts at eight. I can pick you up at your dorm—”
“You can pick me up in the Quincy Courtyard,” I counter, thinking about the mess of clothing on my bedroom floor. Not to mention that the idea of Daerios coming that close to my bed does something rather disturbing to my stomach.
The prince’s eyes flash with amusement. “Very well.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, the dress code is formal, so don’t show up in sweatpants.”
I roll my eyes. “Wasn’t planning on it. Do I need to buy full elvish regalia, or will a human dress be enough?”
“You in a dress is more than enough.”
Something about the way he says it makes my face feel hot.
I look down at the desk. “Will that be all?”
A short pause, then Daerios says, “That will be all.” I glance up just as he backs away. “And next time, Kallister, come find me in Loker.” Silver eyes shine as he dissolves into the stacks. “It’s about time you come out of the shadows.”
Two hours later, I’m packing up my things when my phone buzzes on the desk. It’s face-down, so I flip it over and glance down at the screen.
It’s another unknown number. More spam. I’m about to slide the notification to clear it from my screen when I see what the message says.
UNKNOWN: So, do you already have a dress in mind?
Wait. What?
I narrow my eyes. Then I click the text, picking up my phone from the desk.
Sure enough, above this text is the message from several days earlier. The one telling me I’d won a grand prize. I hadn’t even read the whole thing before. I’d seen the preview, assumed it was a bot, and left it unopened in the depths of my messages.
Now, I read it all the way through.
UNKNOWN: Hi, QUINN! Congratulations! You won our GRAND PRIZE for the month of September: one night with the most devilishly handsome male to ever set foot on this boring, abysmal excuse for a planet. Good time guaranteed.
Then, just now:
UNKNOWN: So, do you have a dress?
My eyes narrow even further. I type a quick response.
Quinn: who is this?
The bot starts typing right away. In seconds, a new message appears.
UNKNOWN: You know exactly who this is.
My stomach lurches.
Oh, yes. I know who this is. I wish I could un-know it, but that ship has officially sailed.
Quinn: how did you get my number?
Quinn: and why the hell did you pretend to be a bot last time you texted?
UNKNOWN: I thought it would be a good conversation starter.
UNKNOWN: What prize is better than a night out with me?
I blow air through my lips like a nickering horse.
UNKNOWN: As for how I got your number…
UNKNOWN: I’m a Prince of the Sun, Kallister. I get whatever I want.
I roll my eyes and start to pocket my phone, but a quick buzz has me pulling it out again.
UNKNOWN:
UNKNOWN:
I snort. I won’t deign that with a response. Nor will I be saving his number.
Then I cover my mouth, because I realized I just laughed at something an elf said.
That cannot happen again.