Chapter 10
“So,” I ask as we walk down Mt. Auburn Street, a healthy three feet in between us. “Where are we headed? To your mysterious final club?” I try to keep the hope out of my voice.
“No,” says Daerios, keeping his eyes forward. “The club is far too inelegant for a ball.”
“Somewhere else in the Square, then?”
“Not quite.” He points ahead of us. Elves stand in a line on the sidewalk, queueing up to board a bus. “We’re going there.”
“On a bus?”
“Indeed. On a bus.” He shoots me a sideways smirk. “A bus that will whisk us away for a night of magic.”
“I think I would settle for a night of not being murdered.”
Daerios stops walking. He tilts his head, studying me. “Why would you say that?”
I stop too, turning to face him. I tap my chin twice. “Gosh. Maybe because I’m going to be the only human at a gathering of all-powerful magical creatures?”
“Oh.” His brow furrows, but he shakes his head. “You don’t need to worry about that. No elf would dare touch a human who’s under my protection.”
“Says the lion to the lamb,” I mutter.
Daerios tilts his head again. I can tell he wants to say more, but I turn and keep walking.
When we reach the bus, the line to get on is, unsurprisingly, almost dead silent. If this were a line of drunk humans going to a party, there would doubtless be screaming and laughing and bottles of vodka rolling into the street. Here, nothing but stillness and serenity.
I lean into Daerios’s shoulder and whisper, “What’s the point of going to a ball if you’re not planning to have any fun?”
Daerios snorts, then tries to cover the sound up with his shirtsleeve. A few heads turn to look at us. I shrink into him, wishing I could hide behind his long, willowy frame, but it’s too late. Attention has been called.
The human is here.
A hundred pairs of green and grey irises turn to face me. An autumn breeze rolls through, raising goose bumps through my lace top. I wonder, not for the first time, if elves can smell fear.
“This way,” Daerios says, laying a hand on my lower back.
“I can manage,” I snap.
He withdraws his hand, surprised, and I clench my jaw shut. Focus, Quinn. I’m supposed to be getting on his good side. Not biting his head off.
We start toward the end of the line, but before we’ve made it more than a few steps, a face bearing a shit-eating grin pops up and out of the line. “Well, look who it is!” calls Berendir. “My favorite grumpy human!”
I roll my eyes. “I’m fairly certain I’m the only human you know, Berendir.”
“One of two humans,” he corrects, slinging an arm over my shoulders. I try not to cringe away. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t love you all the same.”
“That was a double negative,” I grumble.
Berendir rubs my hair. “That’s my girl. Here.” He pivots left, dragging me over to his part of the line. “Come join us.”
“Who is u—” but then my voice shuts off entirely, because there, holding his place in line, is Cara.
She smiles sheepishly. “Hi.”
“How did—”
Berendir interrupts, “I simply could not find an elf female who wanted to accompany me to this event. I think it might have to do with my intimidatingly beautiful face. Or maybe the fact that I’m the son of a man who single-handedly slaughtered an entire legion of Wild Elves during the Elemental War.
” He shrugs. “Either way. While you two were flirting down in Quincy Courtyard, I snuck up to your room and abducted your roommate here.”
In unison, Daerios and I say, “We were not flirt—” but cut off before either of us can finish. We glance awkwardly at each other.
Cara grins. “It’s fine. Berendir actually made a very convincing case.”
“Which was?” I ask.
“If I didn’t come as his date, I’d miss out on watching the two of you rip each other limb from limb. And that.” She snaked an arm through Berendir’s elbow, placing the other on her hip. “Is truly unmissable.”
On the bus, rows and rows of plush leather seats greet us.
The inside is dark, lit only by strings of blue LEDs that snake along the aisles.
Cara and Berendir head all the way to the back, plopping into a pair of seats dwarfed by the tinted window beside them.
Daerios and I slide into the row in front of them.
The seats are so close together that my thigh presses inescapably up against his.
After everyone makes it aboard, a red-headed elf moves down the aisle with a box of sparkling niru, distributing them with the practiced grace of a flight attendant.
“One bottle per couple,” he says.
I try not to laugh at the idea that Daerios and I are considered a couple.
When the red-head reaches the back, he pauses, eyes traveling first over me and then across the aisle to Cara. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Magrion,” says Daerios. “This is my date, Quinn Kallister.”
Magrion. The elf who almost found me spying on the Ikarith.
“And this is Cara Ravenscroft.” Berendir sweeps a hand toward my roommate. “The most talented computer science major at Harvard.”
Cara muffles a snort.
Magrion passes me a bottle of niru. His hand lingers on the neck for a beat too long, as if unwilling to let go. “This is… a first.”
I could almost swim in the distaste flooding his voice.
To my surprise, it’s Daerios who says, “And do you have a problem with that?” His voice bears the subtle upward tilt of hope.
Of course. I’d forgotten that’s why I’m here. Why we’re both here, Cara and I—yet another act of mischief and rebellion on the part of the Terrible Twosome.
“Of course not.” Magrion’s mouth pulls into a thin smile. “There is no explicit rule stating that a human cannot attend the Ikarith Ball.” Though there should be.
“No, there is not.” Daerios matches his smile, eyes glinting.
After Magrion drifts back up the aisle, Cara turns to the boys. “What’s up his butt?”
“No idea,” says Berendir, taking the niru out of Cara’s hands. “He’s always like that.”
“You’d think the President of the club would be a bit more diplomatic.”
Berendir twists the niru’s cork. “How do you know Magrion is our president?”
“I looked into you two by hacking into the super-secret elvish database.”
Berendir laughs. “Fair enough.” Then the cork gives way, shooting from the bottle’s neck and rocketing across the bus. Right into the back of Magrion’s head.
The President turns and glares at our seats. Berendir’s head is already turned to face the window as he whistles innocently.
“You did that on purpose,” whispers Cara.
“And what on all of Earth and Elaerion would make you think that?” Berendir bats his silver eyelashes at my roommate and takes a swig straight from the neck of the bottle. He wipes away the bubbles with the back of his hand, then offers the bottle to Cara.
She accepts, grinning. “You know, Berendir, I think we’re going to get along just fine.”
In high school, I only went to a few parties.
They were usually hosted by friends of friends, girls I knew through classes or Spanish club, and they were standard midwestern basement affairs: kegs of beer, handles of vodka, red Solo cups, and ping-pong balls.
Drinking tournaments drawn with black sharpie on flimsy cardboard brackets.
Plastic beer bongs as long as a staircase.
There were no fancy coach buses. No mythical creatures dressed in tuxedoes or gilded cloaks. No bottles of champagne and niru passed solemnly from seat to seat, voices held at a murmur.
And there were definitely, definitely no introductions.
Daerios warned me on the walk over that introductions would be part of the bus ride. It’s an Ikarith tradition, he’d said. Every Punch is required to stand up and introduce his date.
They start at the front. A dark-skinned male wearing a teal cloak sweeps out into the aisle. A golden bottle of niru dangles from his hand. “My name is Nemirion,” he says. “Son of Nemen. And this is my date, Calphiel, son of Calphen.”
Then he sits back down.
“Nemen oversees our naval forces back on Elaerion,” Daerios says, leaning close. “He’s one of the Water Elves who was chosen to sit on the council, getting elevated to the status of High Elf.”
“And his son is an absolute bore,” adds Berendir, not bothering to lower his voice.
They continue down the bus, each member or Punch standing and giving a brief introduction to their date. They list their titles and their heritage, but tell no stories, add no fun facts.
It’s the dullest party game I’ve ever played.
Little does Daerios know, I’m going to spice things up. There’s a surprise waiting for him when he stands up.
When it’s Berendir’s turn, he leaps to his feet. “This,” he announces, voice carrying down the bus, “is Cara Ravenscroft, first of her name. Cracker of codes, eater of M&Ms, owner of two fantastic human breasts.”
A tube of lipstick flies up and hits Berendir in the nose.
“That will be all.” With a sweeping bow, he takes his seat.
“Great introduction,” Cara says drily. “Riveting. Truly.”
Berendir reaches across the aisle and claps Daerios on the shoulder. “All right, Your Gloriousness. You’re up.”
Daerios tugs at his bow tie, leaving it a touch askew. He looks, of all things, nervous. I realize, then, that this must be the first time he’s ever worn human dress clothes.
“Hold on,” I say before I can think better of it.
I reach up to adjust his bowtie, fingers grazing his collar.
I’m careful to keep from touching his neck, but a strange heat presses up through the cotton of his shirt, making me keenly aware of just how close my skin is to his.
“Um.” I withdraw my hands and clear my throat. “Great. All straight now.”
Daerios doesn’t say thank you. He stares at me, lips parted, for just a touch too long. Several emotions flash through his eyes, most too quickly for me to name, but the last one they settle upon does something strange to my stomach. Makes it twist and burn in a way that’s entirely unfamiliar.
Before I can get a better read, he looks away. His willowy limbs unfold as he raises to stand. He’s so tall that he has to hold his neck at an incline to fit under the bus’s roof.
“This is my date,” he begins. “Quinn Kallister. She studies Linguistics—”
Berendir snores loudly, and Cara stifles a giggle.
“—and was a serious gymnast before coming to Harvard.”
What?
I swallow my surprise. How does he know that?
“Gymnasts are flexible.” Berendir waggles his eyebrows. “Nice.”
Daerios rolls his eyes. He moves to sit down, but runs into something hard. “What the—?” When he turns around, he finds a bottle of Smirnoff Ice sitting in his chair. One that I just placed there, after slipping it out from under my dress. He picks it up and holds it under the bus’s light.
Made of shitty vodka and approximately 4000g of sugar, Smirnoff Ice is one of the foulest drinks invented by humankind. It tastes like jacked-up Sprite and produces instant hangovers. No one in their right mind would drink one voluntarily.
That, of course, is why we humans invented a game where we hide a Smirnoff Ice and whoever has the misfortune of stumbling upon it is required to drink the whole thing. In one go. While squatting on one knee.
“What is this?” Daerios asks, knowing damn well what it is. He’s a lifelong party boy, after all.
With perfect calm, I say, “I just iced you.”
The bus falls silent. Not even Berendir speaks. A human girl just pulled a prank on the most famously unhinged prince in the elvish royal family. And I’m staring at him expectantly, waiting for him to get down on one knee and chug.
This is a challenge. Daerios knows it is.
Without another word, he flicks his thumb up and unhitches the bottle’s cap. He drops to one knee in the aisle, bends his neck back, and guzzles every last drop of Smirnoff Ice in under six seconds. He does it all without once breaking eye contact.
If this bus were filled with humans, this act would be followed by resounding cheers.
But because this bus contains only elves, silence greets Daerios as he stands back up and tosses the bottle over his shoulder.
He steps back into our aisle and grabs my wrist, gently pulling me to stand before him.
Our chests are less than an inch apart. His rises and falls with surprising shallowness.
Eyes still locked on me, he reintroduces me to the bus. “This is Quinn Kallister,” he says. “The human who bested the Prince of the Sun.”