12. A ROYAL MESS
A ROYAL MESS
“FOOTBALL BITCHES UNITE!” SKYE SCREAMED, BOTH FISTS IN the air, as she ran off about thirty seconds after the entire homecoming court finished rounding the corner of the stadium and back into the privacy of their prep area.
“I’m changing after this stupid powder-puff exhibition,” Ames growled, smoothing down her rose-hued gown. “There’s no way I can miss seeing the snot kicked out of that Bitch.”
The irony, of course, was that give Ames some boxing gloves, and she could easily inflict more damage to Skye Wolverton than anyone on that football field.
“Even though you’re talking about my friend,” Fairfax contended, a mischievous smile warming his face, “I do love it when you not only choose violence but plead for it.”
“Do you think there’ll be blood?” Oakley asked from where Rye was getting her seated on a faux throne for an official homecoming royalty portrait. Balthazar was already in position, looking very regal on a throne of his own.
“Goddess, I hope so,” Ames purred. “Let’s go, boys.”
“Embry?” Alistair asked, hesitating.
If Embry wasn’t completely shocked already, she would’ve been at the sound of her name out of his mouth after the past ten days.
It was an olive branch as much as it was a reminder that if they were on better terms, maybe he would’ve given her a heads-up when the social committee (ahem, Fairfax) failed to do so. But alas, that was not to be.
But Embry Woodcross was a good friend, a gracious loser, and the ultimate witch.
She would congratulate each of the winners personally, and then she’d lick her wounds privately. That was the best and only thing she could do.
“Save us seats,” Embry replied, her smile so weak it barely made it into formation. Still, Alistair’s own mouth quirked in a pleasant enough way that she could almost ignore his sorrowful gaze. She cocked a thumb back at Oakley and Balthazar. “I’ll wait with our royalty.”
That answer was apparently good enough. Embry watched them leave.
Settling herself, she took a few yoga breaths and was about to check on the status of the royal pair photo, when a frigid hand wrapped on her wrist, just above her corsage.
Embry nearly yelped, but she knew that hand and that fierce grip—even if she had clearly misjudged how much time had elapsed.
“I’m never going to get used to that vampire sneak,” Embry joked, whirling around.
Instead of responding to Embry’s attempt at levity, Oakley immediately leaned in, launching into a feverish whisper under the considerable weight of her brand-new crown.
“Balthazar asked if I wanted a corsage, and perhaps to dance the whole night together, as the royal pair, which was very kind of him.” Here Oakley waved at Balthazar, who winked a dimple back from his portrait pose.
For one frostbitten moment, Embry’s heart stopped. He what?
“But honestly, I’m not interested in stealing your crush. I have my sights set elsewhere.” Oakley flashed some fang, and her gaze settled hungrily on the nearby thrones. There was only one other person in the direction Oakley was looking.
Rye.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m a hundred percent serious.” The vampire sounded it, her voice suddenly much older and more assured than Embry had ever heard it. “I think you’re right about high school boys. They’re not worth pursuing.”
“Look,” Embry nearly sputtered, “why—”
“Why not? He’s single, he’s handsome—”
“He’s not a student. You can’t bring nonstudents to the dance.” Embry knew Raven’s Head like the back of her hand; she was a Woodcross, a legacy, head prefect, a—
“Oh, we can now. New rule.”
Embry’s eyes flashed up.
Oakley was smiling, fangs out, sharpness in her gaze. “The social committee really benefited from some fresh blood.”
Something heavy plunked in Embry’s gut.
“Well,” she fumbled, shock killing all her reasoning. “You can’t.”
Oakley grinned daggers. As if she’d been waiting for Embry to say just that.
“Embry Woodcross,” she said in a tone that was no longer a whisper, “I know you think you own everything and everyone at Raven’s Head and on this island, but you don’t.”
There were eyes on them now, and Embry didn’t need to glance toward the thrones to know who.
Oakley’s voice was certainly loud enough that Rye and Balthazar had heard the entire thing.
But she couldn’t very well cast a sound-muffling spell like Rye had done days ago—Oakley was magically gifted enough to tear it down, and anyway, the damage had already been done.
So, Embry tried to smile, to shake her head, to use every ounce of body language to imbue that the vampire’s accusation was very, very wrong.
“I don’t think I own everything or anyone or—”
“You do or you wouldn’t tell me that I can’t do something.”
Embry fought the urge to rub her temples. She forced herself to keep smiling.
“No, no, you misunderstand me. And the way things work here. I’m trying to help you. I’m always trying to help you!” Embry flung a hand at her friend. “I mean, look at you! You’re literal royalty right now instead of some clueless homeschooler with first-period gym BO and Beetlejuice hair!”
Embry punctuated her good-natured joke with a more animated laugh, the kind she usually noted was quite contagious whenever she broke it out in class.
But Oakley didn’t crack a smile. And when Embry glanced over to the thrones, Balthazar’s features were arranged in abject shock, while Rye’s were dark, disappointed.
“I see,” Oakley said stiffly, her bottomless eyes absolutely furious. “You think you made me? That I won because of you. That I’m someone because of you?”
“What? No, I—”
“Save it, Embry! I didn’t need you before! I don’t need you now!”
And with that, the cruelty in Oakley’s eyes glazed over into the same sheltered ingenue expression Embry had seen many times over the course of their friendship. Then the girl took off toward the other side of the stadium, looking very much hurt.
No, no, she couldn’t leave it like this. Embry’s legs automatically started moving in the same direction, her ridiculous heels slowing her progression into a decent run.
Hitting her stride, she called out. “Oakley, wait—”
A warm hand caught her upper arm and all her momentum with it.
“Let her go, Woodcross.”
Rye.
“No, I have to—”
“You have to let her be. She doesn’t want to hear from you right now.”
Embry read his face, as stern as a tidal wave. “But I have to explain. That’s not—I didn’t do any of that.”
“But you did do that.”
“What?! No, I didn’t.” Embry looked wildly around for confirmation that Rye had lost his grip on reality along with her chance to snag Oakley.
But Balthazar was walking away, not looking at her.
In fact, he was holding himself so rigidly opposite them that Embry realized he was purposefully not watching.
He was embarrassed. For her. By her.
Pangs of shame tore through her gut. Embry tried to rip herself away from Rye but instead made the mistake of meeting his full-on disappointment. She had to defend herself.
“She’s got it all wrong!”
“She doesn’t, Em. She doesn’t. You did help her, yes.
But what you just said right now, and how you tore her down, on the biggest night of her life so far?
That’s not something a friend would do. Not a new friend, not an old friend.
What you said was badly, badly done, and right now there’s no coming back from that. ”
To Embry’s horror, tears were spiking in the corners of her eyes.
Rye’s admonishment hurt more than Oakley’s. More than Balthazar’s embarrassment. More than losing the crown.
Her voice shook, his words about Merle coming home to roost, rearranged on her lips. “I made it all about me…”
There was no I-told-you-so. Instead, Rye dragged a hand down his jaw and drew in a deep breath. “I think it would be best if you called it a night. I can walk you to the dorm—”
Embry wrested her arm away, stumbled back three steps, and caught her balance, stubbornly refusing to take Rye’s hands as he thrust them out to help steady her.
She shook her head, words balling in her throat with a rising sob.
Her gathering tears were seconds away from falling.
Her lips were trembling as she grimaced hard to keep that sob from escaping.
She couldn’t let Rye see her like this. He knew her best, which made this hurt the worst.
Embry shook her head again, pressing her hands into the air between them, keeping Rye from seeing her pain at close range. Then she started moving away from him, the same way Oakley had gone but to a totally different destination. “Em?” Rye called at her back.
She couldn’t tell if he was moving to follow her, no sounds coming over the pounding of blood in her ears. “Take Daddy home.”
And then, with a heaving sob, Embry Woodcross ran for the spires of Raven’s Head.
The dorm. Her bed. The dark. Away, away, away.