Chapter 11 – Billie
Eleven
BILLIE
Istep through the archway, and a hundred eyes lands on me. The courtyard opens into what I can only describe as a fever dream.
The dormitory, if you can even call this monstrosity a dormitory, rises before me like something out of a twisted fairy tale.
Gothic spires meet Renaissance balconies meet Victorian gingerbread trim, all of it somehow cohesive in that uniquely Fae way that makes my brain itch.
It's like they went shopping through human history, picked out all the most ostentatious bits, and mashed them together with magical glue.
Is this supposed to make us more comfortable at Valemyre? The thought almost makes me laugh.
The omegas draped across the courtyard furniture look like they've been posed by some invisible photographer.
Every single one of them is dressed to the nines, hair perfect, makeup flawless, draped artfully over the expensive furniture.
One girl perches on a chaise lounge that seems to be made of ivory.
Another lounges in a chair that looks like it was carved from a single massive pearl.
And every single one of them is staring at me.
The whispers start immediately.
"Is that her?"
"The hunter?"
"Look at what she's wearing."
"I heard she tried to kill a Fae lord before they brought her here."
"No, I heard she ate one."
I've been here for thirty seconds and already the rumor mill has turned me into some kind of cannibalistic monster. Though honestly, letting them think I eat Fae for breakfast might not be the worst reputation to have.
I check the paper Headmaster Valemyre gave me. Room 313, East Wing.
I stride past a cluster of omegas who look like they coordinated their outfits, all pastels and pearls, like a sorority that got lost on the way to a debutante ball.
They pull back as I pass, as if being a hunter is a condition that might be contagious.
One of them, a redhead with more diamonds than sense, actually holds her breath.
I guess I smell like hunter trash to her.
Good. Let them be afraid. Fear is easier to work with than friendship.
The entrance hall continues the theme of "what if we just threw all the money at it and see what sticks?" Marble floors polished to a mirror shine, walls covered in paintings that definitely move when you're not looking directly at them, and a staircase that spirals upward.
More omegas lounge on settees and divans scattered throughout the space, all of them turning to watch me pass.
I count at least fifteen different fashion eras represented in their clothing, from elaborate Victorian gowns to what looks like haute couture from a future that hasn't happened yet.
The Fae really did go through human history like it was a shopping mall, didn't they?
Take a little Rococo here, some Art Deco there, throw in some Medieval touches for flavor, and call it a day.
Ever since they stepped through the first portals, they've been treating our world like a buffet.
They take what they want and leave the rest, but they'll never be able to truly recreate it.
Humanity, no matter how much effort they put into studying or consuming it, is not something they'll ever possess.
Even the fucking stairs are luxurious. My boots, already slightly worn from taking every opportunity to walk the grounds outside the Academy, look positively barbaric against all this finery.
Second floor. More stares. More whispers. A group of omegas playing some kind of card game. They all stop mid-game to track my movement, like a herd of deer spotting a predator.
If only they knew how right they are. But they're not the prey I'm after.
Third floor, finally. The east wing stretches before me, a hallway lined with doors that all look identical except for the numbers etched in flowing script. The carpet here is even more ridiculous, if that's possible. It actually seems to glow faintly.
Room 313. I pause outside, hand on the doorknob, and take a deep breath. Whatever princess nightmare awaits me on the other side of this door, I need to keep my shit together. Play the part. Be the confused, grateful omega who's just so happy to be here.
Even if I'd rather set myself on fire.
I turn the handle and step inside.
Pink. So much fucking pink.
It's like someone murdered a flamingo and used its corpse to decorate.
Pink curtains, pink bedspread, pink throw pillows arranged with a psychotic degree of order.
Pink fairy lights strung around a pink canopy bed.
Even the fucking walls have a pink tinge to them, though that might just be the reflection from all the other pink.
This is like the final boss of Fae interior design.
The room is bigger than my entire quarters back at the compound.
Hell, it's bigger than most people's homes.
Two beds on opposite sides, each with its own sitting area, vanity, and what looks like a walk-in closet.
The window between them offers a view of the gardens that would probably be breathtaking if I wasn't so busy being appalled by the sheer excess of it all.
My side of the room is mercifully neutral. White bedding, dark wood furniture, nothing that makes me want to claw my eyes out. And oh, there are the trunks that went flying when Headmaster Valemyre teleported me. How convenient.
I drop my trunks onto the bed. I took only the pieces that didn't make me want to cringe, and that didn't leave much.
A few changes of clothes, basic toiletries, and nothing that could even remotely be used as a weapon.
Madame Loriyne insisted on filling the rest with shit I'm never going to wear voluntarily.
I need to get to whatever passes for shops around here.
Stock up on basics and see if I can find anything that might work as a weapon.
The mirror on my vanity catches my eye. It's good quality glass, nice sharp edges if broken right.
But that's a last resort. I need something more subtle, something that won't immediately scream "this bitch is planning a murder. "
The gardens below are even more ridiculous from this vantage point. Flowers that definitely don't exist in nature blooming in every color imaginable. Fountains that create little rainbows in their spray, paths that seem to lead nowhere and everywhere at once.
I'm not in the real world anymore. This is a dollhouse, a perfectly curated fantasy designed to make omegas forget that they're essentially livestock with pretty collars.
Time to explore the campus and see what I'm working with.
The hallways are less crowded now, most of the omegas apparently having better things to do than gawk at the new girl. I make my way back down the stairs, trying to memorize the layout. The building is a maze of corridors and common rooms, each more lavishly decorated than the last.
Outside, the air smells like honey with an undertone of magic. The paths are clearly marked, little signs in that flowing script that transforms into English before my eyes pointing toward various destinations. Shops, cafeteria, library, classroom buildings. All very organized, all very civilized.
All very much a cage with prettier bars.
The shopping district, because of course this place has a fucking shopping district, is a collection of buildings that look like they were designed by someone with a severe allergy to straight lines. Everything curves and flows, windows displaying goods that shimmer and shine.
The moment I step onto the main thoroughfare, the stares begin again. Omegas in elaborate gowns pause mid-conversation to watch me pass. A few Fae students, easy to spot with their otherworldly beauty and arrogance, look at me with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hunger.
Great. Just what I need. Supernatural attention.
I duck into what looks like a clothing store, hoping to find something practical. Pants, maybe. A jacket that doesn't look like it was made for a fairy princess.
The shop is a nightmare of tulle and lace.
Gowns that look like they weigh more than I do hang from racks that seem to go on forever.
Skirts in every possible configuration, from floor-length monstrosities to things that barely qualify as belts.
Corsets that look more like torture devices than clothing.
"Can I help you?" The shopkeeper, a Fae woman with silver hair piled in an elaborate updo, looks at me like I'm something she scraped off her shoe.
"Pants?" I ask hopefully. "Just... regular pants?"
She blinks at me like I've asked for a unicorn steak. "Pants? Whatever for?"
"To... wear?" I gesture at my current outfit, which apparently horrifies her even more.
"My dear," she says in a tone that suggests I've lost my mind, "omegas don't wear pants. It's simply not done."
"But—"
"We have some lovely skirts that might suit you. Perhaps something in lavender? It would complement your complexion beautifully."
I want to scream. I want to grab her by her perfect silver hair and explain that I need pants because it's really fucking hard to fight in a skirt. Especially one like this. But instead, I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
"I'll just have a look around."
I escape before she can assault me with lavender anything.
The general store is marginally better. At least they have toiletries that don't look like they were designed by a five-year-old with a glitter addiction.
I grab shampoo, soap, toothpaste. Most of it is still unnecessarily fancy, with swirling colors and promises of "enhanced beauty" and "omega allure" that make me want to gag.
The snack aisle is a literal buffet of excess. Chocolates that glow, fruits that I'm pretty sure don't exist in the human realm, candies that change flavor as you eat them. I grab a few things that look least likely to give me magical diarrhea and continue my hunt for anything remotely weapon-like.