Page 150 of Gemini Wicked

You know, assuming we ever settle all that succession shit back home and now this demonic insurrection thing over here?

Right now, looking down on the total ruin of the roofless kiva where Zephyr’s psycho mom and I duked it out last spring—the crystal dome still shattered from me busting outta there in dragon form—the sight of all that leftover carnage just unsettles me worse.

“Do we really have to do this here?” I say grimly (even though I know the answer). I pitch my voice under the whistle of the wind and the steady beat of Xhevith’s wings.

That way, the wind carries my words back to Zephyr, who’s gripping the reins in the dragon saddle behind me, and to Lucius who’s buckled in behind him.

“’Tis the traditional setting for a coronation,” my Dark Fae King murmurs. The brush of his lips against the studded rim of my ear makes me shiver like I’m spiking a fever. “’Tis where we Unseelie have always crowned our royals. Admittedly, this open-air arrangement is a novelty. The dome has resisted all repair. Be thankful at least we banished eternal winter when we shattered the curse.”

“Yay. At least we won’t freeze to death.” I lean way over Xhev’s scaly green shoulder to get another gander at the Faerie Ball.

And, you know, that demon we’re trying to lure.

The dome over the kiva used to be shaped like a tulip. Huge stabs of crystal petal, broken away from the alabaster stem, lie scattered but mostly intact around the jagged circle of open space that used to hold the queen’s lecture hall.

Inside, the circular rings of student desks and seating and the prof’s lectern are all gone. On the podium, two tall empty thrones stand rigid on tiptoe in a flaming circle of witchlight torches. On the terraced lower tiers that surround the stage, the kiva seethes with sudden flurries of inhumanly fast Fae movement. They’re dancing down there (sorta). But they dance like the vamps move in True Blood or something, all graceful glides, punctuated with spurts of frenzy that come close to violence.

Looks like the entire Unseelie population’s assembled, decked out in their exotic finest—which for them means bone antler jewelry, tooth-and-claw necklaces, and other gothic accessories, because these are Dark Fae and they’re not, like, nice.

They’re bloodthirsty little savages and they’re practically feral.

The Unseelie horde is mingling over wine and canapés under the eerie arpeggio of music from an Unseelie war-harp that’s taller than I am. Not to mention, the thing looks like it’s playing itself—with no musician in sight. The fermented honey of moon wine twines through the air, mingled with the briny tang of ocean and the musky spice of dragon.

All those Unseelie.

Assembled by royal command.

All summoned to see me get what I’ve got coming.

A massive shadow plummets from above and slices across the festive scene, black wings blotting out the starlight. Even though the summer night is balmy, that sudden sweep of shadow makes me break out in goosebumps all over.

Steady, showgirl, I tell my thundering heart. That’s just Max showing off.

Max’s bellow of domination splits the night. His tyrannosaur roar is echoed by a lusty war whoop from Ronin, who’s strapped to that dragon’s back, his powerful frame glittering in ice-white dragonscale that clings to every muscle, his raven hair streaming in the wind. In that getup, every delectable inch of him looks like a Dark Fae dragonrider.

Even Neo, who’s plastered behind Ronin gamely clutching his waist (but who still hates flying) manages a dutiful yell.

That bookworm yell makes me smile. Despite the strain we’re all under.

Yeah, I know. Maybe demon-hunting on my coronation night isn’t the best idea I ever came up with.

But if not now, when?

We’ve all got finals back at Icarus tomorrow.

We can’t leave this rebellion festering behind us.

Now it’s Xhevith’s turn to sound off. The green dragon splits the sky with his nails-on-chalkboard scream. Between my thighs, his scaly ribs expand and vibrate with challenge.

Max might be the dominant dragon on this island. He’s definitely the biggest and (unlike Xhev) he breathes fire. But that doesn’t mean Xhevith—who’s the dominant dragon whenever Max isn’t around—has to like it.

Lucius flings back his head and howls at the moon like the wolf king he is. It’s a full-throated bay that’s extra impressive coming from a human throat. My headmaster’s really hoping he knocked me up last night—him and that knot he’s rocking—so he’s been quivering with tightly contained exhilaration and desperate hope all day.

Then Vasili’s steam kettle hiss makes the giant crystal petals tremble and knocks small rocks from the rubble to tumble downhill till they plop into the sea. My silver snake spirals through the night like a diamond javelin, eyes burning cobalt, platinum mane rippling in the wind.

On the wing, V’s definitely keeping a lotta distance from Max. That’s been glaringly obvi, in a totally understandable but still awkward way, since the second we took off.

I can’t exactly check under that snake’s skirt (because V’s junk hides coyly in a slit when he’s shifted). But I’d pay good money that my alpha, in this form, is currently female.

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