Page 24 of Gemini Queen
But she can’t possibly be as innocent as she looks.
Not with all that Gemini DNA.
As I study our poisonous would-be sovereign, she hooks a sleeping hand, sporting glitter nail polish and a studded leather cuff, into Ronin’s lapel. That much of her appearance is what I’m expecting, because she’s a rebel and a hellraiser, if you want to believe what’s in her file. And her sweet roses-and-vanilla perfume is entwined with a truckload of Ronin’s ambergris spice and, more subtly, the musk of Lucius and his wolf.
My nostrils flare and my eyes narrow.
Moving too quickly for anyone to counter, I swoop in, grab the girl’s hand, drag her wrist to my nose, and take a good sniff. I’m Mogadon, with Mogadon senses and Mogadon pheromones. We’re a scenting race ourselves, and it’s plain as print to me that both Lucius and Ronin have been all over the Gemini queen.
In fact, unless I’m entirely wrong—which happens virtually never, I assure you—Lucius has also been all over Ronin.
My accusatory gaze locks on my teacher, who’s calmly unwinding the cashmere scarf around his throat and watching me with a warning in his eyes which, naturally, I ignore.
“What the fuck happened between the three of you in Singapore?” I snarl.
“Not now, Mr. Romanov,” Lucius says with finality, handing his scarf and trench coat to Dez, who’s hovering like a helpful genie at his shoulder. “Ronin, might I prevail upon you to take Ms. Gemini to her room?”
Finally Ronin meets my gaze, and the sheer devilry that lurks in his face makes me suck in my breath. “Whatever you say, Lucius.”
Now they’re on a first-name basis? I want to fillet my History of Witchcraft teacher. I want to fucking castrate him. I want toflambéhis balls and consume them with crumpets for my afternoon tea.
Instead, as usual, I do exactly the opposite of what I want. I bare my teeth at the wolf in a silken smile.
“Oh, allow me,” I purr. Before either of them can protest, I shift the Gemini queen’s insubstantial weight into my arms and claim the so-called privilege of carrying the brat for myself.
It’s rather a foreign experience for me, holding a girl in my arms. As anyone at this Academy will readily tell you, I vastly prefer sharing that sort of intimacy with a man. At twenty-two, I’m the oldest student here. I won’t be forced to leave until I turn twenty-three. Anyone older than that on the island is merely the hired help.
In other words, the faculty.
And I can count on the fingers of one hand, with manicured digits to spare, the number of times in my life I’ve even toyed with the notion of dabbling in a hetero hookup. Mainly at my wretched parents’ insistence. To their bitter regret, those dutiful experiments on my part were, well, disappointing.
Of course, that outcome arrived as no particular surprise to me.
Because the handful of girls in my dating history didn’t exactly… shall we say… light a fire in my loins (nor did I seem to appeal to them, if I’m being honest), I’m not expecting this girl in my arms to hum like wind and lightning.
Even lost in a bespelled sleep, this little queen’s literally crackling with power. Sparks practically leap from my body wherever we touch. And even I have to admit it’s not merely her purebred blood or her royal status that’s responsible for all this amperage. I tussled with Cybelle Aquarius a few times before her untimely demise, with that Grade A bitch giving as good as she got and nearly clawing my eyes out.
And the other queen never felt anything like this.
Power dances over Zara Gemini’s suntanned skin and floats in her mermaid hair and sparkles from her painted fingertips. Even completely untutored, this little bitch has more witchcraft sparking in her baby finger than Cybelle Aquarius possessed in her entire lethal body.
My startled gaze shoots up to find the whole cohort—except for Neo, who’s off playing houseboy in the new queen’s suite—eyeing me with open suspicion.
“Well, well,” Racetrack drawls, gray eyes glinting with sly malice under the blond bristle of her boyish hair. “Looks like your pet theory about the royals having their power bred out of them isn’t working out so good, Vasili. You ready to bend the knee to our new queen after all?”
I’d drop the damn queen on the floor and tear out Racetrack’s throat if it wouldn’t get me expelled.
Here in front of Lucius, I need to rein in my witchy temper. Especially since my infamous anti-monarchist sentiments make me the prime suspect in the last royals’ still-unsolved murders.
Besides, darling, going after Racetrack would be an entirely wasted effort. Racetrack is a Prynne, and the Prynnes are American upstarts, just like the Geminis. Racetrack’s been Team Gemini, despite her formulaic protestations, since before Damien went down. Still, she’s no fanatic.
Typically, like any Taurus, our Racetrack’s a pragmatic sort, granting me just enough deference to leave her and Dez (mostly) unmolested.
“I wouldn’t bother worrying about me, Abigail.” I menace Racetrack with an icy smile and taunt her with the Christian name she despises. “Purgatory begins for our little queen the moment her precious eyes open. And she’s already so weak and her powers so undisciplined she can’t even fly into Icarus without being tranquilized by Lucius. By the time this week is over, she’ll be licking my boots. Just like the rest of you. And don’t even think about helping her.”
I shove Zara Gemini’s unresisting body roughly into Ronin’s startled arms, earning a scowl from him that worsens my temper, and stalk toward the stairs to my bedroom.
Purgatory is a figurative term for a freshman’s first days at Icarus. Plenty of new students wash out and are expelled, their powers stripped by arcane ritual. But given the nature of those powers, this potent introduction to an Academy education does produce the occasional colorful fatality.
