Page 3 of The Prince from a Cruel Summer
I hand over my in-ear monitors, mic, and battery packs, and wipe my dark bangs away from my forehead. Sweat and glitter stick to my hair and neck.
“Another one in the books. Praise the gang for their performance, please. I’m going to change.”
“I wish you’d tell me what upset you, earlier.”
I offer her a warm smile and squeeze her shoulder in reassurance. “It’s nothing, Becky. I just need a bit of alone time.” I zip down my knee-high boots and slip through the hallways in my bare feet to my dressing room.
I’m not known for being a diva, but tonight, I need space. I’m going to set fire to my trashcan and order a strong drink. And possibly fuck the sexy bartender that comes with it.
Once the door of my dressing room is securely closed behind me, I wipe the red lipstick off and sneak a glance at the wrinkled envelope on top of the trash. The torn heart-shaped seal fills me with dread, but I pick up the invitation and read it a second time.
Dear Miss Snow,
I’ve been a fan of yours for decades, and when I watched your dazzling performance during the live broadcast of Elio Lightbringer’s wedding, I knew I had to do everything in my power to meet you. I’m getting married three days from now at the Royal Academy in Augustus, and it’s my dream for you to sing “Never to Be” at my wedding.
I will send for you tomorrow night at your hotel, and we can discuss terms.
Consider yourself my guest of honor.
Your biggest fan,
Heather Heart
A downright adorable note if it wasn’t for the wedding invitation tucked underneath it. The name of the groom reflects off the silver and gold calligraphy, sharper than a knife’s edge.
It’s not every day you get invited to your ex’s royal wedding. It’s even rarer for the poor bride to have no clue of what she’s just done.
Immortality has its drawbacks. Most Fae I’ve grown up with are frozen in time, and I am no exception. We are full of regrets, yearning for something that used to be or could have been. It’s so easy to forget to heal when you’ve got all the time in the world to wallow in past mistakes.
It’s been almost a hundred years since I set foot in Augustus, the sparkling coastal town where I got my first taste of blinding happiness and heart-wrenching loss. Yet, the crisp crinkle and faint citrus scent of the invitation bring me right back to the night of the admission trials, fireflies shimmering in the night, the boys of summer ready to shred me to pieces.
A strangled grunt grates my throat as I ball the letter and invitation.
I should leave the ghosts of my past alone, but Winter Fae are used to digging up graves. Even after all these years, I wonder, what would my life look like if I’d gone right instead of left in that damn labyrinth?
Chapter 2
Never Tell Me the Odds
SONGBIRD
Summerlands, Faerie, 100 years ago
Aking’s pride can go a long way toward ruining your life. A father’s ambition is even worse. Either death or glory awaits me in the Royal Academy’s labyrinth. I don’t think I could face my father’s disappointment if I merely washed out of the trials.
Death is honorable. Failure is not.
Whatever happens tonight will determine my entire future. They’ve gathered the applicants on the field behind the huge maze they built for the trials. All the aspiring students are peppered around the manicured lawn. Applicants are here by invitation only, and I’m the sole common Fae present.
Most of my competitors are receiving one last prep session from their coaching teams, whereas I stand alone. It singles me out and makes me an easy target, the stares of my competitors riddling my pale skin with goosebumps.
Half of them are boys from the Spring and Summer courts, but a nasty-looking Red Fae—an applicant from the bloody Red Forest—bares her teeth when she catches me looking, prompting me to angle my gaze toward the sky.
Huge round torches tower above our heads, flooding the space with light. The vast majority of the Fae competing in the challenge need them to see.
Fireflies flicker in and out of view on the outskirts of the clearing, the gigantic half arched windows and tall, prickly turrets of the Abbey twinkling behind the maze. I try not to stare at the shape of the Royal Academy’s main building, my mouth parched and my lips dry.
I’m hungry for this. I want to show each and every one of these rich, pompous high-borns that I, Elizabeth Snow, am as clever and powerful as they are.
