Damelza shook her head.
“Pomeranian?”
“Certainly not.”
I started to ease myself out of my seat. Why were the others not moving? “Well, good night, sleep tight, and don’t let the witches bite…” I cut off on a choked gurgle, as feathered straps shot out, binding each of the Rebels and me to our seats.
I winced, as the straps cut into my thighs.
Damelza adjusted the feather behind her ear. “Bacchus will, however, transfigure you into a wine rack. She’s keen to try out the spell. Can you imagine what it’d feel like to have wine bottles inserted into you?”
I paled, and every part of me clenched in sympathy. “Hey, have you been sneaking looks at my Wank Fantasies?”
Damelza’s cheek twitched. “Do you know why witches hate boastful mages?”
“Dick envy? Our perfect skin? Institutionalized sexism?”
“Because they’re liars.” When I dropped my gaze, her smile widened. “They wear masks to hide how wicked they are.” When she gripped Willoughby by the shoulder, he finally focused on her, panicked. Yet his gaze flicked to me first.
Was that surprised gratitude?
“Remain silent if you wish, Crush. The Memory Theater’s most delightful quality is that the student doesn’t need to speak to reveal himself. There’s no chance of him lying. The spell shows the truth, as every Rebel relives your memory alongside you.”
Finally, Willoughby shook his head in distress. His hands curled and uncurled compulsively at his sides. “Let me suffer this, if I must. But alone.” His anguished gaze darted to Magenta. Perhaps, she was right that he loved her. “I refuse to play with an audience.”
Damelza’s grin was dark and dangerous. “Isn’t that lucky then because this isn’t a game.”
Damelza spun Willoughby to face the back wall of the theater, which was lit with a kaleidoscope of projected images. They were the memories of every student who’d faced this trial before.
Great Pan, there I was too, kneeling up on the mattress in the window of the attic.
My palms became sweaty, and my sight blurred. I shook.
I didn’t need wine bottles inserted inside me, the Memory Theater had already inserted its claws…tentacles…okay, I didn’t know what it’d used, but the experience had hurt.
I was going to hurl.
Then Magenta clasped my hand, and her magic sparkled across mine. I leaned into her side. Slowly, my heartbeat slowed.
My shame was trapped in the academy. My nightmare. But I wasn’t trapped in the attic anymore. I’d got out, and I was with Magenta now.
Us Immortals would crack open this academy, until each Rebel’s life, which had been caught in that kaleidoscope for over a century, could bleed out.
Every Rebel would be free.
Yet first, Willoughby had to face his nightmare.
Chapter Nine
FOX
When Damelza snatched Willoughby’s hand, my own fingers cramped in sympathy.
It was Magenta holding my hand; I was safe in the seats of the Memory Theater. This time, it was Willoughby’s punishment.
Yeah, actually that didn’t make my furry ass feel any better.
My heart thudded faster and faster in my chest again. I forced myself to keep watching the stage. This was the worst theater production that I’d ever seen and I’d never even been inside a real theater before.
But I’d watched Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats on TV. I think dad thought that I’d feel a connection with the singing and dancing creatures. Instead, I felt weirdly traumatized.
When Damelza pressed Willoughby’s palm against the back wall, Willoughby attempted to wrench away, but Damelza shoved him stumbling forwards.
Then it was me stumbling and sliding on a sheet of ice.
I landed on my knees with a crack, catching myself with my hands.
I wasn’t in the Memory Theater anymore but an ice cave.
I shivered, staring down at my fingers, which were covered in thick gloves. Then I gaped at the sky-blue hair that swept across the ice.
Willoughby's hair.
I scrambled onto my knees, glancing down at the loose tunic and trousers, which were underneath a flowing woolen coat. It was as different to the tight silk uniform that Willoughby wore in the academy as a dove to a snake.
I counted back from hundred to control the panic.
100,99,98…
I didn't want to see whatever was in this frozen memory. On my prickles, don't make me do this.
I slid my fingers across the ice. It burned me, even through my gloves.
It was so real.
Whatever had happened here was Willoughby's secret truth. It was the moment that he'd become a monster.
Yet I was a witness now.
Had it been just like this for the other Rebels, when I'd been reliving my sister's birthday party in the attic? Even Lysander had felt what it was like to be me. Had each of them walked around inside my body like a demon possession? Wait, that meant that they'd all been inside me at the same time.
Was that sextuple penetration? Oww...
I shuddered. I wasn't ever thinking that again. Still, they'd literally worn my skin, and now I was wearing Willoughby's.
All of a sudden, a rough hand gripped my arm, yanking me to my feet; I struggled not to fall over again. "Watch yourself. By my ears, let us at least pretend that the dance lessons to teach you to become more graceful were a worthy use of a prince's time."
I was twisted to face a warrior. I swallowed. Okay, not simply a fae, but one who was taller, stronger, and a king if the crystal crown (like massive antlers on his head), wasn't simply for decoration.
I was guessing that it wasn't and could also be used for goring disrespectful foxes.
When the warrior fae brushed back my hair, I fought not to flinch. He only readjusted the crystals that were woven through my hair, however, instead of poking me with his crown.
Why didn’t Willoughby wear his hair like this in the academy? His hair was always coiled with ribbons, instead.
So, this warrior was Willoughby's dad...?
Suddenly, my mind became hazy, melding with Willoughby's memories, until I didn’t know where I stopped and he began.
Then, I was him.
I blinked at father, leaning towards him, as he pressed a kiss to the crystals in my hair. I smiled. Mother had given them to me as a gift on the day that I'd been officially announced heir to the throne. I'd been raised to expect to rule but still, it'd only been days since I'd been granted the official right to publicly wear the crystals that marked my right.
I'd never been so proud because it was my parents’ and kingdom's will.
When father turned me by the shoulder, the reassuring weight of his hand guided me further into the Sacred Ice Cave. My magic prickled and sparked across the walls.
In the name of the Other World, this was wondrous.
The winding cave was carved out of sheer ice. Needle-sharp icicles, which looked like sabertooth fangs, hung from the roof. It glowed with ancient blue magic. I craved to add my own ice sculptures.
I reached out, touching my finger to the wall and dancing ice horses across it.