“Hurry up!” a female orders in a tinkling tone.
I whip left to right, pulse pounding as I search for the voice. A ginormous magenta butterfly swoops at my head.
On instinct, I swipe at the papery, iridescent wings.
“Hey!” the voice screeches. And that’s when I realize the butterfly is not a butterfly, but a miniscule person with abnormally large lungs. She screeches at me again, the sound earsplitting, buzzing around my head so fast I can’t make out her features. Suddenly she hovers in place, her eyes traveling over my clothes. “Fae hells. You’re a weird one.”
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I snatch the creature from the air, holding her gently around the waist. My fingers cover her entire body. She wriggles and kicks, and I can’t stop staring at the tiny clothes she wears. The shoes made out of bean pods and soft dress spun from spider silk.
She’s like the Barbies Julia plays with, only her hair isn’t colored with crayons, but a deep, beautiful magenta, and she’s warm and alive.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demands. Her wings beat the air in a blur, sending cold puffs of wind at my face.
“What are you?” I ask.
She gives up on trying to pry my pointer finger back with her hands and glares up at me, arms crossed. “I’m a sprite, and your escort for the next four years. And if you make any Tinkerbell jokes—any at all—I will cast a spell to give you hemorrhoids so bad you’ll never sit down again.”
Well, that sounds horrible.
She bares her ruby lips, revealing razor-sharp teeth. I think I recall something about sprites carrying a toxin, so I release her before she can bite me.
The moment she’s free, she buzzes around my head, a string of curses spewing from her little mouth.
Then she says in her tinkling voice, “Follow me. We’re already late for the Shadow Selection.”
“The what?” I call. But she zooms so fast over the courtyard that I have no choice but to run to keep up. I zigzag around a statue of a faun and lunge over hedges, my boots slipping and sliding on the gravel.
Why did I ever love running?
Her sparkling form disappears through a propped open door into another building, this one tall and spiky. I follow. Those orb thingies from before spin inside delicate glass bulbs affixed to the walls, casting light over marble hallways and warming the air.
Soon I’m sweating. My hair plastered to my face and mouth hanging open in a pant.
The sprite ducks into an open door of deep mahogany, and I burst after her, swearing under my breath . . . into a giant auditorium full of people.
Crap.
Not people. Fae. Note to self. I suck at remembering that.
Hundreds of Fae eyes pin me to the spot, the air in the room heavy with a sense of magic.
I freeze, suddenly recalling my overwhelming hatred of crowds and attention. Perhaps if I hadn’t slammed the door open l could have snuck in unnoticed . . .
Shoving my fear down deep, I force my legs to move, shuffling forward.
Why can’t I breathe?
One of the Fae near the back calls out, “Who’s the fresh meat?”
My gaze darts around the crowd, the exoticness of their features spinning my heart into overdrive. Some are wild-looking, with beaks and hooves and claws. Some only come up to my waist and are strange colors. Varying shades of mauve and teal and chartreuse.
But most look like versions of us, just with pointy ears, expensively tailored clothes that are a mix between modern fashion and a renaissance fair, and like a million times the hot factor.
In contrast, my frumpy, spaghettiOs stained hoodie, clunky Salvation Army boots, and unattractive jeans feel like a prison yard uniform.
I take a few more tentative steps, scouring the room for my sprite guide, whom I’ve already developed a love/hate relationship with.
Where are you, tiny person?