“Never,” Rowan says.
A gasp ripples through the small crowd of Underlords who’ve circled around us. I can feel Rowan’s pulse hammering against my hand. Energy that has been building up inside of me courses through my free arm, and I flex my fingers as wisps of blue light lace between them like webbing.
Rowan doesn’t flinch. Neither do I.
“Say it,” I demand. “Say it, or you’re done.”
Another sound of shock escapes the crowd of Underlords. They know the rules of a proper challenge. The loser must invoke elios—a cry for mercy—or face death at the hands of the victor. The others wonder if I mean what I threaten. Their doubt gives me more strength to accomplish the deed.
“Lord Haden, don’t,” Dax says. I know it must be him without taking my eyes off Rowan’s face. Dax is the only one whose standing is low enough among this group to feel free to show concern. “Rowan has had enough. Let him go.” By the sound of his voice, he’s moving closer. “What would your father think?”
I know exactly what Ren would think. Only a coward wouldn’t finish off an opponent who doesn’t properly relent.
I’ve never lost a fight. I’ve never backed down. But I’ve also never been in a brawl that has escalated quite this far. I’ve never had to kill another Underlord before.
Rowan smiles mockingly. His teeth are stained with blood, but I can read the scorn in his expression. I’m stronger than Rowan. He knows that. I clearly have the upper hand, so why would he choose this moment of all times to taunt me?
The energy I hold in my hand swirls itself into an angry ball of white-hot lightning. It’s almost too hot to bear. I must throw it soon, or it will incinerate my fingers. “He has to say it.” I shake Rowan by the throat. “Say. It.” I keep my voice cold and steady even though I want to scream at him. I want to force the word out of his mouth. I’d reach my hand down his throat and claw it out of him if I could.
But of course he will not make it that easy.
“Then what would your mother have said?” Dax asks.
His words cut as deep as a dagger to the back.
“Don’t bring her into this,” I say.
“Yes, little prince, what would Mother have said?” Rowan says with a sadistic gleam in his eyes.
We must show mercy and kindness to all, my young prince. No matter their lot in this world …
I take my sight off Rowan’s sickening smile and look up at the huddled throng that has grown larger. The Lesser boy stands a little apart from the others, holding his arm in a way that makes it look like he’s trying to push it back into its socket.
The boy looks away from my stare. As he turns his head, I register the thin scar across his cheek. I do know him: Garrick.
The boy is not just any Lesser. He is my and Rowan’s younger half brother. The bastard Lesser son of one of the many concubines our father had taken up with before my mother was even on her deathbed. Garrick used to follow Rowan and me everywhere when we were children, trying to make friends with us even though he was no better than a servant. He was the Lesser who was there when my mother died. He was the one who witnessed what I did to earn the disdain of the Court.…
I haven’t seen him since he was reassigned to work in the Pits eight years ago.
Rowan groans and the crowd shifts closer, cutting Garrick off from my view as it closes in on us. All wanting to see what I’ll do next. The ball of lightning surges, blinding everyone else out of my vision. All I can see are the slits of Rowan’s fiery eyes as he glares up at me.
Was Rowan really ready to die to prove some point?
No. His point is that I’d let him live.…
He wants to prove that I’m a coward so he can try to get the Court to override the Oracle’s decree.
I flex my fingers, and the ball of lightning morphs into a bladelike shape in my hand that I can slam into his heart like an electrified stake. “I will kill you,” I tell him. “Unless you say it.”
And I mean it.
Something changes in Rowan’s eyes as I hitch my arm back to spike the lightning blade into his heart. A sickly, sweet scent, like rotting pomegranates, wafts up from his body.
It’s the smell of fear.
At the last second, I shift my aim. The lightning spike explodes against the stone floor, leaving a blackened crater next to Rowan’s head, and nearly takes off his ear. Chinks of marble go flying, sending the crowd scattering.
I let go of Rowan and climb to my feet. The hand I held the lightning in throbs, but I refuse to look at it. Rowan clutches his chest while his friends help him to his feet. As soon as he is standing, he pushes their hands away. Like he hadn’t needed them in the first place.
Rowan squares his shoulders and walks toward the great golden doors leading out of the antechamber. The remaining crowd follows him—ever on his side. He lets the others pass by him into the corridor, and just before leaving, he turns back. His eyes land on me as I tuck my burned hand behind my back. I’d held the lightning for a moment too long, and it hurts like Tartarus, but I won’t show any sign of pain with Rowan—or anyone else—watching me.
The crowd follows his glare.
Rowan is the one who lost the fight. He’s the one who was at my mercy—but he looks at me like I’m the one who should feel ashamed. They all look at me like that. His mocking smile returns. His lower lip cracks and bleeds, but he only licks the blood away.
“Defending a Lesser? Sparing an opponent?” Rowan says. “How adorably predictable, nursling. Did Mother teach you such useless manners?”
“Shut up,” I say, and raise my uninjured hand.
Rowan makes a scoffing noise. “Your impulsiveness is so predictable. Ironic, I know. That’s why I know you’ll fail. Even if by some miracle Father goes through with his decision and actually allows you to pass through the gate tomorrow, you’re still going to lose. Because you’re weak.”
“I’m stronger than you. I just proved that.”
“Brute strength and good aim aren’t going to get you anywhere on this quest of yours, Haden. You lack the proper training. You’re a simple foot soldier, not a Champion. That takes brains, not brawn. Do you have any idea how to convince this Boon to return to the Underrealm with you? Do you know how to manipulate someone into doing and saying exactly what it is you want from them? Because all this little fight proved is that I do. You played your part so well, little nursling.”
I open my mouth, ready with a comeback, but all I can think is that no matter what I say, it’ll be exactly what Rowan expects.
“And when you do fail in this quest, I’ll be the one the Court turns to, to clean up your mess.” His smile widens. “No matter what you do, I’m still going to be the one who wins.” He sweeps through the doorway.
I can’t help it. A great, raging burst of lightning escapes my hand. I fling it at Rowan. The electricity explodes against the heavy golden doors just as they bang shut between us. The force of the lightning ricochets off the gold and takes out the two alabaster statues that stand guard at the exit. I throw my hands over my head to shield myself from the flying stone bits.
Only Dax and Garrick remain in the corridor with me—the only witnesses to my losing control. But I can feel Rowan’s smugness seeping under the doorway as he walks away with his adorers.
I think I even hear laughter.
The blood from my head wound drips off my chin and pools in the hollow of my collarbone. My hand is black and singed. Sweat prickles up from my pores as my body tries to cool the hot electrical currents that swirl inside my chest.
Garrick steps close to me. Too close. I smell the stench of Keres on him. I think he is about to bow down in front of me and thank me like I’m some sort of Hercules for saving him. Instead, he uses his uninjured arm to push against my chest as hard as he can. His weak shove has no effect on me, but the rage on his face does. “You stupid brute,” he practically spits.
I blink at him in surprise. “That’s no way to show gratitude, Lesser,??
? I say, pushing him away from me.
“Gratitude? Do you know what you’ve done?” He tries to take a swing at me with his good arm, but I block it, forgetting about my burned hand until pain reminds me. “You tried to make Rowan invoke elios on my behalf.” Garrick gingerly clasps his dislocated shoulder. “This is nothing compared to what he’ll do to me now. And then he’ll take his accusations of theft to the Court. I’ll be dead by the end of the week.”
I take a step back. Garrick had been sentenced to work in the Pits—a life of hard labor: caring for the monstrous Keres, which were banished to the depths of Tartarus centuries ago—after he was accused of stealing from the palace. A second strike against him—if the Court believed Rowan’s accusations of trying to steal the armor of an Underlord—and the punishment could possibly be even worse than death.
Garrick charges at me, swinging his good arm. I grab him by his fist. His fingers are stained green from working in the Pits, and he’s so underfed, from years of fighting for scraps with the other Lessers, I could crush his hand if only I squeezed.
A buried memory flits through my brain, and I remember how Garrick had tried to help me when my mother collapsed.…
No, I tell myself. What Garrick did wasn’t help. Lessers serve. It’s what they’re born to do.
“Get away from me, Lesser!” I thrust his hand away. “Don’t you dare touch me with your dung-stained fingers. Your kind has already left. Follow them.”
I raise my fist as though I’m going to attack him if he doesn’t listen. Garrick rushes toward the golden doors.
“You might want to consider leaving that armor here,” Dax says.
Garrick skids to a stop. He hurriedly and clumsily pulls at the straps of his breastplate, but he can’t free them with only one hand. His face reddens as he glances back at us. I look away. Dax sighs heavily and then goes to help him. Once the boy is free, Dax tells him to visit the healing chambers.
“Lessers are not allowed …,” Garrick starts to protest.
“Tell them that Champion Haden sent you,” Dax says.
Garrick nods and exits without another word. I hear his feet slapping against the marble floor as he runs away. The sound of it sends another flash of unpleasant memories through my mind. Garrick’s sandals had made that same noise when I sent him running to fetch my father when my mother needed help. I remember how long I waited for my father to return with him. I remember how I …
The shame of those memories overwhelms me. Suddenly, all I can think about is the blood that stains my face. I try wiping it away with my leather wrist cuff but I can tell it only smears the blood more. The wound won’t stop bleeding.
“I have to go.” I step quickly away from Dax and head toward the exit, bits of alabaster statue crunching under my feet. “The Court can’t see me like this. He can’t see me. If they call me back in there”—I gesture toward the throne room where my father remains—“I have to go.…”
“Lord Haden, wait,” Dax says. “You should remain here, in case—”
“I can’t.” I pull away from him and flee from the antechamber as fast as possible. If the Court is going to punish me for what happened with Rowan, they’ll have to come and find me on their own.
chapter four
DAPHNE
I don’t know why I called him that. Dad. The man who stood in front of me now may have been my biological father, but he had never been my dad. That title is supposed to be reserved for the man who teaches you how to ride a bike, or who picks the splinters out of your skin, helps you with your homework, and argues with you about your curfew. Not for the person who married your mom in a Vegas drive-thru chapel after one date, only to leave her three days later to become a rock star. I wouldn’t have even recognized Joe if I hadn’t seen his face splashed all over the covers of tabloids in the grocery store checkout stand.
I’m so stuck on this dad detail, I don’t follow what Joe is saying. I can see his lips moving and I can tell he’s using the same practiced tone of voice that he employs during TV interviews, or while accepting awards at the Grammys, like he’s giving a rehearsed speech. But I don’t actually hear the words he’s saying until he places one of his hands on my shoulder and says, “That’s why we have to leave tonight.”
“What?” I step back abruptly, and my heel makes a squeaky noise against the linoleum floor. Upon Joe’s request, we and the glossy woman moved our conversation to my mother’s small office in the back of the shop for privacy, but I know Jonathan, CeCe, and probably Indie, are listening at the grate on the other side of the wall. I wish one of them could fill me in. “I’m sorry. What did you just say?” I ask Joe.
The grin my father has plastered on his face falters at the edges. “We need to go tonight,” he says. He waits for a moment, probably for some sign of understanding from me. When I don’t respond, he goes on. “To your new school. In California. The one we’ve been talking about for the last few minutes.”
“What?” I take another step back. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
He loops his fingers behind his giant—and, no doubt, real platinum—skull-shaped belt buckle, and rocks back on his heels. “Bugger. I thought you were taking this too well.” He runs his fingers through his long hair and clears his throat. “I know I haven’t been there for you, Daphne,” he says, starting his little speech over again. “I want to make things up to you. This school—Olympus Hills High—can open up opportunities for you that I never had and that you can’t possibly get here. The training you could get for your voice alone, and the education is top notch. It’s what you deserve. Your voice is amazing.…”
He would think so. He claimed that I had his voice.
“You can only attend the school if you’re a resident of Olympus Hills, and I just happened to have finalized the purchase of a home there last week. You would live with me. We could get to know each other.”
I probably look like some kind of dead fish with the way my mouth is hanging open. I don’t even know what to say to this … this proposition.
My father checks his watch. His smile vanishes altogether. “This is a big deal, Daphne. You have no idea how many strings I had to pull to get you in.” His voice is edged with a pleading tone that surprises me, and I notice for the first time how much older he seems in person than in the images I’ve seen of him in the Star Tracks section of People magazine. “If we don’t go tonight, you will lose your place.”
“Tonight?!” This isn’t happening. “But there’s this talent competition tonight. I’m supposed to audition for scholarships for college.” And school is starting, and CeCe’s birthday is next week, and Mom needs her flower cooler fixed, and I’m supposed to start teaching guitar lessons for the kids in my neighborhood to help bring in extra cash. All I’ve ever wanted is to graduate and get out of Ellis, but suddenly I can think of a million reasons why I need to stay. Why I’m not ready to leave. Not yet.
Joe clasps his hands. “Daphne, darling. If you’re Joe Vince’s daughter and you graduate from a place like Olympus Hills, you won’t have to audition for scholarships anywhere. Schools will throw money at you to attend. Not that you’ll even need it now. But only if you come with me—”
“She’s not going anywhere with you.”
My mother sweeps into her office, and Joe stops speaking midsentence. He looks at her wide eyed, almost as if he’s a little afraid of her, and I can’t help but notice that even the glossy woman with the briefcase and the slick chignon is taken aback by my mother. The two are polar opposites. While the woman is petite, and gives off a very even, uncluttered tone, my mom stands over six feet tall and is wearing her signature green maxi dress and the pollen-stained apron I’ve rarely seen her without. Instead of heels, Mom’s feet are bare. My mother never wears shoes, as if all those NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE signs don’t apply to her. It’s like she believes the grass won’t grow and the flowers won’t bloom if she doesn’t glide over the earth with her naked feet each day. Her hai
r tumbles about her shoulders like waves of golden wheat, and her eyes, bright blue like the color of delphinium blossoms, pierce right into Joe. The tone that comes off her is like the crescendo of a symphony. I’m tall like my mother, and people say I look just like her, but I don’t know how I can even compare when it comes to presence. She’s like a force of nature.
“Don’t even try me,” she says to Joe.
He clears his throat. “As I told you on the phone, Demi, I have a court order.”
The woman in the suit dress snaps open her briefcase and pulls out a document that supposedly proves that Joe is my new legal guardian. How he got a judge to grant him custody of the teenage daughter he’s seen only four times since I was born is beyond me. I mean, Joe doesn’t make the tabloids because of his more sober exploits. Then again, he probably has enough money to keep half the lawyers in California on retainer.
Mom doesn’t even look at the paper. “I don’t care what that document says. You can’t just waltz in here and take my daughter away.”
“Our daugh … ter,” Joe says, but Mom gives him a look that makes him stammer.
“I don’t care what I have to do to block your so-called court order. I don’t care if I have to sell my shop to pay for it. I will not let you take Daphne out of Ellis Fields.”
It’s at this moment that I make up my mind. The shock and numbness of the situation have started to wear off, and I know what I have to do. Because there’s no way I’m going to let Joe destroy my mother’s dreams all over again. There’s no way I’m going to let her sell her shop—her paradise—because of me.
“I’ll go,” I say, stepping between my feuding parents.
Through the grate, I can hear Jonathan and CeCe gasp. Indie makes some sort of high-pitched, hiccuping noise.
My mother turns toward me. “Daphne, no.”
I square my shoulders and look right at her. “I’m going,” I say as definitively as I can. “I want to go. This school is everything I’ve ever wanted. I’m going.”