Into the Dark: The Shadow Prince Part 4

"It's time to go," Dax says, like he won't take no for an answer.

I pick up another rock, toss it up in my hand, and catch it. Dax's words about this being my one chance to prove myself start to edge into my despair. Isn't that the reason I've always dreamed of being Chosen in the first place? Ren had even said that if I succeeded, he'd grant me back my rightful place at his side.

But he'd also made it very clear what would happen if I don't succeed. His oath to my mother prevents him from casting me out of the ranks of the Underlords as he did with Dax. Which means if I fail, he can only do something much worse. My jaw clenches as I remember the feel of Ren's knife on my throat.

I fling the rock out the window. It flies so far that it misses the moat and disappears into the treetops of the orchard. I turn back to Dax.

"What if I fail?"

"You won't," he says so definitively that I don't want to argue. Dax has always had that power over me. "Besides, you'll have me to help you."

I really look at him for the first time since he entered the roost and see that instead of his servant's robes, he's dressed in strange dark blue pants made from a thick cloth, and a short-sleeved tunic, which has a picture of something that looks vaguely like a horseless chariot on it. It reminds me of the odd garments many of the Champions and Boons are dressed in when they return from the Overrealm.

Over his shoulder, Dax carries a satchel that looks like it's packed to capacity.

"You're coming with me?"

He shrugs. "I convinced Lord Killian that since you are the sole Champion this year, you should be allowed a small entourage for your quest. I a.s.sumed you'd like a guide who's been to the mortal world before."

I try to stifle a grateful smile. "But you botched your quest."

"Then who better to make sure you don't do the same?" Dax puts his hand on my shoulder. "Haden," he says, lowering his voice, "the fact that Killian agreed to letting you take a guide and my hearing what the Oracle said to you about the fate of the Underrealm resting on your shoulders only serve to confirm my suspicions. There is more going on here than anyone is telling you." I nod. "The Oracle said that the Boon I am after can restore something that was taken from the Underlords. She said something about a Cypher."

Dax startles when I mention that word. "So the rumors are true. . . ."

"What rumors?"

A shadow blocks the light in the doorway and I look up to see one of King Ren's guards leering at us.

"Is he coming with you or do I need to drag him there?" he asks Dax, with a self satisfied grin that makes me recognize him as the harpy who kicked me in the knees at the altar yesterday.

"He's coming on his own," Dax says.

The guard grunts and moves back out into the hallway. "What rumors?" I ask again.

"We'll discuss this later-when there are fewer ears to overhear. Now it's time to go." Panic swells inside of me. "It's too soon." I take a step backward, but Dax grabs my arm. "Leave me," I seethe at him. I know I am being irrational, but I can't help myself. I'm not ready for this.

Dax lowers his voice. "Haden, you must go now. It will be worse if they have to force you. The dishonor alone . . ."

I want to strike him and make my escape, but his words about dishonor make me hesitate. Brim paces in the windowsill, growling in a way that makes both Dax and me bristle. The owls flutter and hop in their nests, screeching frantically.

"What is it, girl?" I say, anxious to sooth her. Getting a h.e.l.lcat mad-especially in such a confined s.p.a.ce-is never a good idea.

Then I see three shades come into view over the horizon. Shades usually stay far away from the palace, their moaning the only evidence of their existence, but sometimes hunger drives them into the outskirts of the asphodel fields. Hunger-insatiable hunger-is all they know in this world. One of the shades throws himself down on top of an asphodel plant, shoving the ghostly gray blossoms in his sagging mouth. The other two clamor to get a hold of some of the flowers, but he pushes them away. I wince as their moans morph into shrieking screams. They've turned on each other, clawing and gnawing at each other's faces and limbs. They'd kill each other if they weren't already dead.

This is the plight of those who die without honor.

Heroes, Champions, those who know glory in this life go to Elysium when they die. I hear it is paradise. But those who are never given honor or who have had it stripped away from them, like myself, are doomed to wander the Wastelands for all eternity-trying to fill their cold, empty souls, which cannot be satisfied, no matter what. It's the worst-possible existence, save the fate of those who have openly wronged the G.o.ds.

Yesterday, when my life was in Father's hands, I'd thought I was ready to die if that was what he chose. I'd been resigned to the idea. But this ghastly reminder that dying without honor is a fate worse than death itself makes me realize that I am not resigned at all. I will not accept such a terrible destiny without a fight.

Dax is right; the Oracle has handed me the chance to show everyone what I am truly made of-to have my honor restored.

And I will not allow myself to fail.

I grab my bag, which holds what few belongings I am allowed to take. It is heavier than I remember and I wonder if I am feeling the weight of my quest on my shoulders. I hitch it up, ready at last, and let Dax propel me through the doorway. A loud clank echoes in my ears as he pulls the door to the roost shut behind us. Four guards, who've been waiting in the hallway, flank us immediately. The only path for us now is forward. Toward whatever destiny the Fates have measured for me.

chapter six.

daphne

The next few hours after I agreed to go with Joe are filled with so many firsts that I am not sure my brain knows how or where to process and store it all: my first time hearing the wind whip through the sunroof while riding in a limo down Apollo Canyon. My first time experiencing the cacophony of excited, dreading, and antic.i.p.ating tones of people arriving and departing on new adventures in an airport. My first time on a plane-and a private jet, at that-and listening to the hum and whistle of the engines as we prepare for takeoff. My first time outside of Utah. My first time stepping foot in California, with its soupy humidity clinging to my skin, and realizing sound resonates differently in wet air than it does in dry. My first time seeing LA-granted, it was mostly a bunch of blobs of lights, and traffic noises, as it was pretty late in the evening when we drove past the city, in another limo on our way to Olympus Hills.

But of all the firsts, the one I'm having the hardest time processing is the first time seeing the spa.r.s.e dots of houses and shops in the red dirt as we flew over Ellis Fields from the airport in Saint George.

Because that image meant I had done it-I had said good-bye to everyone I loved.

"Call me at least once a week," Jonathan had said with a hug and a big kiss on my cheek. "I want every juicy detail, you hear me." I could hear low notes of disappointment in him, but he'd managed to keep a smile on his face.

"Of course."

"I'll pack up the rest of your things tonight and make sure they get FedExed tomorrow. I just expect Mr. Tight Pants here to pick up the bill," he said with a smirk.

Joe nodded and Marta-the glossy woman turned out to be Joe's "personal a.s.sistant slash handler slash babysitter" (her words, not mine)-handed Jonathan a card with Joe's address and account information for sending my things.

Indie gave me a melty Twix and half a bag of minipretzels for the plane. A gift I ended up being grateful for later, as the only service on Joe's jet was of the bar variety.

"Do you have everything you need in the meantime?" Mom had asked. It was the first thing she'd said to me since I'd left her office in the shop. I'd expected another plea from her to stay, and almost felt disappointed by her question instead.

"Yes." I was bringing with me my toiletries, three changes of clothes, my favorite sandals, Gibby, my acoustic-electric guitar, and much to the limo driver's-who had to bungee it to the roof-dismay, my white and lemon yellow cruiser bike. Everything else I could live without for a few days.

"I am still not okay with this," my mother said when Marta insisted we were two minutes off schedule and "must go now." But she still gave me one last hug before Marta pushed me inside the limo with Joe.

As the limo started to pull out, CeCe, who had been called away by the people from the school who had come for the balloon bouquets, came running out of the shop just in time.

She waved both hands frantically, as if afraid I wouldn't see her otherwise. I rolled down the window and shouted, "I'll call you soon. I promise!"

And then that was that. I'd watched through the back window as we drove away, leaving my old life behind in billowing clouds of burnt sienna dust.

I still can't get the image of my tiny town, with its tiny houses in the middle of nowhere, out of my head as we pull up to the security gates of Olympus Hills. The driver rolls down his window to show his pa.s.s to the guard and I hear a cacophony of voices outside, shouting strange questions. At least half a dozen flashes pop on the other side of my window.

"What is that?"

"Paparazzi," Marta says, stopping me from unrolling my window. "They can't see you through the tinted gla.s.s. And don't worry; they can't get past the security gates, unless explicitly invited by a resident. That's the beauty of Olympus Hills: it's a private community, so no rats allowed."

"Be nice, Marta. Those rats b.u.t.ter our bread," Joe says. Or at least I think that's what he said; all the words were kind of slurred together.

Marta had given me some brochures on Olympus Hills on the plane, and since she'd spent most of the journey sending emails on her iPad, and Joe had pa.s.sed the time taking full advantage of the rolling bar cabinet that a buxom flight attendant would bring by every time he snapped his fingers, I'd had plenty of time to brush up on Olympus Hills trivia.

The brochure had described the place not as a town, but as a "luxe, master-planned community." A description that seems very apt as we cross through the gates and into the neighborhood streets. Marta allows me to unroll my window once the gates are behind us. I want to see as much of everything as I can, even if it's dark out. The streetlights illuminate houses that are twice the size of any home in Ellis Fields. "Holy c.r.a.p."

"These are the smaller homes," Marta says. "There's a lake at the center of the community. The houses get progressively more impressive, the closer their proximity to the lake. Joe's new house is right across the street from the docks, of course."

"Of course," I say, and watch as the houses grow larger and larger until we turn on to the road that circles the lake. I lean out my window, trying to get a better view of the water. We didn't have a lake in Ellis, so this is another first for me. One I'd been excited for since perusing the Olympus Hills brochure. It had said that the lake is shaped like a figure eight, with two islands in the middle.

Everything is supposed to be connected by walking paths and footbridges. I can't see much in the dark except the lights from the building on one of the islands reflecting on the water. That must be the school. The brochure had said Olympus Hills High is on the larger island.

I may not be able to see much of the lake, but there is plenty to hear. The calming flow of the water, the happy, pulsing beats of insects skittering across the surface, the rhythmic swell of the wind through the reeds. As we pa.s.s the smaller island of the figure eighta shaped lake, all the subtle sounds are drowned out by a song that reminds me of a mother's lullaby. Well, a lullaby sung by a mother, not my mother-who might possibly be tone-deaf. I point at the tree-covered island and ask, "What's there?"

"The grove," Marta says. She s.h.i.+vers and indicates that she wants me to roll up the window.

"n.o.body goes there."

"Why?" I ask.

She picks up her glossy briefcase. "We're here," she says as we pull into the crescent-shaped driveway of a building that resembles more a gargantuan Grecian temple than a home.

During the drive, I'd noticed that most of the homes resemble an interesting mixture of modern architecture meets ancient Greece. "I guess they take the Olympus part of Olympus Hills seriously around here?" I say when we get out of the limo.

"You could say that," Joe slurs. It's the first words he's said directly to me since leaving Utah.

Marta unlocks the front door and then ushers us inside a grand entryway, the likes of which I have only seen in the movies at Ellis's single-screen cinema on Main Street. White marble floors lead to a pair of twisting staircases that fill the foyer, which is big enough alone to hold my mother's twobedroom bungalow. A crystal chandelier drips from the center of the high vaulted ceiling. Little rainbows from the prisms reflect onto the tall white walls.

"Wow," I say.

"This place is smaller than Joe's homes in Malibu and Paris, but it'll do for now," Marta says. "Real estate in the area is hard to come by. I had to twist a few arms, didn't I, Joe?" Joe grunts. He drops his leather jacket on the white marble floor and then disappears into one of the rooms off the west wing.

"Never mind him. Joe always needs a little alone time after we travel," Marta says. She checks her watch. "I have a few minutes to spare, if you would like a tour?" I nod.

Marta explains, as we tour the house, that the first floor of the west wing is the "main living quarters," with the main kitchen, family room, a movie theatre-which includes what she claims will be a "fully operational concessions stand" once the house is completely unpacked and stocked-a "playroom," filled with Joe's collection of retro arcade games, and get this, a ballroom for throwing parties. The bas.e.m.e.nt level of the house is actually a garage-with a car elevator that brings up to the driveway whatever of the half dozen cars Joe feels like driving each day. The sight of which-the car collection, I mean-renews my desire to get my license tenfold.

Marta informs me that the east wing of the first floor is her private living area, with its own smaller kitchen and a few guest bedrooms-but I don't get a tour of that. The second floor of the west wing holds Joe's master bedroom-a master bathroom that could put any spa to shame-a private rehearsal studio that seems especially lived in, considering Joe has only been here for a week, and a private office that looks like it's never been touched.

It strikes me how white everything is here. White walls, white marble columns and floors, white furniture, white carpet in the bedrooms, and even a painting taller than I am that is a canvas filled with globs of white paint. With how much dust that gets tracked into our bungalow back in Ellis, we'd never owned anything remotely white. Because it wouldn't have stayed white for very long.

"Does Joe have, like, a staff of thirty people to keep this place clean and running?"

"Your father employs a full live-in staff at his two other homes, but besides myself, Joe has insisted that he doesn't want any other live-ins here. A cleaning staff will come in once a week, but I am hoping he will reconsider bringing in his personal chef from the Malibu house, as cooking is not in my job description. I don't suppose you know how?"

"I make a mean bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch," I say, even though my repertoire is a little more advanced than that. No way am I going to spend my time cooking for Joe.

It's after midnight and my legs are feeling fatigued by the time Marta leads me to the second floor of the east wing.

"This is your private area of the house," Marta says. "You'll have your own family room with a television, and there are three bedrooms, each with their own bathroom, but we thought you might like this one best, as it looks out on the pool." She opens a door and flips on the light of my new bedroom.

It's also decorated in mostly white furniture, with pops of teal in the plethora of throw pillows on the plush, tufted duvet of the canopy bed. More teal pillows crowd the white, tufted sofa. I even have my own crystal chandelier. A gilded mirror hangs over a glossy vanity table, and a floating white shelf, which spans the length of one of the walls, is jam-packed with stuffed animals with various shades of white fur.

"Joe had his designer do this room up just for you."

"It's . . . um . . . nice." I frown at the white teddy bears staring down at me. "Joe realizes I'm not a six-year-old girl, right?"

Marta makes a noise that almost sounds like a laugh. "Joe does have a tendency to go a little overboard."

A Macbook computer sits on a white desk in front of a large window. I pull back the gauzy drapes and look into the backyard. Where this house has an advantage to my mother's bungalow in hugeness, it pales in comparison when it comes to yard. We have almost an acre of land in Ellis behind the shop where my mom can fit her greenhouse and a barn for taking care of the various animals she brings home. Here, the yard comprises of a stone patio, a long, skinny lap pool, and a narrow strip of gra.s.s.

The almost equally ginormous house behind Joe's feels like it's only a few yards away.

I yawn. The fatigue of what must be the longest day of my life pulls me toward the very girly-yet admittedly comfy-looking- bed. I sink into the mountain of pillows.

"I'll let you rest now," Marta says curtly. "I would give you a tour of the community tomorrow, but I have another pressing matter that will take me away for the day. I will leave a map and a detailed itinerary outside your door by six a.m. Your audition is at three thirty p.m. tomorrow. Don't be late." I sit up fast. "My audition?"

"For the music program at Olympus Hills High. Joe was able to pull a few strings to get you into the school, but if you want to be on the music track, you must audition for the program. You are scheduled for tomorrow afternoon."

"So soon?" The tiredness I'd felt only seconds ago is gone. I should have realized that there would be an audition right away, but I am wholly unprepared. I didn't pack any of my sheet music, leaving it behind for Jonathan to send later. I haven't done any research on what kind of music the director of the program prefers. I don't know if any of my three outfits are fit for auditioning at a private school.

I take two deep breaths and tell myself not to freak out. I'd already prepared a song for the Teen Talent Compet.i.tion that I had planned on attending this evening. I am ready for this. . . .

"The other students in the program auditioned at the end of last year, and school has been in session for almost three weeks. If it hadn't been for a sudden opening in the program, you wouldn't be getting the chance at all. Mr. Morgan is holding preliminary auditions for this year's musical tomorrow. He said he would allow you to audition for the program and the play at the same time. You are supposed to prepare three songs."

Three? I'd spent all month perfecting my one song for the compet.i.tion! "What play are they doing?" Hopefully it was something I already knew a couple of songs from. Les Miserables. Carousel. Seeing this town's apparent love for all things Greek, I wouldn't be surprised if it was Mamma Mia!

"He wouldn't say. It's supposed to be three songs of your own choosing."

"But I have no idea what else to sing."

"I don't see what the big deal is. Sing a few of your father's songs," Marta says, like it's a definitive solution to all my problems.

"Not in a million years," I mumble as she leaves and closes the door behind her. I can hear the click of her heels on the marble floor echoing as she goes. Now that I am alone, my new room feels too cavernous for comfort. I want to call home, but it's far too late at night. My mother would have a heart attack, thinking there had been some emergency.

I push the throw pillows off the bed. Not a big deal? This audition is the big deal. This music program is the entire reason I'd left home. It is my entire purpose for being here. All my future plans rest on it, and now the audition is being sprung on me before I am ready.

What if this had all been for nothing?

For the first time since I agreed to let Joe take me away from my home, I start to wonder if I've made my first really big mistake.