The Shadow Prince

by Bree Despain

That’s when the infamous deal had been struck. While hopped up on painkillers and still freaked out about my near-death experience in the desert, I’d agreed to stop pressing my mom about leaving Ellis—and not run off again—and she’d agreed to give me a longer leash once I got my driver’s license. I’d been dreaming of ultimate freedom, but at just over two months shy of my seventeenth birthday, with still no license in hand (no thanks to my mom), I was beginning to think I’d been duped into a really bogus deal.

  “But look”—I point at the flyer—“second prize is twenty-five hundred dollars. That’s exactly what Mom needs to replace the flower cooler in the front of the shop—and you know the bank isn’t going to give her another loan. It’s one night, Jonathan. Please?”

  “But what about first prize?”

  “What about it?”

  “It says here”—he practically stabs the flyer with his ribbon scissors—“that if you win first prize, they’ll haul you off to Las Vegas for the next round of competition, and then possibly New York City after that. It won’t just be one night then. Your mother would never stand for it, and I’d be a dead man for letting you get into this mess.”

  “Who says I’m going to win first prize?”

  Jonathan rolls his eyes. “One thing you don’t need to be is modest, Daphne. You and I both know you’ve got first place in the bag.”

  “Well, I’ll never know if you don’t let me go.” I give him a teasing smile. “I might stink at singing and nobody in this tiny town knows the difference.” Ellis High School is so small, we don’t even have a real music department.

  “Please, Daph. I’m from Manhattan. Don’t tell me I don’t know amazing singing when I hear it.”

  “Then let me go and prove it to myself. If I win first, then I’ll bow out and take second place and the prize money.”

  Jonathan takes a swig of Diet Mountain Dew from his ginormous Jersey Boys mug. I can tell he’s swishing the soda in his cheeks like he does when he’s contemplating a difficult floral design. He swallows hard. “Sorry, honey. No way, no how. Your mother would kill me if I let you leave Ellis and something bad happened to you out there.”

  I wrap my fingers through the strings of the balloon bouquet I’d forgotten I was even holding until now, and bite back the urge to make a frustrated urrrrrrg.

  “How were you even planning on getting to SUU in the first place? Don’t tell me you were planning on driving without a license?” Jonathan asks with an accusatory tone.

  “No.” I’ve had a driver’s permit for over a year, but state law requires forty hours of driving time behind the wheel with a parent or guardian before I can apply for a license. Since Ellis is only 4.6 square miles and my mom won’t let me take the car out on the highway, it was taking an eternity to rack up the hours needed to get my license. There’s nowhere in Ellis you can’t get to on your bike, she always says, but I know she’s dragging her feet on the issue so she won’t have to fulfill her end of our bargain. And the more I point this out to her, the more excuses she comes up with for not being able to take me driving. At this rate, I won’t have a license until I’m eighteen and can get it without her consent. “There’s this new senior at school who has a boyfriend at SUU. She says I can hitch a ride with her to Cedar City and back. That’s why I need to get off early.”

  A very cross-sounding tone comes off Jonathan. Telling him I am hitching a ride with someone I barely know isn’t helping the situation, but I don’t have many options. Most of my school friends haven’t had licenses long enough to be legal to drive with another teen in the car, and CeCe, who claims to be night-blind, wasn’t too keen on the idea of navigating the canyon roads after dark. Not that she’d be excited to drive me out of town in the daytime, either. I swear, it’s like half of the adults I know are just as reluctant to leave Ellis as my mother. Despite being from the big city, even Jonathan rarely leaves town other than his yearly pilgrimage to the designer outlets in Primm, Nevada. It’s, like, once people come here, they never want to go anywhere else. Mom calls Ellis an oasis in the desert and our own private paradise—hence the name of our shop—but at an average temperature of 105 degrees in the summer and the looming walls of red-rock mountains on every side, this town feels more like a stifling prison to me sometimes.

  “But what if you took me instead? That way, you know I’d be safe. Maybe I could even get an hour of driving time on the way? We’ll tell Mom we’re going to movie night. She’ll never even know we were gone.” I smile. “I’ll let you give her the prize money. We’ll tell her you won it from a design contest or something.”

  Jonathan shakes his head while making a nuh-uh-uh kind of noise, which reminds me of the way Frankie Valli sings. But behind the scolding tone, I catch something else. Just a hint of sympathy. Just a little bit of give, maybe?

  That was something I could work with. I say in a singsong voice, “You’d be both of our heroes, Uncle Jonathan.”

  A smile starts to edge at Jonathan’s lips as though he likes the idea of being a hero. Then he quickly shakes his head as if trying to get water out of his ear, and the happy look is gone. Along with the tone of sympathy. “Sorry, sister. Not happening.” He picks up his scissors and cuts a ribbon with a snip so abrupt that I know I’ve pushed it too far with that one.

  I didn’t want it to come to this, but I know what tactic I need to try now. The truth.

  “Fine, Jonathan. You want to know the real reason I need to go to this competition—besides winning the money for Mom, that is?”

  Jonathan makes another sharp snip. “If it will explain why you’d break your deal with your mother over some silly teen idol contest.”

  “Mrs. Arlington, the cashier at the music shop on Main, who gave me this flyer, said that there would be talent scouts from SUU, the University of Utah, and other colleges at the competition,” I tell him, knowing this tactic may very well backfire. College is another one of those topics my mother and I don’t see eye to eye on.

  “Daphne, you and your mother will discuss this when you’re older.…”

  “Yeah, right. Mom’s big plan for my postgraduation future probably involves me getting some online associate’s degree in business management, and then inheriting the flower shop from her. But I’ve got bigger dreams than making corsages for other girls to wear to dances and wrapping up ‘I’m sorry’ flowers for every doghouse-ditching guy who comes into this place. I graduate in less than two years and I want to go to college. A real college.”

  Assuming Jonathan is right about my voice and I can manage to land a scholarship somewhere—anywhere—that is.

  Getting a scholarship was step number two on my “prove to the world I can become a music star all on my own” master plan. (Step one being two hours of self-imposed music practice a day, no matter my homework load.)

  “Opportunities like this competition don’t exactly come this close to Ellis very often. But if I can’t even get fifty miles away from here for one evening, how am I ever going to convince Mom to let me go away for school?”

  Jonathan puts down his scissors. “Your mother has her reasons for wanting to protect you.”

  “Which are what? Her own paranoia that the outside world is some big, bad place? What does she think is going to happen to me ‘out there’ anyway? Is she afraid I’m going to sneak off with some guy and get pregnant, just like she did? Or is she more afraid that once I step foot outside town, I’m never coming back? Does she think I’ll abandon her, just like my father?”

  Jonathan’s lips pull into a tight, thin frown and I know I’ve struck on something. A remorseful tone wafts off him as he sighs.

  Truth is, I don’t know how to make it work. How do I go after my dreams and not end up leaving her in the red dust of southern Utah because she refuses to budge from this spot? “I love my mom, but someday I am going to have to leave. I need to know what else is out there in the world. I need to know if I can make it on my own.”

  “Daphne. I know you can make it on your own
—but this is a conversation you should have with your mother. Later when …”

  “Later will be too late.” I place my hand over his large fingers before he can distract himself with cutting ribbons again. “Please, Jonathan. Let me go tonight—”

  The shop’s bell interrupts me once more, only this time it’s much louder, like someone has opened the front door in a hurry. I wonder if Indie has sent another customer running.

  But instead, a few seconds later, Indie comes bounding into the back room. Or at least she tries to before hitting the barricade of balloons.

  “Hol-y amaze balls, Daph-ne,” she says, jumping up to see me over the balloons. “You will never guess who is in the shop—like, never, ever in a mil-lion freak-ing years!”

  When Indie gets excited, she talks in short, staccato notes and acts like she’s had five espressos in the last half hour, even though Mom says she’s supposed to be on a strictly stimulant-free diet. I’m not sure where Mom got this information, nor where she found Indie. Despite being on a limited budget—because she flat-out refuses to accept any child support from “that man”—my mother has a tendency to bring home strays. Of both the animal and human variety. Most of her person rescues stay only long enough to collect their first paycheck, but others become part of the family and never leave. Like Uncle Jonathan, who’s been with us for so long, I can’t remember when my day wasn’t greeted by one of his Technicolor aprons, and CeCe, who’d practically become my sister since my mom brought her to the shop five and a half years ago, looking like a drowned rat—CeCe, that is, not my mom. I still am not sure where Indie is going to fit into the mix.

  “Come on. You have to see him!” she says when I don’t follow her.

  Jonathan and I glance at each other, and he chuckles. He always says that a flower shop is the worst place in town for meeting cute guys. You’d have better luck at the library. Because the guys who come in here already have someone to buy flowers for.

  “She’ll learn.” Jonathan laughs again with a merry tune, the tension between us melting away. The skin around his eyes wrinkles with his smile all the way up to the graying hair at his temples. I can’t help thinking that I won’t allow myself to grow old while waiting for my Prince Charming in a place like Ellis. My mom thought she’d found her prince once, but he’d hopped off like the frog he really was before I’d even been born.

  As far as I’m concerned, no guy is worth waiting anywhere for, nor following, for that matter—prince or not.

  “I’m ser-i-ous, you guys.” Indie grabs my arm through the balloons. “You have to see this or you will nev-er be-lieve me. Crap, where did I put my phone?” She drags me, with that red and orange balloon bouquet still in my hands, to the front with her. Jonathan follows, making a bemused humming sound. I hope he doesn’t think our discussion is over.

  The first thing I notice is a long Hummer limousine idling in the no-parking zone in front of the shop entrance. But before I even have the chance to be irked by the illegal parking job, or wonder why or how someone had gotten a limo for the dance around here anyway, Indie jerks my attention to the flower cooler, whose motor is chugging and buzzing like it’s about to die any second. Or rather, Indie turns my attention to the back of the man who is standing in front of the cooler.

  “See,” she whispers.

  The shop’s fluorescent bulbs reflect off the back of the man’s leather jacket, and his boots are just as shiny. He wears dark wash skinny jeans that look far too tight for comfort. In fact, everything he wears looks stiff and perfect, like someone else picks out a new outfit for him every time he steps out of his house. Considering it’s ninety-eight degrees outside, that person hadn’t done a very good job. The woman next to him looks just as crisp in a black suit and a patent leather briefcase that coordinates with her glossy red heels. She clutches the briefcase to her chest as if she’s afraid one of the potted azaleas is about to fling itself at her.

  I glance at CeCe, who is ringing up a bundle of red roses and baby’s breath for a very nonoriginal customer at the register. She shrugs to show she has no idea what Indie is going on about.

  The leather-jacket man seems intent on a bunch of ranunculus blooms, which are wilting in the half-dead cooler. The glossy woman clears her throat. The man brushes his long, wavy hair over his shoulder and turns toward us.

  Indie squeals. CeCe swears.

  “It’s really him!” Indie says. “It’s the—”

  “Joe Vince,” Jonathan says. He makes a move like he wants to block the man from my view with all three hundred pounds of himself.

  I hold my hand up to stop him.

  The man’s lips part into a cheeky grin. He winks at Indie and then looks at me. “ ’Ello, Daphne,” he says. “It’s been a long time.”

  I let go of the balloon strings.

  “Dad,” I say.

  “What are you doing here?” Jonathan demands.

  “Didn’t your mother tell you?” Joe says to me in his British accent, which must have once charmed my mom off her feet. “A judge granted me custody. I’m taking you to live with me in California.”

  A loud bang echoes above my head as one of the red balloons bobbing against the rough popcorn ceiling bursts.

  chapter three

  HADEN

  Rowan lies in wait for me in the antechamber beyond the throne room. I would not expect any less from him.

  I slow to a halt and try to place my hand on the hilt of my sword to show him I am ready for any attack he has planned, but then I remember the weapon was taken from me by one of Ren’s guards.

  Never mind. Hand-to-hand combat suits me just fine.

  Several Underlords step around me, most gawking as they go, trying to get a good look at the king’s disgraced son, who is now the lone Champion for our year.

  The Lessers, who are not allowed to wear armor outside of the ceremony, stop to remove their bronze breastplates and leather wrist cuffs before returning to their labors. I am not surprised to see Lord Lex standing near Rowan and a couple of other Elites who’ve congregated near the exit. My hands grow hot, prickling with energy, as I think of the things Lex suggested in the throne room.

  Lex whispers something to the Elites that I cannot hear. Rowan nods and laughs, glancing in my direction. Fire rings gleam in his eyes.

  I hope to the gods that Rowan issues a challenge now. It would be my duty to riposte.

  Lex clasps his hands in the sleeves of his robe and takes his leave, presumably to join the other Heirs. Only a handful of Underlords remain in the antechamber now, and I wonder if Rowan wants our fight to be a private affair, rather than the spectacle I predicted. I decide to push the issue by advancing toward Rowan—when someone collides with me.

  At first, I think I am being attacked from the side, and I raise my hand to strike, but then I see that the clumsy fool who has gotten in my way is nothing but a scrawny boy. With a twist in the strap of the heavy, ill-fitting breastplate that drapes over his sagging shoulders. He’s the Lesser who stood in front of me during the ceremony.

  “Watch it!” I shout instead of striking him.

  The boy glances at me and gives the smallest nod. Again, I feel as though I should know him. “My apologies, my lord,” he says, and scurries away as fast as he can toward the exit.

  It is now that Rowan chooses to make his move. But it’s not toward me. He signals two of his chimera-faced lackeys to follow his lead. They step in front of the doorway, and the Lesser boy, not paying attention, runs right into Rowan’s chest.

  “Where do you think you are going?” Rowan asks him.

  The boy trembles. Rowan’s menacing glower makes him take a step back. “Returning to my barracks, Lord Rowan,” he says. “As I was instructed.”

  “And you were going to take your borrowed armor with you?” Rowan points at the stack of breastplates where the other Lessers have left theirs behind. “You know what we do to thieves.”

  “Yes,” the boy says. “I mean, no. I wasn’t stealing.
I just forgot. I was distracted.” He glances slightly back toward me.

  My impulse is to look away, but I can’t.

  “Then let us help you get out of it.” Rowan wraps his hand around the boy’s left wrist cuff, and one of Rowan’s friends clutches on to the twisted leather strap that lies across the boy’s back.

  Before the Lesser can even try to fight back, Rowan and his crony both yank viciously on the boy’s armor, pulling him in opposite directions. The boy screams. The noise echoes off the walls and fills my ears, but I can still hear the sickening sound of his shoulder being dislocated from its socket.

  I react before I even have a chance to think. I push my way through the bystanders who still remain in the antechamber. My hands clutch into fists. I can feel a current of electricity surging up my body.

  Rowan lets go of the boy and pushes him away. The Lesser whimpers and sinks to the stone floor, his arm hanging at an unnatural angle. Rowan opens his mouth to laugh, but I smash my fist into his jaw before he can make a sound. He slams into the doorjamb, and I hit him with a bolt of lightning to the chest.

  Rowan’s two friends try to grab me from behind, but he waves them away. Rowan charges at me. We grapple, knocking into the stacks of discarded armor, sending them scattering. I smash my forehead against his and slam him to the ground. I pin him there with one of my knees on his chest.

  A second bolt of electricity shudders through my body. The energy bursts into my arms and explodes from my fingertips.

  Rowan writhes in agony as I direct the crackling streaks of blue lightning into his rib cage a second time. I imagine the electricity clenching his heart in a taloned grip, squeezing the life from it.

  The energy dissipates so quickly, it nearly knocks me back. Rowan tries to roll away. I grab him by the throat with one hand and lift my other over his heart, preparing to blast him again.

  Rowan and I both know a third jolt of lightning will stop his heart completely.

  “Say it.” I keep my voice cold like King Ren’s, not giving away the anger that boils behind my words.