by Bree Despain
I know I should leave, but I can’t. I need to know what it was that she did with her voice. I want to know how.
She steps closer. The way she moves is almost as appealing as her voice. I feel energy swirling in my chest, growing stronger the closer she gets. I move in nearer to her. She does not see me yet, but she shivers.
I ask her what she’d done with her voice. I speak English, but I realize too late that I haven’t concealed my Underrealm accent.
I step closer to her, still cloaked in shadow.
She places her hand on her throat. “You mean my singing?”
“Singing.” I know that word; I have just never heard the sound that it applies to. It has always been an abstract concept to me until now. “Is that what you call that?”
She’s angry at me. She thinks I am toying with her for my own enjoyment. She will leave if I don’t do something. I step out from my hiding spot in the dark.
She takes a step back, as if nervous. I don’t want her to go.
I try to reassure her as I come closer.
“I just wanted to know what that was you did with your voice. And with that.” I point at the object she holds. “I’ve never heard anything like it before.”
She gives me a confused look, and I wonder if she does not understand my question. I want to explain further, but I am distracted by her nearness. Energy pulses through my body, stronger than my heartbeat. The sunlight streaming through the canopy of the grove glints off her golden hair, and the curves of her body make my hands prickle with heat that is unlike what I normally experience before a surge of lightning. Her blue eyes, brighter than the mortal world’s sky, meet mine.
I stand still, letting her look at me. I can feel the fire swirling in my eyes. Finally, I blink, unable to bear the intensity.
“Are you real?” I ask her. I have heard stories of mystical creatures that can enchant men with their voices. It is one of the reasons this singing—music—is forbidden in my world. And she is unlike any mortal female who has ever been brought to my realm.
I have also heard stories of sprites that can create mirages.
I raise my hand toward her face, wanting to touch her to see if she is real, but I hesitate, not quite wanting to know the answer. She lifts her hand toward mine, and I can feel electricity pulsing into my fingers. I look from her eyes to her mouth and then lower. A golden pendant sits in the hollow of her neck.
It spells something in English. It takes me a second to translate it. “Daphne?” I ask, dropping my hand. Can I really be reading that correctly? Can it really be her? “You’re Daphne Raines?”
“Yes,” she says.
The energy coursing through my body intensifies with her positive response.
I cannot believe my good fortune. For once in my life, the Fates have smiled on me. I have followed my impulses—no, my instincts—to this place, and here she is.
I’ve found her. My Boon. My prize. My destiny. Just waiting here to be plucked, like an asphodel blossom. With the gate, pulsing with life, only a few yards away, at that. This couldn’t be more perfect.
An idea strikes me like an arrow hitting a bull’s-eye. Why wait six months to do what I can accomplish right now?
I could be the fastest-returning Champion in the history of the Underrealm. Surely that would warrant glory and honor like no one has received before me. Rowan could not call me a failure again. My father would not look at me as though I am a disgrace.
But at the back of my mind, a worry pulls at me, making me wonder if the situation is too good to be believed. Why would Dax implore me to be patient if my quest were this easy to accomplish? I hesitate for a moment.…
No, I must act.
I reach for the girl’s hand. “Will you come with me?”
She pulls away. “Um, no.”
“I need you to come with me,” I implore.
“I need to leave,” she says quickly, hitching up the long object she’d been strumming on a few moments before. It did not seem dangerous then, but now she holds it as if it can be used as a weapon.
It doesn’t frighten me.
“Say you’ll come with me.” She has to say it. I know that from the Oracle’s instructions. She has to go willingly. I need to convince her. I advance toward her. I can be persuasive like Rowan. “You have to say you’ll come.”
“Get away from me, perv!” She backs away. “Creep!”
I reach out again, trying to clasp her wrist. Electricity surges into my arm, and before I can stop it, a spark of lightning escapes my fingers. She yelps with pain and twists out of my grasp. I reach for her again, and her fist—thankfully not the one holding the wooden object—goes flying at my face. I am so surprised by the action that I don’t have time to block the blow before she punches me. Hard. In the jaw. I stop, completely stunned, and clasp my hand to my face. I’m not injured. It would take more than her small hands to hurt me. But I am still shocked. I did not know Boons are capable of violence.
I don’t regain my composure quickly enough to stop the girl from getting away. She grabs an object, which I recall from Simon’s monologue is called a bicycle. She glances back at me as she flees, fear dancing in her blue eyes.
chapter twelve
DAPHNE
My hand hurts from punching him, but it’s caused enough of a diversion for me to get away. I run for my bicycle, realizing that I don’t have time to stop for my tote bag or guitar case, but I won’t leave Gibby behind. I sling her over my back, with her strap resting against my chest, and jump onto my bike. I glance back at the stranger, and then pedal as fast as I can from the grove.
Gravel spits out from under my tires as I hit the narrow trail that leads from the grove to the bridge. I don’t know if he follows, and I don’t stop to check. I cross the bridge that connects the grove’s island to the paved jogging paths that surround the lake, and keep on going.
I careen down the trail, gaining speed, putting as much distance between me and the stranger as possible. I don’t see the girl until it’s too late. I try to stop, but the brakes on my vintage bike are old and I don’t normally ride this fast. I try to skid around her just as she looks up and counters in the wrong direction. I clip her elbow with one of my handlebars.
“Ouch!” she shouts and tries to push me.
“Sorry!” I swerve away from her, and it takes all my balance to stay upright as my bike keeps skidding along the path. I glance back at her once I’ve regained control.
“You’re such a freak!” she yells when she sees me looking. She clasps at her scraped elbow and starts jogging up the trail despite the fact that she’s wearing a miniskirt with pink and silver wedge platform sandals. Hardly the right outfit for a run.
That strange boy is nowhere to be seen, but I still don’t stop for anything until I get to the school.
chapter thirteen
HADEN
I could have caught her easily. But it is the fear that I saw in her eyes that stops me. Makes me realize my grave mistake.
I have done it again.
I’ve acted without thinking.
I have been here for fewer than twenty-four hours, and I have already erred in the most terrible of ways. If Rowan were here, he would delight in telling me that I have no idea of what I am doing. That I am failing before I even get started.
She fears me now, instead of trusting me.
Another pulse of energy swells in my chest. I grab the branch of the nearest tree. I squeeze the energy into it until the branch disintegrates. The ash slips through my fingers.
I am fighting the urge to fall to my knees and send up a prayer to plead for forgiveness from the Fates, when I hear the crackle of footfalls on the forest floor. A low hiss echoes through the grove. Someone else is coming. I can’t afford to be seen. I can’t afford to make another mistake. I pick up one of the items that the girl left behind, then slip behind the partially burned tree.
I disappear into the shadows.
chapter fourteen
DAPHNE
My legs shake from riding so hard as I roll my cruiser into one of the slots of the bike rack. My voice warbles when I try to whisper to myself to calm down.
“I’m okay. Nothing bad happened. Not really.”
But the question I can’t get out of my mind: where did he want me to go with him?
As if.
I might have been dumb for talking to him in the first place. But I’m not a complete idiot. I’d never follow some creep into the woods.
I try to tell myself to calm down, but my voice warbles and I can’t help thinking about all those “stranger danger” lectures my mom used to drill into me as a kid—like how if I ever encountered something weird or dangerous, or if someone I didn’t know tried to get me to go somewhere with him, I should run away and find someone trustworthy to tell.
But who would I even tell in this particular situation? Joe? He’s the last person I’d confide in. I’d feel stupid going to the police—nothing had exactly happened. Maybe this is a job for the security guards at the main entrance into Olympus Hills? They should be responsible for whatever weirdos they let through the gates.
But I imagine trying to explain what happened and it coming out all wrong: an attractive guy, wearing tight black clothes, with long rough-cut hair, looking like he’d wandered off the set of a pirate movie, talked to me about my singing and then asked me to go somewhere with him? Yeah, the guards would probably say that he was just trying to hit on me.
Maybe I had completely misread the situation?
CeCe always teased me about how I have no idea when guys are flirting with me. She said it’s because I’ve got a wall around me that’s a mile high, so I’m either completely oblivious when guys try to flirt or I think they’re trying to make fun of me.
I’m not here to create amusement.…
That’s what the guy in the grove had said when I accused him of making fun of my singing. It was such a weird thing to say. Maybe he’s even more socially inept when it comes to the opposite sex than I am?
But any idiot should know that you don’t go around trying to grab a girl’s arm like that.
And social awkwardness doesn’t explain his eerie, fiery eyes, or the strange heat that seemed to be radiating off his skin. It had actually hurt when he had tried to touch my arm.
I look down at my wrist. My skin stings, and there are four red marks on my arm. They’re long and thin, like the shape of fingers. Right where the guy had touched my skin.
That definitely isn’t normal.
I notice the time on my watch. It’s almost three o’clock. I’d been in the grove much longer than I’d realized. That’s not nearly enough time for me to bike down to the security station and back before my audition.
My audition!
Why am I letting myself get carried away when I have much more important things to worry about? Forget about weird guys in the woods; I have only thirty-six and a half minutes to finish preparing for my audition.
Leaving my bike in the rack, I make my way between the granite columns at the entrance of the school and into the main hall. It’s large and echoey, and I can hear singing drifting through the halls. Auditions for the musical must have been going on all day. I follow the sound through the school until I find the auditorium. I peek through the heavy double doors. Someone is onstage, singing a song from Evita, while a few clusters of students sit in the auditorium seats. Back at Ellis High, which comprised five whole rooms, we had to do all of our performing on a platform in the cafeteria. I’ve never sung in a room this big.
The girl on the stage stands perfectly still, her hands clasped in front of her chest and her chin out. Her voice is strong and even, and I can tell she’s had years of professional training, but if Jonathan were around, he’d probably tell her to be more expressive with her body, not just her voice. The only adult in the room is a thin man with graying hair, who sits at a table, making notes in a binder. I assume he’s Mr. Morgan, the music director. When the singer draws out her final note—a bit too long, in my opinion—I push the auditorium door open and slip inside.
Mr. Morgan calls out a name I don’t quite catch. A guy comes out from behind the curtains on the stage. He wears skinny jeans, a white button-up shirt, a small open vest, and a tweed, narrow-brimmed fedora. He lifts his hat and gives a curt bow to Mr. Morgan, revealing his floppy black hair. He announces the songs he’s going to sing to Mr. Morgan and then puts his hat back on. I take a seat near the back of the auditorium. The accompanist on the piano starts the intro, and with a snap of his wrist, Fedora Boy grabs the microphone stand and croons into the mic with all the flare of Frank Sinatra.
I’m still shaking a bit from my close encounter of the weird kind, so I try to run through a few relaxation exercises that CeCe taught me, but Fedora Boy’s voice is so warm yet powerful that I find myself distracted. I like the sound of this guy’s voice, and it relaxes me more than the breathing exercises. There’s something familiar about him—something I hear in him and the way he moves his body while he sings. He reminds me of someone, but I can’t place it. I find myself smiling when he starts his third song. I must have caught his eye, because as he finishes his last line, he plucks his fedora from his head, dips it down when he bows, and then winks … at me.
“Well done,” Mr. Morgan says to the boy. “But the winking was a bit much.”
Fedora Boy smiles wide and hops off the stage with a goofy swagger that makes me giggle inside. Mr. Morgan picks up his coffee mug and announces that he’s going to “take five.”
I realize just how dry my throat is from my bike ride, so I pick up my guitar and head out a side door to find a drinking fountain. Only twenty minutes remain until my audition, and a raspy voice isn’t going to impress anyone.
The hall is dark and empty. I find the drinking fountain, but as I’m leaning over to take a sip, I think I see something move in my peripheral vision. A low hiss buzzes in my ears. I pop upright, water dribbling on my chin. I look left and right, but all I see are shadows.
My mouth feels even drier. I take a second sip. This time, I hear a sound from behind, like the ratta-tat-tat of a snare drum, and I know I am not alone. I whirl around and find the boy in the fedora standing there. He smiles wide, and the drumming sound grows stronger. I realize the syncopated beat is coming from him. It’s his song. His inner melody, which only I can hear. It’s a warm and inviting sound, not like the cold hiss I’d heard just a moment ago, and it clicks with his Sinatra vibe. He’s a crooner at heart.
“Hey,” he says. “Glad I caught you. You must be New Girl.”
“Yeah,” I say, looking over his shoulder to make sure he’s the only other person in the hall. Maybe I’m still just shaken from what happened in the grove, but I have the weirdest feeling at the moment—like we’re not alone. Like someone is watching me.
Maybe I should tell someone about what happened.…
“Hey, do you know where Mr. Morgan might have headed off to?” I ask. “I need to talk to him about something.”
“Nope. I’m sure he’ll be back in a few minutes. Pleased to meet you, by the way.” He presses his hat to his chest and offers his hand for me to shake. A real handshake. Not a stupid “fist bump and blow it up” like most guys. “I’m Tobin Oshiro-Winters.”
I shift my guitar to my other hand, and I take his outstretched one. He smiles wider in return, and I realize who he reminds me of—in both the friendly tone that wafts off him and also his toothy grin. He’s the male, part Japanese version of CeCe back in Ellis Fields.
“Nervous?” he asks.
“No. Um.” I realize my hand is shaking a tiny bit in his grasp. “I guess so. I’m on deck,” I say, meaning that I’m up after the next person.
“Oh,” he says. “Well, don’t worry too much. I’m pretty sure Mr. Morgan has never eaten a student.”
His friendly beat grows so strong, I know right then that Tobin and I are going to be good friends. Just like CeCe and me. Some people just click
that way. Two melodies that complement each other.
“Hey, is your arm okay?” he asks, noticing the marks on my wrist.
“Oh, that. I must have brushed up against something in the grove.”
“You went to the grove?” There’s a strange note of disconcertment in his voice.
“Yeah,” I say, pulling my hand behind my back. “I think I’ve got a rash or something.”
“It looks more like a burn. Do you need …?”
“It’s fine,” I say, but for a split second, I wonder if I should tell Tobin about what really happened. Maybe that would shake the weird feeling that has been following me ever since. I can tell from how much I like his tone that he’s someone I might trust.
I open my mouth to say something about the grove, but I don’t get the chance.
“Besides, you have to be pretty talented to get a scholarship here,” a high-pitched voice says as three girls enter the hallway from the auditorium, using the same door I had. “I bet she’s really good.”
“Hey, ladies!” Tobin says, catching their attention. “Have you met New Girl?”
The three look at me, and I can tell from the expression that crosses one of the girls’ faces that I was the subject of their conversation. The other two seem mostly uninterested.
“I’m pretty sure New Girl has a name, but she hasn’t shared it with me yet.” Tobin raises his eyebrows at me expectantly, and I realize my lack of social grace has struck again.
“Raines. Daphne, Raines,” I say, doing a silly James Bond impression. Because impersonations always make things less awkward.…
One of the girls laughs along with Tobin. The short blond one rolls her eyes, and the brunette yawns.
The girl who laughed gives me an amused smile. “I’m Iris Thompkins,” she says. “It’s nice to have another schollie around here.”
“Schollie?”
“A scholarship kid,” Tobin answers. “Iris thinks there are too many spoiled kids of famous people at this school. Don’t you, Iris?”