Into the Dark: The Shadow Prince Part 6

And I don't have time for distractions.

I don't bother calling Joe's name again. I don't go looking for him upstairs. Ten bucks, he's probably already forgotten why he even went up there, or is puking in a bathroom, I tell myself as I slip out the front door.

With my guitar case hitched over my back and my tote bag secured in the basket of my white and lemon yellow cruiser bike, I set off to find that grove to rehea.r.s.e.

Alone.

chapter nine.

haden

I have been told to wait. So that is what I have been doing, but I don't know how they expect me to do so for much longer.

After making introductions, the overly enthusiastic man-who told us his name was Simon Fitzgerald, but that we should call him Simon-brought us to a house. It was a short walk from the grove, but between the aching behind my eyes and Simon's insisting on pointing out and naming everything in English that we pa.s.sed, the journey was as tedious as Sisyphus's toils up the mountainside.

Simon's cheery commentary of "This is a road. This is a bridge. This is a mailbox. This is a doorbell" doesn't let up like I hope it will when we enter the house. "This is a refrigerator. This is a microwave. This is a coffeemaker. Have you ever had coffee? No, you other two wouldn't have, would you? You simply must try it! This is a fabulous roast. Here, take a cup. . . ." He hands me a cup full of hot, brown liquid. It smells acrid and acidic to me. I pa.s.s it to Garrick. He sniffs it and his face goes from pale to green. "This, over there, is a plasma TV. It's simply wonderful, isn't it?" He looks at Garrick. "Oh no. Oh boy. And this, over here, is a toilet . . . ," he says, grabbing Garrick and ushering him down the hall and through a door. I wince at the sound of vomiting.

"Can we dismiss this Simon guy yet?" I ask Dax. The pain behind my eyes has swelled into the rest of my head, and I am starting to worry about getting sick, like Garrick. "I haven't forgotten that you've promised to fill me on what you know. I need to get started on my quest. I don't have time for this fool to name every object in this house."

Dax holds up his hand to quiet me. "Do not let his disposition deceive you," he whispers. "Mr.

Fitzgerald is not your servant, he is not your friend, and he certainly isn't a fool. It is best not to cross him, understand?"

I nod, thankful all over again that Dax is here to guide me. "Ah, now. No worries," Simon says, coming back into what he'd labeled the "breakfast nook," wiping his hands on a towel. "Our young friend is going to spend some time getting acquainted with the bathroom facilities. I am afraid some folks don't pa.s.s through the gate as easily as others. How are you feeling, my lord?" The smell of the coffee Garrick left on the table makes my stomach swim, but I don't want to give away any signs of weakness. "Fine," I say.

"I'll give you boys the rest of the tour later. We have many arrangements to make. You don't fit the description of the Champion I was told to prepare for. . . ."

"There was a change of plans," Dax says.

"Very well. That happens." Simon pulls a flat, rectangular device from his pocket. "Remove your sungla.s.ses," he says to me.

I realize he means my spectacles and I pull them off. Simon sticks the device right in front of my face.

It flashes a bright light in my eyes with an artificial-sounding click.

"Harpies!" I clasp my hands over my face, my eyes burning even more.

"Sorry about that," Simon says. "But I'll be needing a photograph of each one of you. I didn't expect to see you again, Dax. What a pleasant surprise." I hear the weird clicking sound again and a.s.sume Simon used the device on Dax. "I was afraid they might chop off your hands or something equally unpleasant when you returned the way you did-"

"It's nice to see you again, Mr. Fitzgerald," Dax says, politely cutting him off. Dax never talks about his time in the Overrealm. I wonder what I might be able to learn about it from this Simon guy-if I ever dare to ask.

"Yes, yes, reunions are always wonderful," Simon says. I am still seeing a bright white spot in my vision as he looks me over from head to toe and scratches his chin. "We will need to make some . . .

er . . . adjustments. Dax, you will help me. In the meantime, Lord Haden, my house is your house, so make yourself at home."

"This is your house?" I ask. This place can easily fit inside the king's quarters of the palace back in the Underrealm, but from what I could make out from behind the dark lenses of my sungla.s.ses with my halfblinded eyes, the house is one of the largest of the dwellings we pa.s.sed on our walk here. "What exactly do you do for a living?" I remember from my lessons that people in the mortal world have different jobs that they perform and are then compensated for-not compulsory a.s.signments required by the king. Whatever it is that Simon does for a living, he is compensated well-in mortal terms- for it.

"A little bit of everything." Simon's grin stretches far across his face. "I guess you could say my specialty is procuring things for people." He opens the thing he called a refrigerator and pulls out a gla.s.s of green liquid and takes a swig. "Gotta keep the ole immune system up. Especially with so many teenagers living in the house again. Want some? I'll make you all some smoothies if you want. I just got a new Blendtec."

He holds the gla.s.s up. It smells like fermented weeds. My stomach churns. I shake my head. "Is there a place I can put my things?"

"Oh yes, yes. I forgot to show you to your rooms."

After that, Simon escorts Dax and me up the stairs to our bedchambers. To my surprise, my room is much larger than the one I had been rea.s.signed to in the palace after my father expelled me from the royal living quarters.

Simon names a few of the things in the room, and then with his most enthusiastic expression yet, he says, "This room is fantastic. The best room in the whole house. I trust you will be comfortable waiting here while Dax and I finish our arrangements?" His smile is so wide and his teeth gleam so white, I almost don't catch the true meaning of his words. I am being ordered to stay here and wait, something I am not comfortable agreeing to.

"But when can I get started? How do I find this Daphne girl?"

"Be patient," Dax says from behind Simon in the doorway. "Lord Haden, I know you feel anxious. I know you're eager to begin your quest, but it's imperative that you don't do anything until the arrangements have been finalized. Take this opportunity to rest from your journey. Wait here." Simon's eyes narrow slightly as he looks at me. "Say yes," he says in a way that makes me feel compelled to agree whether I want to or not.

"Yes," I say.

"Fantastic!" he says. "You and I are going to get along just peachy." He closes the door behind him and Dax. I hear the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock, and panic wells up inside of me. The feeling increases with every moment that pa.s.ses. I listen by the door for some time. At one point, I hear Simon escort Garrick to his own room across the hall. A few minutes later, I hear another voice in the house that sounds distinctively female. This sets me to pacing the floor, from door to window and back again. At another point, I think I hear Dax and Simon leave the house.

But when will they be back? How long will these arrangements take?

I find myself pacing again, biting my fingernails-another trait of my mother's that I unfortunately inherited. It feels as though several hours have pa.s.sed since Dax and Simon left me. I have done as I was told. Heeded Dax's warning not to be impulsive. But every moment that pa.s.ses and I am stuck in this room is a moment that I am not working toward accomplis.h.i.+ng my quest. Waiting is not acting.

And not acting is akin to failing. How can I wait anymore?

I clutch at my hair and sit on a chair in the room. There's a bed here, too. Dax told me that I should take this opportunity to rest. He knows I didn't sleep last night. Rest is a luxury. Being alone is, too.

Especially in the middle of the day. I guess I could collapse on the bed. Let myself stop thinking, for once. Take pleasure in a few moments of solitude-of not being watched or judged by anyone. No one expecting me to do anything for the moment. Rest is what I need. I should give into the fatigue that pulls at my body. I should let it all go for now. . . .

But I don't know how anyone can sleep when it's so cursed bright.

The sun has s.h.i.+fted much higher in the sky, causing the light that pours in through the window to grow even brighter. I have to wear the dark gla.s.ses even inside the house, which should be a deterrent to wanting to venture outside, but the muscles in my body ache from inactivity. The queasiness that plagued my stomach before has s.h.i.+fted into a weight that sits in my gut like a heavy stone. It feels as though I have been waiting for hours, but I have no idea how long it has really been.

It strikes me that I do not know how time moves here in the mortal world, compared to the Underrealm. What feels like hours to me could only be mere minutes. Or perhaps days? Could the rising of this sun signify the pa.s.sing of whole days before my very eyes? Why didn't Master Crue cover this in my lessons? What other gaps are there in my education? Perhaps I am even less prepared than I thought I was.

I have been told that I have six months to complete my quest, but what if, here, six months are a matter of weeks in comparison?

I know that if I wait and be patient, I can ask Dax or Simon when he returns to explain how time works here, but I can't bear not knowing any longer how much time I have left, nor how much time has been wasted-by waiting.

I can think of one way of checking the time. The gate is supposed to be active for twenty-four hours. If I can trace my way back to it and it is still active, then I will at least know that it has only been hours.

Not a whole day or possibly even a week-or maybe more- that has been wasted.

I go to the window and find that it opens. It's a two-story drop, but that doesn't hinder me. Neither does the idea of being seen.

Stealth is one of the things I have been trained in. I excel in it, actually. Out of necessity for avoiding Rowan and his cronies, not to mention the prying eyes of the Court. I know I can find my way to the gate and back without being detected. Just stick to the shadows cast by the sun. I can be there and back before the others return.

No one needs to know that I am even gone.

chapter ten.

daphne

I don't need Marta's map to be able to find the grove. I follow the path on my bike, finding my way by sound. Like the grove's song is calling to me.

Most people would say that sounds weird. Or obsessive. That's how most people would describe my relations.h.i.+p with music. Many of my teachers did. A group of doctors had. I am always following some sound or song, trying to find the source. That time I crashed my bike on Canyon Road and ended up in the hospital in Saint George, the doctor had looked at me like I was crazy when I told him I was chasing a song and didn't realize how fast I was going down the hill.

"Chasing a song?" he'd asked. "Like you heard someone's car radio?"

"No, it was a Joshua tree. It was singing at the bottom of the hill. Its song was so pretty, I wanted to find it."

"The tree was singing?" His eyebrows drew together. "Do other things sing? Do you hear them all the time? Do you hear music now?"

I nodded, thinking he was the crazy one. I never understood why other people didn't hear the things I did. The different tones, sounds, melodies that came from living things. The doctor himself had a harsh, high-pitched tone, like the repet.i.tive ting of a triangle. I didn't care for it. He sent another couple of doctors to talk to my mom and me. I didn't like their tones, either. And before we left the hospital, they'd diagnosed me with something called musical OCD. They said my connection with music went beyond interest or talent. They called it an obsession. They said I shouldn't hear the things I heard. They said I was so obsessed that I didn't know how to relate to the world around me in any other way than through sound and music. So, therefore, in order to cope, I attached musical notes and tones to everything around me.

They said the music wasn't real, that it was all created by my dysfunctional brain.

They recommended therapy and medication. To this day, I still don't know if my mom curtly refused their diagnosis because she hated the idea of taking me out of Ellis twice a week for therapy, or because she believed my insistence that the music was real. Either way, I am glad she didn't let those doctors try to medicate the music out of me.

I use the sounds I hear to navigate my life. I use it to pick my friends. I am always drawn to people with warm, friendly melodies. I love grouping together the things and people whose tunes best complement each other. Like composing my own little symphony of friends. And it helped me read people's emotions based on the s.h.i.+fts in the tones they put off. I use music to discover favorite things and find my favorite places. Even the earth itself has a song that I can hear when I am being very, very still.

That's the real reason I want to rehea.r.s.e in the grove. I want to be wrapped inside the grove's song, and add my own music to it.

My heavy thoughts lift the closer I get. The grove's lullaby calms me, like I knew it would. It is exactly what I need before my audition. I cross the footbridge that leads to the grove from the smaller island of the lake. I get off my bike and walk it through the ring of tall poplar trees, which border the grove. I notice that each poplar is s.p.a.ced exactly the same distance apart from each other. They reminded me of spires, stretching up as if in homage to the heavens. Smaller quaking aspens and laurel trees fill in the center of the grove, creating a thick canopy of darkness-even in daytime-that must have been what kept others away. Normally, I am not keen on dark places, but the grove draws me in. I'm sure other people wouldn't avoid this place if they could hear what I hear. Each tree has its own little melody emanating from its trunk. Each little leaf t.i.tters with its own little sound. All mixing together into a beautiful song. Even the sunbeams that break through the canopy of leaves, looking like streams of ghostly light, add their own soft melody to the mix.

I leave my bike propped against one of the poplars and then settle onto the ground with my guitar. I lean my back against a strangely shaped laurel tree that reminds me of a tuning fork: the way its trunk is split in the middle so it grows upward in two separate curves. I pull my guitar from its case and run through a few bars without singing. I need three songs for the audition this afternoon. Two of them, I am sure about, but I am still wavering on what to do for the third. Should I choose one of my own songs so the music director would see that I'm interested in songwriting, in addition to singing? Or should I stick with popular songs that everyone will know and feel connected to?

I guess I could sing Joe's star song, since it would cover both options. That bitter thought trickles through my mind before I can stop it. I shake away a flood of additional thoughts that try to break through the floodgates. I've already lost too much time to Joe today, and I need to focus on rehearsing.

I run through several voice warm-up exercises, and then after some thought, I pick a song I wrote for my mother. I play it a couple of times on my guitar, and then start it again. This time, I join in with my voice after the intro.

The laurel tree I lean against seems to tremble at the sound of my voice. Its vibrating hum joins my song. It feels as though the grove comes to even greater life as I sing, sending the echo bouncing against the branches and leaves of the trees. The aspens create a quaking, clattering rhythm that keeps up with the melody of the song. Birds chirp, dragonflies buzz, and even the wind feels as though it is keeping harmony with me as it swirls my long hair around my face while I sing. I'd known there was something extra-special about this place before I'd entered. I could tell by the way it had called out to me. I've always loved singing with nature as my audience, but I'd never had nature join in with me like this before.

Perhaps this experience really is a symptom of a dysfunction in my brain-but there's no way I would cla.s.sify it as a disorder.

I stop playing the guitar abruptly. The grove quiets in a way that reminds me of the intake of a breath, antic.i.p.ating the next note. I sing the last line of the song without the guitar accompaniment, while the trees reverberate around me. The vibration of the tuning forkashaped tree tingles up my spine and into my arms. When I finish the song, the grove falls silent again. Followed by the sound of very real gasp . . .

I jump up, almost dropping Gibby. Somebody else is here. I can feel someone's presence, even though I can't see anyone, and I know I hadn't imagined that human-sounding gasp. The grove is still quiet-too quiet. Shouldn't it have taken up its own song again by now? What is it waiting for?

"Who's there?" I ask.

Only silence answers, but I know I'm not alone.

Perhaps there is some paparazzo lurking in the bushes. Marta said that they couldn't get past the security gates, but I'm sure someone unscrupulous and crafty enough can figure out how to sneak past the guards. Maybe this one had gotten wind of Joe Vince's prodigal daughter and was looking for a photo op?

"I know you're there," I say. "So you might as well show yourself, get your picture, and get lost." The air grows warmer around me, as if I can feel someone coming closer. I s.h.i.+ver despite the budding heat.

"How did you do that?" a strangely accented voice asks from somewhere in the dark of the grove.

"What?" I look in the direction of the voice, but I can't see anyone. "Who's there?"

"What was that you did with your voice?" It sounds as though the questioner has moved even closer.

"Just now. I heard you."

I put a hand to my throat. "You mean my singing?" I reply to the darkness.

"Singing. Is that what you call that?"

"Excuse me?" My cheeks flush with heat. I step closer to the location of the voice. "Listen, jerk, I don't know who you are. But if you came here to make fun of my singing, you can go . . ." The leaves of one of the aspen trees silently quiver, and someone appears out of the shadows- almost as if he materialized from the darkness.

I step back, uncomfortable with the seclusion of the grove for the first time. The person is cloaked in shadows but I can tell he's a man. Or perhaps a boy. But definitely male. He steps closer and his features come into view. I take him in from head to toe. It would be impossible not to. He's tall, even taller than me, and I tower over most of the guys I've ever met. His black jeans look brand-new, and his black s.h.i.+rt still carries the creases from sitting on a department store shelf. Both hug his fit body in a way that makes me take in a quick breath. While his clothes seem expensive and refined, the rest of him looks untamed in a way that reminds me of a wildcat. . . . Or more like a pirate? His cheeks and jaw are hard and muscular, and his thick hair, the color of ebony, falls in chunky, uneven strands, like somebody took a raw blade to it, just above his shoulders. Long black bangs hide his eyes.

"I'm not here to create amus.e.m.e.nt," he says and steps even closer, closing the gap of safety between us. My heartbeat kicks up a notch.

"Um . . . what?"

"I just wanted to know what that was you did with your voice. And with that." He gestures at my guitar. "I've never heard anything like it before."

I'm confused. Does he mean that he's never heard the grove's acoustics before, or that he's never heard music before? I am about to ask when he brushes his dark hair out of his face, revealing eyes the color of jade, except for the bright swirls of amber radiating like flames around his pupils.

My throat feels tight as I try to speak. I can't recall what I was about to ask. This boy, with fire dancing in his eyes, intrigues me, but at the same time, he reminds me of why I used to be afraid of the dark. Back when I was a younger and I thought monsters lived in shadows and could only be seen out of the corner of my eye.

I should be wary of this stranger. But I'm not. I stand motionless, returning his gaze, as transfixed as if I were in the spotlight on a grand stage. Finally, he blinks and I glance down at his mouth.

"Are you real?" he asks.

I try to laugh, but no sound comes out. Am I for real? I am the one who should be asking that question.