Into the Dark: The Shadow Prince Part 23

She shoots up from the edge of her bed. "What are you doing in here?"

"The door was open . . . and I didn't want to interrupt you."

"What, did you just walk right into the house? An open door isn't an open invitation. Joe always forgets to shut it. And you're not allowed in my room anyway."

"Sorry." I take a long stride backward so I'm now standing in the hallway outside her open door. I jam my hands into the pockets of my jeans because I don't know what else to do with them. "I knocked on your front door. Your servant let me in. She said I could come on up to find you."

"We don't have a servant," she says, like it's an accusation.

"Thin woman? Hair slicked back into a hair . . . ball . . . thing . . . on the top of her head? She seemed too young to be your mother."

"Oh. That's Marta. Joe's a.s.sistant." Her tense stance softens a little. "Why are you here?"

"You said you'd help me with the festival song. It's been a week, as you requested. Is this not your earliest convenience?"

"Oh. Yeah. I guess I didn't mean in exactly a week. The festival isn't until the end of November, you know that right?"

"I don't believe in procrastination."

"Meaning I do?"

It had been a week since I had an excuse to talk to her, and not talking to her was making me feel addled. But I can't tell her that. I point at her guitar. "Will you show me how to play?"

"You don't know already?"

"I've had more important things to do."

"If you were serious about the music program, you'd make time."

"I'm here, aren't I?" I temper myself, remembering that Dax told me to be nice. "I need your help." Daphne picks up the guitar and brushes past me through the doorway. I follow her to a large living room. She sits on the couch and looks up at me. "You coming?" I sit on the opposite end of the couch. I set my schoolbag between us.

"How much do you know about playing?" she asks.

"Not a thing."

She sighs. "We'll start with the basics, then. Let's go over finger placement, and then we'll talk about the different chords."

"Actually, will you do that song for me again? The one you were just playing in your room? I want to learn that one."

"You're not ready for that one."

"Please?" I ask. "I want to hear it again."

She locks eyes with me for a moment and then shakes her head in a resigned sort of way. "Okay." She places the guitar in her lap, and I study the way she positions her fingers on the strings, memorizing each tiny movement as she begins to play the song. After a few notes, her voice joins in with the guitar and I almost forget to keep watching her hands. Her voice is soft, tentative at first, as if singing in front of me embarra.s.ses her, but as the song builds, her voice flows out of her with a force that makes me almost quiver. Her words mingle and dance with the sounds her hands make as she plucks and strums the guitar.

I can feel a familiar ache in my own hands as my brain records the movements of Daphne's fingers and imprints them in my muscles. I feel as though I am in a trance. When the song ends, I don't snap back out of it until she says my name.

I hold my hands out for the guitar. "Can I?" I want to give it a try while the memorized movements are still vivid in my mind.

"Knock yourself out." She gives me the guitar. "But don't be upset if you don't get more than the first couple of notes." There's an edge of challenge in her voice.

I place my hands on the guitar, perfectly mimicking her placement when she'd started the song.

She nods. "So far, so good."

I think hard, replaying the song in my mind for a few moments, and then pick out the first few notes.

She raises an eyebrow. A slight smile plays on her lips.

I almost smile myself, liking that surprised look on her face. The stiff strings of the guitar bite my fingers but it's a welcome sensation as my power of mimicry takes over my hands. I launch into the next few measures of the song, playing with a precision that should make me proud-except even though the movements of my hands are perfect and the notes I play are correct, something about the song doesn't sound right to me. That same warm feeling doesn't fill me the way it did when Daphne played the song and sang. I don't dare join my voice in with the music, but I concentrate harder on the guitar, launching into the more difficult part of the song.

I look up at Daphne, expecting to see a full smile on her face, but instead her lips have twisted into a frown.

"Stop." She s.n.a.t.c.hes the guitar from me, sending my last note screeching. "Get out," she says. Her words are quiet but they rumble with anger. She points toward the hallway leading to the stairs.

"What? Did I do it wrong?" Why couldn't I make the music sound the same as she had?

"Very funny, jerk. Pretending you don't know how to play. 'I don't know a thing about music. I need your help. Did I do it wrong?'" she says, mimicking my voice in a not-so-flattering way. "Are you just trying to make me feel stupid?"

"No, I swear. I have never played before. I'm just a really fast learner. I'd never even heard music before I heard you sing in the grove the other day-" I swallow hard, realizing I've probably said too much.

She gives me a look that makes me want to wither. "How is that even possible? Music is everywhere.

You can't even go to the grocery store without hearing it."

"Maybe I've never been to a grocery store."

"What?

I look down at my shoes.

"What is your deal?"

"My deal?"

"Let me guess: some spoiled rich kid who's never had to lift a finger in his life? Do you have servants who do all your shopping for you?"

"My family, they're . . . different. My home is a very controlled environment. Music isn't allowed."

"Seriously?"

"I am serious. There's no music, no television, no movies, no parties, no girls." I glance at her and then train my eyes on the clock over the fireplace. Maybe she'll realize that's why I keep saying all the wrong things.

"Sheesh, and I thought my mom was strict. Your parents sure sent you to a funny school, if they hate the media. Do they know you've joined the music program?" I shake my head. "My father wouldn't approve."

"Then why did they send you here?"

I hold my breath, trying to come up with a plausible explanation that doesn't involve my telling her that I'm supposed to bring her back to the underworld with me. I flip through the compartments of information stored in my brain until an idea clicks. "Have you ever heard of a rumspringa?"

"Isn't that an Amish thing? Where they send their teenage kids out into the world to see everything they've missed out on before deciding for sure if they want be Amish for the rest of their lives . . .

Holy c.r.a.p, you're not Amish, are you?" She throws her hands over her mouth sheepishly, like she's afraid she's offended me.

I almost laugh. The sound gets caught in my throat. "Definitely not Amish," I say. "But that is what I'm kind of here for. This is kind of like my rumspringa. I'm here to experience the rest of the world before I go back home again."

"So what happens if you choose not to go back?"

"I don't know. n.o.body in my family has ever chosen not to return." I run my hand through my hair, finding myself still surprised at how short it is. "Choice doesn't have anything to do with it." I'll return because I must. It's my destiny.

"And where is home?"

I can feel heat rising in my chest. She asks too many questions. She's probably mentally recording my answers to share with Tobin later. "Upstate New York, but my father is Greek," I say, telling her the cover story that Simon made me rehea.r.s.e before starting school.

"Where is your mother from?"

"The west."

"How did your parents meet?"

"I don't remember." Energy continues to build inside of me. I feel as though I am being interrogated by one of the royal guards.

"Is she as strict as your father?"

"You're curious for a-"

"For what? A girl?"

I was going to say human but had caught myself.

"Is that a problem?" she asks, taking my silence for an admission. She stands up. "I'm not allowed to be curious because I'm a girl?"

She's infuriating is what she is. I can feel electric heat rolling under my fingertips. Why is it so much harder to control myself around her?

"Your mother didn't teach you not to be a total misogynist." I stand up to meet her. "My mother is none of your affair," I say, electricity crackling in my voice.

She stares at me, our faces only inches apart. I know she must feel the heat radiating off me. I wait for her to tell me to get out again, to get lost, but instead she backs away and sits down on the couch, almost crus.h.i.+ng the bag I'd placed there. Which is when the bag lets out a hiss. "What the . . . ?" Daphne bounces away from the now-wriggling bag. A second later, a furry little thing pops out of it, launches itself at me, and perches on my shoulder. All the while hissing its displeasure over almost being squashed.

"Well, it's your fault, Brim, for hiding in there!"

Brim growls, baring her tiny fangs.

"Oh my gosh, is that your kitten?" Daphne asks. She sounds strangely amused, and the anger melts from her expression.

"In a way. But she's not a kitten," I say, because I know Brim hates being called that. "She's nearly seven years old."

"But she's so tiny! Like, barely bigger than a guinea pig." I try to pet Brim to calm her, but she swats at me with her claws. "What she is, is angry. That's not a good thing."

"It's adorable." Daphne laughs. "Come here, little girl," she says in singsong voice, reaching for Brim.

"Not a good idea," I say, and try to pull the cat away from her reach. Brim bites my finger. I snap my hand back, and to my horror, Daphne s.n.a.t.c.hes up the cat. To my utter astonishment, Brim lets her, though she's still growling and hissing.

"I know how to sooth a savage beast," Daphne says, like she's singing. "My mom is always bringing home cranky strays. Grab the guitar. Try the song again." I scoop up the instrument and sit next to her. I pick out the notes again. After a few seconds, Daphne joins her voice in with my strumming. She sings in a lower, more gravelly tone that carries the same timbre as Brim's small yet ferocious growl. Listening to her feels like the sensation of someone wrapping a warm blanket around my shoulders. But it's been so many years since someone has done this for me; I am surprised I remember what it feels like. . . .

We're halfway through the song when I realize that Brim's growling has been replaced by a steady purr. She's curled herself into a tiny ball in Daphne's hands. Daphne smiles down at her.

I suddenly feel jealous of the cat.

I haven't dared to add my own voice to the music for fear of spoiling it. I don't even know how to sing, but as the song rounds into the final lines, the warmth of the music engulfs me to the point that I feel as if something inside of me is pus.h.i.+ng its way out to meet it. I cannot help myself. My voice crackles at first and is barely audible, but when Daphne turns her smiling eyes on me, my voice grows stronger, mingling with hers. Our voices ring together, and for a moment, I feel as though I am free.

Even freer than I felt in the Tesla. Freer than owls soaring from their roost.

I hold out the final note of the song with Daphne, almost afraid to let that feeling of freedom go.

Finally, she lets the note fall and I end the song.

I pull my fingers from the guitar strings and find Daphne staring at me. Her head is c.o.c.ked to the side as if she is listening to something even though the music has stopped.

"What is it?" I ask her.

"Huh. I didn't think you had an inner song, Haden Lord," she says softly. "I guess I was wrong." k I have had five lessons with Daphne in the last two weeks. Each one starts almost the same as the first. She peppers me with questions about my family and my past until she becomes frustrated with how little pertinent information I give her, and eventually she moves on to the music. I bring Brim with me since she seems to have a softening effect on Daphne, who lets her sit on her knee as we play.

My mastery of the guitar is coming along quite nicely, thanks to Daphne's gifted hands. She has even let me play the piano in her father's studio a couple of times. I prefer the guitar, though; it gives me something to hold on to.

It is late in the evening. I am headed back to Simon's mansion after my latest lesson with Daphne.

Brim clings happily to my shoulder, enjoying the fresh air, and I carry the loaner guitar that Daphne has sent me home with to practice. It's an ebony black Stratacoustic from her father's collection.

"Believe me, he won't even notice it's gone. Besides, he owes me one," she'd said. I think of how her hands had brushed mine when I took it from her.

I am crossing the bridge that leads to the school, taking a shortcut to Simon's, when the smell of sulfur permeates my senses. Brim catches the scent also and jumps from my shoulder. She yowls and runs across the bridge, following the scent.

"Stop!" I shout. But she doesn't listen. Harpies. I hitch up the guitar and take off after her, thinking of the consequences of letting a h.e.l.lcat get loose near a school.

I don't have to go far before I find her. Thankfully, she's just standing on the back end of a parked car, meowing plaintively at something behind the vehicle. That is when I see it.

The body.

She lies on the ground behind a crop of bushes just beyond the parking lot, her hair splayed out around her head like a brown halo. Gashes cover her arms, and her chest has been ripped open. Her heart is missing.

This time, the Keres has done more than cause a heart attack. It'd ripped it right out of her. I wonder how the town officials will try to explain away this death.

I can't tell what set the Keres off at first, why it had gone after her in the first place, but then I notice a small bandage on the woman's pinky. Probably no more than a nick on her finger from a piece of paper.

My fears were right. The Keres is growing stronger.

Its thirst for blood is making it bolder.

I look more closely at the woman, realizing that I know her. Mrs. Canova, the teacher who had dragged Garrick and me to the counselor's office after the fight.