I take a step back. Garrick had been sentenced to work in the Pits—a life of hard labor: caring for the monstrous Keres, which were banished to the depths of Tartarus centuries ago—after he was accused of stealing from the palace. A second strike against him—if the Court believed Rowan’s accusations of trying to steal the armor of an Underlord—and the punishment could possibly be even worse than death.
Garrick charges at me, swinging his good arm. I grab him by his fist. His fingers are stained green from working in the Pits, and he’s so underfed, from years of fighting for scraps with the other Lessers, I could crush his hand if only I squeezed.
A buried memory flits through my brain, and I remember how Garrick had tried to help me when my mother collapsed.…
No, I tell myself. What Garrick did wasn’t help. Lessers serve. It’s what they’re born to do.
“Get away from me, Lesser!” I thrust his hand away. “Don’t you dare touch me with your dung-stained fingers. Your kind has already left. Follow them.”
I raise my fist as though I’m going to attack him if he doesn’t listen. Garrick rushes toward the golden doors.
“You might want to consider leaving that armor here,” Dax says.
Garrick skids to a stop. He hurriedly and clumsily pulls at the straps of his breastplate, but he can’t free them with only one hand. His face reddens as he glances back at us. I look away. Dax sighs heavily and then goes to help him. Once the boy is free, Dax tells him to visit the healing chambers.
“Lessers are not allowed …,” Garrick starts to protest.
“Tell them that Champion Haden sent you,” Dax says.
Garrick nods and exits without another word. I hear his feet slapping against the marble floor as he runs away. The sound of it sends another flash of unpleasant memories through my mind. Garrick’s sandals had made that same noise when I sent him running to fetch my father when my mother needed help. I remember how long I waited for my father to return with him. I remember how I …
The shame of those memories overwhelms me. Suddenly, all I can think about is the blood that stains my face. I try wiping it away with my leather wrist cuff but I can tell it only smears the blood more. The wound won’t stop bleeding.
“I have to go.” I step quickly away from Dax and head toward the exit, bits of alabaster statue crunching under my feet. “The Court can’t see me like this. He can’t see me. If they call me back in there”—I gesture toward the throne room where my father remains—“I have to go.…”
“Lord Haden, wait,” Dax says. “You should remain here, in case—”
“I can’t.” I pull away from him and flee from the antechamber as fast as possible. If the Court is going to punish me for what happened with Rowan, they’ll have to come and find me on their own.
Chapter four
DAPHNE
I don’t know why I called him that. Dad. The man who stood in front of me now may have been my biological father, but he had never been my dad. That title is supposed to be reserved for the man who teaches you how to ride a bike, or who picks the splinters out of your skin, helps you with your homework, and argues with you about your curfew. Not for the person who married your mom in a Vegas drive-thru chapel after one date, only to leave her three days later to become a rock star. I wouldn’t have even recognized Joe if I hadn’t seen his face splashed all over the covers of tabloids in the grocery store checkout stand.
I’m so stuck on this dad detail, I don’t follow what Joe is saying. I can see his lips moving and I can tell he’s using the same practiced tone of voice that he employs during TV interviews, or while accepting awards at the Grammys, like he’s giving a rehearsed speech. But I don’t actually hear the words he’s saying until he places one of his hands on my shoulder and says, “That’s why we have to leave tonight.”
“What?” I step back abruptly, and my heel makes a squeaky noise against the linoleum floor. Upon Joe’s request, we and the glossy woman moved our conversation to my mother’s small office in the back of the shop for privacy, but I know Jonathan, CeCe, and probably Indie, are listening at the grate on the other side of the wall. I wish one of them could fill me in. “I’m sorry. What did you just say?” I ask Joe.
The grin my father has plastered on his face falters at the edges. “We need to go tonight,” he says. He waits for a moment, probably for some sign of understanding from me. When I don’t respond, he goes on. “To your new school. In California. The one we’ve been talking about for the last few minutes.”
“What?” I take another step back. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
He loops his fingers behind his giant—and, no doubt, real platinum—skull-shaped belt buckle, and rocks back on his heels. “Bugger. I thought you were taking this too well.” He runs his fingers through his long hair and clears his throat. “I know I haven’t been there for you, Daphne,” he says, starting his little speech over again. “I want to make things up to you. This school—Olympus Hills High—can open up opportunities for you that I never had and that you can’t possibly get here. The training you could get for your voice alone, and the education is top notch. It’s what you deserve. Your voice is amazing.…”
He would think so. He claimed that I had his voice.
“You can only attend the school if you’re a resident of Olympus Hills, and I just happened to have finalized the purchase of a home there last week. You would live with me. We could get to know each other.”
I probably look like some kind of dead fish with the way my mouth is hanging open. I don’t even know what to say to this … this proposition.
My father checks his watch. His smile vanishes altogether. “This is a big deal, Daphne. You have no idea how many strings I had to pull to get you in.” His voice is edged with a pleading tone that surprises me, and I notice for the first time how much older he seems in person than in the images I’ve seen of him in the Star Tracks section of People magazine. “If we don’t go tonight, you will lose your place.”
“Tonight?!” This isn’t happening. “But there’s this talent competition tonight. I’m supposed to audition for scholarships for college.” And school is starting, and CeCe’s birthday is next week, and Mom needs her flower cooler fixed, and I’m supposed to start teaching guitar lessons for the kids in my neighborhood to help bring in extra cash. All I’ve ever wanted is to graduate and get out of Ellis, but suddenly I can think of a million reasons why I need to stay. Why I’m not ready to leave. Not yet.