“If something is wrong in the grove,” Tobin says, huffing with Gibby in his arms, trying to keep up, “shouldn’t we be running away, not toward it?”
“Not in the grove. With the grove. I can hear it.”
“You’re kind of weird, Daphne Raines.”
“I know.” I pass between two poplar trees into the dark grove of aspens and laurels. I gasp. This place barely resembles the beautiful grove I had sung in this morning. Several of the smaller trees are broken, and mounds of earth have been upturned. One of the aspens looks like it’s been struck by lightning: its trunk is scorched, and one of its large branches has been turned to ash.
“What happened here?” I whisper, more to the grove itself than to Tobin.
“This damage looks fresh,” he says. “I didn’t think anyone came here. Not since …”
I jog over to the laurel tree that’s shaped like a tuning fork. It’s one of the few trees other than the poplars that are undamaged. I find Gibby’s case, but my tote bag is gone—along with all of my personal information.
“Not since what?” I ask Tobin, realizing he didn’t finish his sentence.
He leans my guitar against the scorched tree. I follow him as he follows the path of destruction, which slopes down the steep side of the island toward the lake.
“My sister,” he says. “She used to hang out here. She’d come here to run lines—she was on the theatre track. She’s the only one I ever knew who came here.”
“Used to? Did she go away to college or something?” But by the way Tobin’s tone has changed, I know that whatever made Tobin talk about his sister in the past tense isn’t something pleasant.
“She ran away. Six years ago. I haven’t seen her since.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I really am. Here I’ve dragged him into a place that reminds him of something painful, for my own selfish purposes. I feel like such a jerk. “Hey, we can go back now if you want.”
Tobin stops abruptly and takes in a sudden breath. “Is that someone … down there …?” He takes off running down the slope. I follow at a slower speed, trying not to trip on a rock or branch and go tumbling into the water head over heels. I come up short when I finally see what he saw. Light from the lamps, which line the jogging paths across the island, reflects off something lying in the water at lake’s edge. It looks like the body of a girl, submerged almost up to her chest. Tobin splashes into the water, wing-tip shoes and all, and kneels in the mud next to the girl. He presses his fingers against her throat. I hold my breath while he searches for a pulse.
“She’s still alive!” he says, scooping her up. I almost protest his moving her, but it’s not like we can just leave her in the water. “It’s Pear,” he says. “Pear Perkins.”
I know that name. “The girl who missed the auditions?”
“I guess we know why,” Tobin says, grave notes marring his voice. “I think she’s been unconscious for a while.”
I climb down the hill and help him lay her down on the sandy bank away from the water. He pulls off his jacket and covers the girl’s upper body, but before he does, I see that she has four deep gashes in her arm, just above her elbow. The gashes make my stomach churn, but it’s her shoes that make me think I’m going to be sick. Pink and silver platform sandals. Just like the ones the girl I’d hit with my bike had been wearing. I hadn’t realized it when it happened, but as I replay the memory in my head, I see that the girl had jogged off in the direction of the grove. I place my hand on Tobin’s wet elbow. “I think I know who did this,” I say. “And I think it’s my fault that it happened.”
Chapter seventeen
HADEN
“Touch those shears to my head one more time and I swear to Hades, I will blast your face off!”
Dax only laughs, and snips at my hair again. “Just a few more cuts,” he says. “I got pretty good at this when I was here before.”
Underlords, even Lessers, don’t cut their hair. When my father had cut my braid from my head, it was the first time a blade had touched my hair. Cutting a Champion’s braid is supposed to symbolize rebirth. The start of a new life. To me, it feels like an insult. With every snip Dax makes, I feel that what little is left of my honor is falling to the floor.
Garrick sulks in the corner. Someone had fetched him new clothes and he’s changed out of his grubby robes. His eyes are pink and watery, still irritated from the harsh light of the sun. His hair is shorn almost to the scalp.
“You cut my hair as short as the Lesser’s, and I will kill you.”
“Promises, promises.” Dax chuckles again. For a former Underlord, he laughs far too often. Then again, former is the word that needs to be emphasized with Dax. “I had to shave Garrick’s hair. It was filthy and matted, so I had no other choice. Yours, on the other hand”—he makes one last snip—“is done.”
I jump out of the chair I’ve been forced to sit in through this ordeal and quickly bring my hands to my head. I brush my fingers through what hair remains. It is longer than Garrick’s, but I can tell that a slight curl pulls at the edges of my shaggy locks over my ears. “What have you done?” I demand. “You have made my hair curl like a Boon’s, or a nursling’s!”
Dax shrugs. “Sometimes you don’t know you have curls until you cut your hair. Besides, it’s not all that bad. The girls will love it.” He puts the shears down on the kitchen table and I am sorely tempted to stab him with them. “Now, as promised, you will get your reward. Follow me outside.”
Dax is looking giddy again. This concerns me greatly, but I follow him still. Garrick trails behind us out of the house. What I see in the driveway makes my mouth water with anticipation.
“Unbelievable,” Garrick whispers. It’s the first word I’ve heard him speak since we passed through the gate.
“Are those automobiles?” I ask.
“Cars,” Dax says. “Call them cars. Master Crue’s take on English vocabulary is a bit archaic. And these are more than cars. They’re Teslas. Very hard to get, but Simon procured them for us this afternoon. There’s a Model X and a Model S—but the Roadster is mine.” He points out each car respectively.