The Shadow Prince (8 page)

“Yes.” I was bringing with me my toiletries; three changes of clothes; my favorite sandals; Gibby, my acoustic-electric guitar; and much to the limo driver’s—who had to bungee it to the roof—dismay, my white and lemon yellow cruiser bike. Everything else I could live without for a few days.

“I am still not okay with this,” my mother said when Marta insisted we were two minutes off schedule and “must go now.” But she still gave me one last hug before Marta pushed me inside the limo with Joe.

As the limo started to pull out, CeCe, who had been called away by the people from the school who had come for the balloon bouquets, came running out of the shop just in time.

She waved both hands frantically, as if afraid I wouldn’t see her otherwise. I rolled down the window and shouted, “I’ll call you soon. I promise!”

And then that was that. I’d watched through the back window as we drove away, leaving my old life behind in billowing clouds of burnt sienna dust.

I still can’t get the image of my tiny town, with its tiny houses in the middle of nowhere, out of my head as we pull up to the security gates of Olympus Hills. The driver rolls down his window to show his pass to the guard, and I hear a cacophony of voices outside, shouting strange questions. At least half a dozen flashes pop on the other side of my window.

“What is that?”

“Paparazzi,” Marta says, stopping me from rolling down my window. “They can’t see you through the tinted glass. And don’t worry; they can’t get past the security gates, unless explicitly invited by a resident. That’s the beauty of Olympus Hills: it’s a private community, so no rats allowed.”

“Be nice, Marta. Those rats butter our bread,” Joe says. Or at least I think that’s what he said; all the words were kind of slurred together.

Marta had given me some brochures on Olympus Hills on the plane, and since she’d spent most of the journey sending emails on her iPad, and Joe had passed the time taking full advantage of the rolling bar cabinet that a buxom flight attendant would bring by every time he snapped his fingers, I’d had plenty of time to brush up on Olympus Hills trivia.

The brochure had described the place not as a town, but as a “luxe, master-planned community.” A description that seems very apt as we cross through the gates and into the neighborhood
streets. Marta allows me to roll down my window once the gates are behind us. I want to see as much of everything as I can, even if it’s dark out. The streetlights illuminate houses that are twice the size of any home in Ellis Fields. “Holy crap.”

“These are the smaller homes,” Marta says. “There’s a lake at the center of the community. The houses get progressively more impressive, the closer their proximity to the lake. Joe’s new house is right across the street from the shore, of course.”

“Of course,” I say, and watch as the houses grow larger and larger until we turn onto the road that circles the lake. I lean out my window, trying to get a better view of the water. We didn’t have a lake in Ellis, so this is another first for me. One I’d been excited for since perusing the Olympus Hills brochure. It had said that the lake is shaped like a figure eight, with two islands in the middle. Everything is supposed to be connected by walking paths and footbridges. I can’t see much in the dark except the lights from the building on one of the islands reflecting on the water. That must be the school. The brochure had said Olympus Hills High is on the larger island.

I may not be able to see much of the lake, but there is plenty to hear. The calming flow of the water; the happy, pulsing beats of insects skittering across the surface; the rhythmic swell of the wind through the reeds. As we pass the smaller island of the figure eight–shaped lake, all the subtle sounds are drowned out by a song that reminds me of a mother’s lullaby. Well, a lullaby sung by
a mother
, not my mother—who might possibly be tone-deaf. I point at the tree-covered island and ask, “What’s there?”

“The grove,” Marta says. She shivers and indicates that she wants me to roll up the window. “Nobody goes there.”

“Why?” I ask.

She picks up her glossy briefcase. “We’re here,” she says as we pull into the crescent-shaped driveway of a building that resembles more a gargantuan Grecian temple than a home.

During the drive, I’d noticed that most of the homes resemble an interesting mixture of modern architecture meets ancient Greece. “I guess they take the
Olympus
part of Olympus Hills seriously around here?” I say when we get out of the limo.

“You could say that,” Joe slurs. They’re the first words he’s said directly to me since leaving Utah.

Marta unlocks the front door and then ushers us inside a grand entryway, the likes of which I have seen only in the movies at Ellis’s single-screen cinema on Main Street. White marble floors lead to a pair of twisting staircases that fill the foyer, which is big enough alone to hold my mother’s two-bedroom bungalow. A crystal chandelier drips from the center of the high vaulted ceiling. Little rainbows from the prisms reflect onto the tall white walls.

“Wow,” I say.

“This place is smaller than Joe’s homes in Malibu and Paris, but it’ll do for now,” Marta says. “Real estate in the area is hard to come by. I had to twist a few arms, didn’t I, Joe?”

Joe grunts. He drops his leather jacket on the white marble floor and then disappears into one of the rooms off the west wing.

“Never mind him. Joe always needs a little alone time after we travel,” Marta says. She checks her watch. “I have a few minutes to spare, if you would like a tour?”

I nod.

Marta explains, as we tour the house, that the first floor of the west wing is the main living quarters, with the kitchen, family room, a movie theatre—which includes what she claims will be a
“fully operational concessions stand” once the house is completely unpacked and stocked—a “playroom,” filled with Joe’s collection of retro arcade games, and a ballroom for throwing parties.

She also informs me that the east wing of the first floor is her private living area, with its own smaller kitchen and a few guest bedrooms … but I don’t get a tour of that. The second floor of the west wing holds Joe’s master bedroom—a master bathroom that could put any spa to shame—a private rehearsal studio that seems especially
lived in
, considering Joe has been here for only a week, and a private office that looks like it’s never been touched.

It strikes me how white everything is here. White walls, white marble columns and floors, white furniture, white carpet in the bedrooms, and even a painting taller than I am that is a canvas filled with globs of white paint. With the amount of dust that gets tracked into our bungalow back in Ellis, we’d never owned anything remotely white. Because it wouldn’t have stayed white for very long.

“Does Joe have, like, a staff of thirty people to keep this place clean and running?”

“Your father employs a full live-in staff at his two other homes, but besides myself, Joe has insisted that he doesn’t want any other live-ins here. A cleaning staff will come in once a week, but I am hoping he will reconsider bringing in his personal chef from the Malibu house, as cooking is not in my job description. I don’t suppose you know how?”

“I make a mean bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch,” I say, even though my repertoire is a little more advanced than that. No way am I going to spend my time cooking for Joe.

It’s after midnight, and my legs are feeling fatigued by the time Marta leads me to the second floor of the east wing.

“This is your private area of the house,” Marta says. “You’ll have your own family room with a television, and there are three bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, but we thought you might like this one best, as it looks out on the pool.” She opens a door and flips on the light of my new bedroom. It’s also decorated in mostly white furniture, with pops of teal in the plethora of throw pillows on the plush, tufted duvet of the canopy bed. More teal pillows crowd the white, tufted sofa. I even have my own crystal chandelier. A gilded mirror hangs over a glossy vanity table, and a floating white shelf, which spans the length of one of the walls, is jam-packed with stuffed animals with various shades of white fur.

“Joe had his designer do this room up just for you.”

“It’s … um … nice.” I frown at the white teddy bears staring down at me. “Joe realizes I’m not a six-year-old, right?”

Marta makes a noise that almost sounds like a laugh. “Joe does have a tendency to go a little overboard.”

A MacBook computer sits on a white desk in front of a large window. I pull back the gauzy drapes and look into the backyard. Where this house has an advantage over my mother’s bungalow in hugeness, it pales in comparison when it comes to yard. We have almost an acre of land in Ellis behind the shop, where my mom can fit her greenhouse and a barn for taking care of the various animals she brings home. Here, the yard comprises a stone patio, a long, skinny lap pool, and a narrow strip of grass. The almost equally ginormous house behind Joe’s feels like it’s only a few yards away.

I yawn. The fatigue of what must be the longest day of my life pulls me toward the very girly—yet admittedly comfy-looking—bed. I sink into the mountain of pillows.

“I’ll let you rest now,” Marta says curtly. “I would give you a tour of the community tomorrow, but I have another pressing matter that will take me away for the day. I will leave a map and a detailed itinerary outside your door by six a.m. Your audition is at three thirty p.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

I sit up fast. “My audition?”

“For the music program at Olympus Hills High. Joe was able to pull a few strings to get you into the school, but if you want to be on the music track, you must audition for the program. You are scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.”

“So soon?” The tiredness I’d felt only seconds ago is gone. I should have realized that there would be an audition right away, but I am wholly unprepared. I didn’t pack any of my sheet music, leaving it behind for Jonathan to send later. I haven’t done any research on what kind of music the director of the program prefers. I don’t know if any of my three outfits are fit for auditioning at a private school.

I take two deep breaths and tell myself not to freak out. I’d already prepared a song for the Teen Talent Competition that I had planned on attending this evening.
I am ready for this.…

“The other students in the program auditioned at the end of last year, and school has been in session for almost three weeks. If it hadn’t been for a sudden opening in the program, you wouldn’t be getting the chance at all. Mr. Morgan is holding preliminary auditions for this year’s musical tomorrow. He said he would allow you to audition for the program and the play at the same time. You are supposed to prepare three songs.”

Three
? I’d spent all month perfecting my one song for the competition! “What play are they doing?” Hopefully, it was something I already knew a couple of songs from.
Les Misérables. Carousel
.
Seeing this town’s apparent love for all things Greek, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was
Mamma Mia!

“He wouldn’t say. It’s supposed to be three songs of your own choosing.”

“But I have no idea what else to sing.”

“I don’t see what the big deal is. Sing a few of your father’s songs,” Marta says, like it’s a definitive solution to all my problems.

“Not in a million years,” I mumble as she leaves and closes the door behind her. I can hear the click of her heels on the marble floor echoing as she goes. Now that I am alone, my new room feels too cavernous for comfort. I want to call home, but it’s far too late at night. My mother would have a heart attack, thinking there had been some emergency.

I push the throw pillows off the bed.
Not a big deal
? This audition is
the
big deal. This music program is the entire reason I’d left home. It is my entire purpose for being here. All my future plans rest on it, and now the audition is being sprung on me before I am ready.

What if this has all been for nothing?

For the first time since I agreed to let Joe take me away from my home, I start to wonder if I’ve made a really big mistake.

chapter seven

It’s a long journey to the outskirts of the Underrealm, where Persephone’s Gate stands at the end of a long ravine. The Underlords, and even the Lessers, flank both sides of the walk to the gate. Normally, their swords would be raised in honor to the Champion as he passes. I know better now than to expect such pomp on my behalf. All except the Lessers and the other servants are dressed in armor. Mine has been removed and I’ve been forced to don strange clothes like what Dax is wearing. My pants are made from a similar heavy cloth, but they’re an inky black instead of blue, and my collared black tunic has many fasteners down the front. Both items of clothing are too tight, as though they’d originally been selected for someone slighter than myself.

This idea makes me look for Rowan in the flanking crowd, but instead of him, my sight lands on Garrick, the scrawny Lesser I tried to defend from Rowan’s assault. His arm looks better now, thanks to a visit to the healing chambers, but for some reason, seeing him once more causes a twisting feeling inside my chest.