“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 younger, 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.
He slowly stretches his hand toward my face but then pulls it slightly back. I notice a pallor under his olive skin, but a strange heat seems to radiate from his fingertips. I look into his eyes again and move my hand toward his. The curious, pulsing heat of his skin draws me to him. We are about to touch, his fingers breathing warmth against mine. He looks away from my eyes and notices the name pendant—a sixteenth-birthday present from CeCe—that I wear around my neck.
“Daphne?” He reads my name. His hand drops, and that strange heat falls away with it. “You’re Daphne Raines?”
“Yes,” I say before thinking better of giving this stranger my name. The trance he held me in is broken. “How do you know my name? What—are you some kind of reporter?”
I notice now that this boy has no sound. No tone, no melody, no song coming off him. Just silence, like the too-still grove that engulfs us from the view of any witnesses.
I also realize that he doesn’t have a camera. He’s not a reporter looking for a picture.
He takes a quick step back, like he’s about to run away, but then stops. He looks me square in the eyes, but this time, the intensity of his gaze only frightens me. “Will you come with me?” he says, reaching for my arm.
chapter eleven
HADEN
I make it to the gate unnoticed. In the mortal world, the gate is cloaked to resemble two curving trees that create an archway at the north end of the grove. The green light has grown fainter. I wonder if it is even visible to human eyes, but as I hold my hand out, I can still feel it pulsing with energy. The gate is still active, which means it is still the same day in which I arrived.
I have overreacted for no reason.
I am about to return to Simon’s home, feeling reassured and slightly chagrined, when a sound catches my ear. It’s a high sound, but not like the screeching of an owl or the wailing of a nursling. It’s a flowing sound that evokes the image of a river or the wind streaming through the treetops—and yet still like no other sound I have ever heard.
I cannot stop myself from following the echoing noise. I track it through the thicket of trees until I come to the center of the grove.
There I see a young female, sitting against a strangely shaped tree. She cradles a large object on her knees, and strums the strings that stretch from its wide base up a long wooden neck. The object reminds me of the pictographs I often pass in the murals that cover the walls of the palace. It vaguely resembles a lyre—the great weapon the Traitor had used to deceive Hades all those centuries ago. But the object the girl holds does not seem like a weapon. Her picking and strumming the strings are what create the reverberating sound. I remove my sunglasses to be able to see her better in the shady grove, and I watch, curious, as she opens her mouth and starts to speak.
No, not quite speaking. Her voice sounds different from that. Her words are drawn out, ebbing and flowing at times and flitting at others, blending with the sounds that come from her strumming. It grows in intensity, swirling around the grove and washing over me. It pulls at me, evoking something I have not felt since I was in the presence of the Oracle: the feeling of wonder.
When the girl stops speaking and the sound dies away, a gasp slips out of my lips.
She stands, her abruptness making it clear that I have given myself away.
“Who’s there?” she asks. Her voice sounds different from before. Lower, but still appealing.
I know I should leave, but I can’t. I need to know what it was that she did with her voice. I want to know how.
She steps closer. The way she moves is almost as appealing as her voice. I feel energy swirling in my chest, growing stronger the closer she gets. I move in nearer to her. She does not see me yet, but she shivers.
I ask her what she’d done with her voice. I speak English, but I realize too late that I haven’t concealed my Underrealm accent.