The Shadow Prince

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 snatches 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 crap, 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. Nobody 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 rehearse 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.”

 

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