“Let him go. I’m not hungry.”
Dax sits in the armchair that Garrick vacated and looks at me. “What did he mean by all that?”
“It’s nothing,” I say in a tone that makes it clear I don’t want to talk about the things Garrick said.
“Haden?”
“I’m respecting your secret. You can respect mine.” Dax is the last person in all the realms I want to know what I did to Garrick. Dax is the only one who doesn’t look at me with disdain because of what I did when my mother died, but if he knew what I did to Garrick two years later, to get rid of the walking reminder of my shame, he may not be able to look at me at all anymore.
I sit on the couch with the guitar. I want to distract myself, like the way I feel when I sing with Daphne, so I play a few bars.
“That sounds pretty good,” Dax says. “I take it things are going well between you and Daphne?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I mean, I got her to help me prepare for the festival, and she trusts me enough to loan me a guitar.” I wipe at the fingerprints Garrick left on the finish. “But it all seems like such small steps. What if it doesn’t add up to enough before the Eve of the Return?” The night I have to tell her the truth and ask her to come with me through the gate.
“Don’t let the importance of your quest make you feel like you have to rush—it’ll only scare her off. There’s a reason we’re given six months—other than the confines of the gate—it takes time and patience to win her affection. She’ll come around. All the little things will build on each other. Like that song you’re playing. It works because you let the tune build as you go. You don’t try to play all the notes at once.”
I look down at my hands, not realizing I’d started playing an actual song. It’s the one Daphne first taught me.
“I can’t make it sound like she does, though. I do all the right movements, hit all the right notes, but it still doesn’t feel right.”
“That’s because music isn’t just about precision and mimicking movements. It’s an emotional experience. True music comes from inside. I heard someone say once that the ability to create musical expression from emotional experience is a uniquely human trait.”
“Then I probably shouldn’t bother,” I say, zipping the guitar into its case.
“Don’t forget, Haden. All of us Underlords are part human. Your mother—”
“Don’t,” I say, standing. Why would Dax try to remind me of her? Why would he encourage me to tap into my human side when, all my life, I’ve been taught to repress it?
I hear the garage door open. Simon has returned from wherever he goes during the day. I don’t feel like dealing with him. And I don’t want him to try to stop me from dealing with the Keres again.
“Where are you going?” Dax asks as I head out of the room.
“Hunting,” I say.
Because Garrick is right. It’s my fault the Keres is here.
And now it’s my responsibility to figure out how to stop it.
I return to the school parking lot with the idea of inspecting the scene more closely in hopes of finding clues as to where the Keres went next. But I am too late. The humans have already found the body, and the area is cordoned off by Olympus Hills security. I stand in the shadows and watch as they load what remains of Mrs. Canova into the back of the OHMC vehicle—until I notice that someone else is watching me.
I see him at the far end of the parking lot, idling on a motorcycle. He wears the same full-coverage helmet that hides his face, but I am certain he is the rider I saw outside the mayor’s party. The same one that seemed to be watching me then, too.
Was he working for Simon or something?
There’s only one way to find out. I start making my way toward him, sticking close to the perimeter of the school, but he must sense me coming, because he revs his engine and peels out of the parking lot before I close in.
I chase after him, running at top speed over the bridge that leads off the school’s island, but my legs are nothing compared to his motorcycle. He speeds away and disappears into the night.
chapter thirty-eight
DAPHNE
I wake to the smell of burning.
A shout from Joe sends me running downstairs in my pajamas to investigate. I find him in the kitchen, muttering swearwords, a smoking frying pan in his oven-mitted hands. The counters are littered with eggshells, spilled flour, and various half-empty containers. Batter oozes out the side of a waffle iron, which sits haphazardly on a stack of Us magazines.