The Shadow Prince

chapter fourteen DAPHNE

My legs shake from riding so hard as I roll my cruiser into one of the slots of the bike rack. My voice warbles when I try to whisper to myself to calm down.

“I’m okay. Nothing bad happened. Not really.”

But the question I can’t get out of my mind: where did he want me to go with him?

As if.

I might have been dumb for talking to him in the first place. But I’m not a complete idiot. I’d never follow some creep into the woods.

I try to tell myself to calm down, but my voice warbles and I can’t help thinking about all those “stranger danger” lectures my mom used to drill into me as a kid—like how if I ever encountered something weird or dangerous, or if someone I didn’t know tried to get me to go somewhere with him, I should run away and find someone trustworthy to tell.

But who would I even tell in this particular situation? Joe? He’s the last person I’d confide in. I’d feel stupid going to the police—nothing had exactly happened. Maybe this is a job for the security guards at the main entrance into Olympus Hills? They should be responsible for whatever weirdos they let through the gates.

But I imagine trying to explain what happened and it coming out all wrong: an attractive guy, wearing tight black clothes, with long rough-cut hair, looking like he’d wandered off the set of a pirate movie, talked to me about my singing and then asked me to go somewhere with him? Yeah, the guards would probably say that he was just trying to hit on me.

Maybe I had completely misread the situation?

CeCe always teased me about how I have no idea when guys are flirting with me. She said it’s because I’ve got a wall around me that’s a mile high, so I’m either completely oblivious when guys try to flirt or I think they’re trying to make fun of me.

I’m not here to create amusement.…

That’s what the guy in the grove had said when I accused him of making fun of my singing. It was such a weird thing to say. Maybe he’s even more socially inept when it comes to the opposite sex than I am?

But any idiot should know that you don’t go around trying to grab a girl’s arm like that.

And social awkwardness doesn’t explain his eerie, fiery eyes, or the strange heat that seemed to be radiating off his skin. It had actually hurt when he had tried to touch my arm.

I look down at my wrist. My skin stings, and there are four red marks on my arm. They’re long and thin, like the shape of fingers. Right where the guy had touched my skin.

That definitely isn’t normal.

I notice the time on my watch. It’s almost three o’clock. I’d been in the grove much longer than I’d realized. That’s not nearly enough time for me to bike down to the security station and back before my audition.

My audition!

Why am I letting myself get carried away when I have much more important things to worry about? Forget about weird guys in the woods; I have only thirty-six and a half minutes to finish preparing for my audition.

Leaving my bike in the rack, I make my way between the granite columns at the entrance of the school and into the main hall. It’s large and echoey, and I can hear singing drifting through the halls. Auditions for the musical must have been going on all day. I follow the sound through the school until I find the auditorium. I peek through the heavy double doors. Someone is onstage, singing a song from Evita, while a few clusters of students sit in the auditorium seats. Back at Ellis High, which comprised five whole rooms, we had to do all of our performing on a platform in the cafeteria. I’ve never sung in a room this big.

The girl on the stage stands perfectly still, her hands clasped in front of her chest and her chin out. Her voice is strong and even, and I can tell she’s had years of professional training, but if Jonathan were around, he’d probably tell her to be more expressive with her body, not just her voice. The only adult in the room is a thin man with graying hair, who sits at a table, making notes in a binder. I assume he’s Mr. Morgan, the music director. When the singer draws out her final note—a bit too long, in my opinion—I push the auditorium door open and slip inside.

Mr. Morgan calls out a name I don’t quite catch. A guy comes out from behind the curtains on the stage. He wears skinny jeans, a white button-up shirt, a small open vest, and a tweed, narrow-brimmed fedora. He lifts his hat and gives a curt bow to Mr. Morgan, revealing his floppy black hair. He announces the songs he’s going to sing to Mr. Morgan and then puts his hat back on. I take a seat near the back of the auditorium. The accompanist on the piano starts the intro, and with a snap of his wrist, Fedora Boy grabs the microphone stand and croons into the mic with all the flare of Frank Sinatra.

I’m still shaking a bit from my close encounter of the weird kind, so I try to run through a few relaxation exercises that CeCe taught me, but Fedora Boy’s voice is so warm yet powerful that I find myself distracted. I like the sound of this guy’s voice, and it relaxes me more than the breathing exercises. There’s something familiar about him—something I hear in him and the way he moves his body while he sings. He reminds me of someone, but I can’t place it. I find myself smiling when he starts his third song. I must have caught his eye, because as he finishes his last line, he plucks his fedora from his head, dips it down when he bows, and then winks … at me.

“Well done,” Mr. Morgan says to the boy. “But the winking was a bit much.”

Fedora Boy smiles wide and hops off the stage with a goofy swagger that makes me giggle inside. Mr. Morgan picks up his coffee mug and announces that he’s going to “take five.”

I realize just how dry my throat is from my bike ride, so I pick up my guitar and head out a side door to find a drinking fountain. Only twenty minutes remain until my audition, and a raspy voice isn’t going to impress anyone.

The hall is dark and empty. I find the drinking fountain, but as I’m leaning over to take a sip, I think I see something move in my peripheral vision. A low hiss buzzes in my ears. I pop upright, water dribbling on my chin. I look left and right, but all I see are shadows.

My mouth feels even drier. I take a second sip. This time, I hear a sound from behind, like the ratta-tat-tat of a snare drum, and I know I am not alone. I whirl around and find the boy in the fedora standing there. He smiles wide, and the drumming sound grows stronger. I realize the syncopated beat is coming from him. It’s his song. His inner melody, which only I can hear. It’s a warm and inviting sound, not like the cold hiss I’d heard just a moment ago, and it clicks with his Sinatra vibe. He’s a crooner at heart.

“Hey,” he says. “Glad I caught you. You must be New Girl.”

“Yeah,” I say, looking over his shoulder to make sure he’s the only other person in the hall. Maybe I’m still just shaken from what happened in the grove, but I have the weirdest feeling at the moment—like we’re not alone. Like someone is watching me.

Maybe I should tell someone about what happened.…

“Hey, do you know where Mr. Morgan might have headed off to?” I ask. “I need to talk to him about something.”

“Nope. I’m sure he’ll be back in a few minutes. Pleased to meet you, by the way.” He presses his hat to his chest and offers his hand for me to shake. A real handshake. Not a stupid “fist bump and blow it up” like most guys. “I’m Tobin Oshiro-Winters.”

I shift my guitar to my other hand, and I take his outstretched one. He smiles wider in return, and I realize who he reminds me of—in both the friendly tone that wafts off him and also his toothy grin. He’s the male, part Japanese version of CeCe back in Ellis Fields.

“Nervous?” he asks.

“No. Um.” I realize my hand is shaking a tiny bit in his grasp. “I guess so. I’m on deck,” I say, meaning that I’m up after the next person.

“Oh,” he says. “Well, don’t worry too much. I’m pretty sure Mr. Morgan has never eaten a student.”

His friendly beat grows so strong, I know right then that Tobin and I are going to be good friends. Just like CeCe and me. Some people just click that way. Two melodies that complement each other.

“Hey, is your arm okay?” he asks, noticing the marks on my wrist.

“Oh, that. I must have brushed up against something in the grove.”

“You went to the grove?” There’s a strange note of disconcertment in his voice.

“Yeah,” I say, pulling my hand behind my back. “I think I’ve got a rash or something.”

“It looks more like a burn. Do you need …?”

“It’s fine,” I say, but for a split second, I wonder if I should tell Tobin about what really happened. Maybe that would shake the weird feeling that has been following me ever since. I can tell from how much I like his tone that he’s someone I might trust.

I open my mouth to say something about the grove, but I don’t get the chance.

“Besides, you have to be pretty talented to get a scholarship here,” a high-pitched voice says as three girls enter the hallway from the auditorium, using the same door I had. “I bet she’s really good.”

“Hey, ladies!” Tobin says, catching their attention. “Have you met New Girl?”

The three look at me, and I can tell from the expression that crosses one of the girls’ faces that I was the subject of their conversation. The other two seem mostly uninterested.

“I’m pretty sure New Girl has a name, but she hasn’t shared it with me yet.” Tobin raises his eyebrows at me expectantly, and I realize my lack of social grace has struck again.

“Raines. Daphne, Raines,” I say, doing a silly James Bond impression. Because impersonations always make things less awkward.…

One of the girls laughs along with Tobin. The short blond one rolls her eyes, and the brunette yawns.

The girl who laughed gives me an amused smile. “I’m Iris Thompkins,” she says. “It’s nice to have another schollie around here.”

“Schollie?”

“A scholarship kid,” Tobin answers. “Iris thinks there are too many spoiled kids of famous people at this school. Don’t you, Iris?”

She blushes and gives him a shut-up sort of look.

Tobin doesn’t seem to notice. “Iris is always saying that the last thing we need is another brat kid of a celebrity mucking up the works around here.”

She gives him a pointed glare and rocks her head toward the brunette.

“You mean someone who deserves to be here by talent?” the blond one asks, nudging her friend. “Not because her daddy pulled some strings?”

“Whatever,” the brunette says and yawns again. I recognize those vacant eyes of hers and realize she’s the spitting image—in a younger version—of the actress in Jonathan’s favorite rom com.

“Anyway,” Iris says, trying to get the conversation back on track, “all I was saying is that it’s nice to have another schollie like me around.”

“Oh. Yeah.” I feel heat rushing into my cheeks. “How can you tell I’m a schollie?” I don’t want to admit that Joe Vince is my father. Not yet anyway. I’d let these kids pass judgment on me after I had a chance to sing. If they don’t think I deserve to be here afterward, then that would be a whole different issue.

“Your outfit,” the tiny blond girl says. I feel like a giant compared to her. “It’s totally thrift store chic.”

“Thank you,” I say, even though the girl’s statement is clearly an insult wrapped inside a compliment. “You’re so kind.”

Tobin catches the irony in my voice and smiles.

“Well, I think Daphne looks supercute,” Iris says. “I love the bohemian look.”

“I concur,” Tobin says, his smile widening.

The petite blond flips her curly hair over her shoulder and then narrows her eyes as she looks up—way up—at me. “So whom have you trained with? Borelli in LA? Caldwell in San Diego? Iris had to do two years with Rimaldi before they’d give her a scholarship here. It’s a good thing he does pro bono work, isn’t it, Iris? Oh, by the way, how was the bus ride from Compton?”

Iris purses her lips. A sharp, angular tone comes off her and I can tell she wants to say something rude back, but is biting her tongue.

“I’m from Utah, actually,” I say, to draw the attention from Iris.

“Oh, then, Risedale in Salt Lake City?” the blond says, a tiny note of envy coming off her.

“Actually, Jonathan in the back room of Paradise Plants and Floral. Sometimes with an iPod out in the yard, too.”

“You haven’t had formal training?” she asks, the notes of envy growing stronger. “I had assumed you’d be good, considering Mr. Morgan is allowing you to audition for the vacancy that Cari Wilson’s left in the program.”

“You play the guitar?” Tobin asks, pointing at Gibby. “That’s a sweet Gibson. Where did you—?”

“So what do you sing?” the girl asks, cutting him off.

“I like indie music mostly, but I have a soft spot for more classic—”

“Not what songs you like to sing. What do you sing?” she says, like I’m a simpleton. “Like, what part?”

“Oh. I don’t really know. Contralto, maybe. Or possibly mezzo-soprano.” I’d never been able to figure that out in my self-taught lessons. My normal voice isn’t high-pitched, like most of the female singers’ on the radio. I have a lower, slightly gravelly quality. Like Adele’s. But I can also sing higher if I want. Jonathan was always throwing new pieces of music at me, trying to stump me, but nothing ever seemed out of my range.

“You don’t know your range and they let you step foot on this campus?”

I shrug, but inside, I start to worry that I am in over my head.

“Well, this is one audition I can’t wait to see,” she says with a wicked smile. “Come on, Bridgette. I doubt this newbie is Sopranos material. We’re wasting our time.” She turns on her heel and heads back into the auditorium, with the brunette trailing behind her.

“Okaaay,” I say under my breath.

“Don’t mind Lexie,” Tobin says. “She’s not always quite so … abrasive. She’s up for the lead in the play this year and that’s got her on edge. With Cari gone, it’s most likely between Lexie and Pear Perkins. She’s just worried you’ll be new competition.”

“She’s been a total pain since she took over leadership of the Sopranos,” Iris says. “All that power is going to her head.”

“The Sopranos?” I ask. “What is she, like, the godfather of the school mafia or something?”

“Pretty much,” Tobin says. “But I have it on good authority that they do more shopping than killing these days.”

“On the bright side,” Iris says, sounding more relaxed now that Lexie is gone, “if you suck at singing, she might actually be friends with you.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I say, and make a grand gesture of wiping pretend sweat off my forehead.

Tobin laughs. He takes my hand and bows, pretending to plant a kiss on my knuckles. “I think I might be falling in love with you, Daphne Raines.”

I laugh.

Iris gives me a not-so-enthused look. “All joking aside. You don’t want to cross Lexie. The Sopranos can make your life miserable if they want.”

“I’m not really worried about them.”

What I am worried about is my audition. I check my watch. It’s 3:20. I haven’t realized how long I’ve been talking to Tobin and the others. The next audition should have started by now, and then I am up after that.

The door swings open, and Bridgette, the brunette, pokes her head out. “Have either of you seen Pear? It’s her turn, and Mr. Morgan is calling for her.”

“Pear Perkins, second call for Pear Perkins,” I hear Mr. Morgan yell from inside the auditorium.

“Pear likes to make an entrance,” Tobin says.

“I know, but she’s really pushing it this time,” the brunette says.

“Maybe Lexie offed her,” Iris whispers dramatically behind her hand. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Be nice,” Tobin says.

“I’m just making sure New Girl knows what she’s getting herself into. Last year, this freshman was up for the part Lexie wanted, so she put ipecac in the girl’s apple juice. The girl puked all over the stage right in the middle of her audition.”

“That’s just a rumor. She probably had the flu or was nervous or something.”

“Well, whatever the cause, Lexie posted a video of it on the school’s Facebook page and it got, like, five thousand hits before the admins took it down.”

“Nobody ever proved it was Lexie that posted it,” Tobin says.

“Yeah, because she posted it under a dummy account. She’s not stupid. And proof doesn’t matter. Everybody knows it. I’m telling you, Daphne. You don’t want to cross her.”

“Last call for Pear Perkins,” rings out Mr. Morgan’s perturbed voice. “Somebody tell that diva she has fifteen seconds to get out here or I’m cancelling her audition.”

Bridgette squeaks from the doorway, “Where the heck is she?”

“That’s it. I’m calling it,” Mr. Morgan says, his voice filled with annoyance. “Next up. Miss Rain. Miss Rain, are you here?”

No answer comes from the auditorium.

“Miss Daphne Rain? Do we have another no-show?”

“Isn’t that you?” Tobin asks.

“What?” I’d been distracted by the nervous little melody wafting off Bridgette.

“Daphne Rain, you have sixty seconds to appear on my stage or your audition is also cancelled,” shouts Mr. Morgan.

“Oh, that is me,” I say, a little dumbfounded. My audition isn’t supposed to be for another ten minutes. I haven’t had time to finish my relaxation exercises. My throat is still dry. I need more water. I’m not quite ready.

“Fifty seconds!”

I must look panicked, because Tobin takes my arm. “Don’t worry,” he says, and leads me down the hall several yards to another door. He swings it open. “Backstage,” he says. “Just go up those stairs and follow the curtains. Break a leg!” he says, and pushes me through the doorway—which he might have meant literally, because as the door swings shut, I am engulfed in utter darkness.

“Thirty seconds, Miss Rain!”

I stumble forward and hit the stairs. I find the handrail and pull myself up the steps. I grip my guitar tightly in one hand and stick the other out, feeling for the curtains. Something rustles past me, and I hear that low, hissing sound from before. I spin around, looking for what—or who—is with me in the darkness. I can’t see anything but blackness all around. My old fear of the dark had started during that hospital stay when I was thirteen. Every time one of the nurses would shut off the lights, it would seem like someone was standing in the shadows. Watching me. It was probably just the painkillers messing with my mind—the sensation had gone away once we went home and I could sleep in my own bed—but it had taken me months before I could sleep without the lights on. For some reason, that old fear comes rolling over me again. I take another step. Something brushes my arm, and I almost scream. Another half step and I realize I’m standing in one of the curtains.

“Fifteen seconds!”

I push at the curtain and see a sliver of light dance between its folds. I trail my hand along the fabric until I come to the opening. I think I hear someone let out a breath behind me. I look back, sure I’m being watched, and step out into the light of the stage.

“I’m here,” I say, holding my hand up to block the sudden brightness of the spotlight that is trained on center stage.

“Nice of you to decide to join us, Miss Rain,” the teacher says curtly.

“It’s Miss Raines.”

“Noted,” he says, making a mark in his binder. “You were almost too late.”

“Sorry. I was told my audition was at three thirty.”

He purses his lips for a moment. “I expect my students to be prepared for anything.”

“Well, I am,” I say.

“Do you have sheet music for the pianist?”

I stifle a smile. CeCe had always thought that was the funniest word. “I thought I’d play my own accompaniment.” I place my fingers on the right chords and prepare to start playing, but then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice the curtains at the side of the stage rustling. I stand still for a moment, trying to see if anything is really there. Maybe I hadn’t been imagining things when I was backstage. Maybe someone had been there.

Maybe the stranger from the grove had followed me.…

My muscles tense. I wonder if I should say something, but my voice is caught in my throat.

“Well, then, what are you waiting for?” Mr. Morgan asks, clearly still annoyed.

I look at him and then to the expectant faces of the students in the crowd. Some of them looked embarrassed or nervous for me, and I can tell by the tone that titters off Lexie and the cluster of friends sitting with her that they’re highly amused. I see Lexie pull her iPhone from her pocket and stealthily train it on me.

Do they think I’m going to throw up on the stage like that freshman girl? Or do I look as mentally disturbed as I feel at the moment?

“If you don’t want to be in my music program, Miss Rain, then I suggest you get off my stage,” Mr. Morgan says.

For half a second, I find myself wondering if I do want to be in his music program.

If I want to be here at all. I could just walk right off this stage, bike back to Joe’s mansion, and demand that he fly me back to Ellis.

But Joe still has that court order. He’d probably never send me back now that I am here. Or he’d get lawyers involved and my mom would end up going bankrupt trying to fight him. If I walk away now, then the sacrifice of leaving my mom so I can follow my dreams would end up being for nothing.

“No. I came here to sing.” I force all the fear and nerves out of my body with a deep breath and strum out the beginning of the song. Sometimes, when I play—when I’m really into it—I can feel the notes dancing around me. That’s the way I play today. Like my entire world is wrapped up in this song—because this is the moment I’ve been waiting for. The moment I can actively start making my dreams come true.

When my voice joins in with the guitar, I can feel the energy in the crowd shift. Their surprise vibrates about the room. Along with it are notes of happiness and relief, but I can also pick out the darker tones of jealousy from a certain pocket of girls in the crowd. I take all of it in. Absorbing the vibrations in the room and channeling them into my voice and into my hands. Letting it all come out in my music.

In Ellis, my music obsession made me different.

Here, I can use it to make me stand out.

When I round into my third song, Tobin catches my eye. He gives me a big grin and thumbs-up. The joyful melody that wafts off him has so much energy, it carries me through the rest of the song all on its own.

It isn’t until the last line that I notice that someone else is watching from the shadows in the back of the auditorium. Or at least I think I see the flash of fiery eyes in the darkness. I almost falter on the last note, but I pull it off with gusto. I hold my guitar out and take a quick bow when I’m done.

“Well, then,” Mr. Morgan says, actually sounding happy this time. “That’ll do, for sure.”

Tobin and Iris stand up and start clapping. A few others join in. I don’t pay them much attention as I jump down from the stage and jog quickly to the back of the auditorium. But I’m standing alone in the shadows—maybe I hadn’t seen anything—until someone grabs me by both hands.

“That was utterly fantastic,” Tobin says, shaking my hands in excitement. “I’ve never heard anyone with a range like yours.” I expect his touch to hurt the welts on my arm, but as he lets go of my wrist, I notice the red marks are gone.

“No wonder you got a scholarship,” Iris says, coming up to us.

“About that …,” I start to say.

Mr. Morgan raises his voice above the chatter that fills the room. “Lexie Simmons. You’re up.”

“I’d hate to be her right now,” Iris whispers. “Wouldn’t want to follow you. No way.”

Lexie approaches the stage. Her inner music pounds out a symphony of dark notes. I don’t need to see the not-so-friendly look she throws me as she climbs the stage steps to know that I have definitely crossed onto her bad side.

Tobin catches the exchange. “Looks like you might be needing a little protection from the mob,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially. “Perhaps I can offer my services.” He pretends to flex his muscles like a strong man in a carnival sideshow. I’ve got at least four inches on him heightwise, but that doesn’t seem to deter him from thinking he can be my personal goon squad.

“What’s it going to cost me?” I ask.

“Let me give you the welcome-wagon tour of the town. I’m the mayor’s kid, after all. I know all the good places to check out.”

I glance into the empty shadows behind us.

“Yeah,” I say, and smile. There’s one place in particular I want to check out again—and I don’t want to go there alone.