The Lost Prince (5 page)

I didn’t know if she was serious or joking, but I couldn’t stay. “Look, I have to be somewhere soon,” I told her, which wasn’t a lie; I had class tonight with my kali instructor, Guro Javier, and if I was late I’d have to do fifty pushups and a hundred suicide dashes—if he was feeling generous. Guro was serious about punctuality. “Can we talk later?”

“Will you give me that interview?”

“Okay, yes, fine!” I raised a hand in frustration. “If it will get you off my back, fine.”

She beamed. “When?”

“I don’t care.”

That didn’t faze her. Nothing did, it seemed. I’d never met someone who could be so relentlessly cheerful in the face of such blatant jack-assery. “Well, do you have a phone number?” she continued, sounding suspiciously amused. “Or, I could give you mine, if you want. Of course, that means you’d actually have to call me....” She gave me a dubious look, then shook her head. “Hmm, never mind, just give me yours. Something tells me I could tattoo my number on your forehead and you wouldn’t remember to call.”

“Whatever.”

As I scribbled the digits on a scrap of paper, I couldn’t help but think how weird it was, giving my phone number to a cute girl. I’d never done this before and likely never would again. If Kingston knew, if he even saw me talking to her, girlfriend or not, he’d probably try to give me a concussion.

Kenzie stepped beside me and stood on tiptoe to peer over my shoulder. Soft, feathery strands of her hair brushed my arm, making my skin prickle and my heart pound. I caught a hint of apple or mint or some kind of sweet fragrance, and for a second forgot what I was writing.

“Um.” She leaned even closer, one slender finger pointing to the messy black scrawl on the paper. “Is this a six or a zero?”

“It’s a six,” I rasped, and stepped away, putting some distance between us. Damn, my heart was still pounding. What the hell was that about?

I handed over the paper. “Can I go now?”

She tucked it into the pocket of her jeans with another grin, though for just a moment she looked disappointed. “Don’t let me stop you, tough guy. I’ll call you later tonight, okay?”

Without answering, I stepped around her, and this time, she let me.

* * *

Kali was brutal. With the tournament less than a week off, Guro Javier was fanatical about making sure we would give nothing less than our best.

“Keep those sticks moving, Ethan,” Guro called, watching me and my sparring partner circle each other, a rattan in each hand. I nodded and twirled my sticks, keeping the pattern going while looking for holes in my opponent’s guard. We wore light padded armor and a helmet so that the sticks wouldn’t leave ugly, throbbing welts over bare skin and we could really smack our opponent without seriously injuring him. That’s not to say I didn’t come home with nice purple bruises every so often—“badges of courage,” as Guro called them.

My sparring partner lunged. I angled to the side, blocking his strike with one stick while landing three quick blows on his helmet with the other.

“Good!” Guro called, bringing the round to a close. “Ethan, watch your sticks. Don’t let them just sit there, keep them moving, keep them flowing, always. Chris, angle out next time—don’t just back up and let him hit you.”

“Yes, Guro,” we both said, and bowed to each other, ending the match. Backing to the corner, I wrenched off my helmet and let the cool air hit my face. Call me violent and aggressive, but I loved this. The flashing sticks, the racing adrenaline, the solid crack of your weapon hitting a vital spot on someone’s armor…there was no bigger rush in the world. While I was here, I was just another student, learning under Guro Javier. Kali was the only place where I could forget my life and school and the constant, judging stares, and just be myself.

Not to mention, beating on someone with sticks was an awesome way to relieve pent-up aggression.

“Good class, everyone,” Guro called, motioning us to the front of the room. We bowed to our instructor, touching one stick to our heart and the other to our forehead, as he continued. “Remember, the tournament is this Saturday. Those of you participating in the demonstrations, I would like you there early so you can practice and go over the forms and patterns. Also, Ethan—” he looked at me “—I need to talk to you before you leave. Class dismissed, everyone.” He clapped his hands, and the rest of the group began to disperse, talking excitedly about the tournament and other kali-related things. I stripped off my armor, set it carefully on the mats and waited.

Guro gestured, and I followed him to the corner, gathering up punch mitts and the extra rattan sticks scattered near the wall. After stacking them neatly on the corner shelves, I turned to find Guro watching me with a solemn expression.

Guro Javier wasn’t a big guy; in fact, I had an inch or two on him in my bare feet, and I wasn’t very tall. I was pretty fit, not huge like a linebacker, but I did work out; Guro was all sinew and lean muscle, and the most graceful person I’d ever seen in my life. Even practicing or warming up, he looked like a dancer, twirling his weapons with a speed I had yet to master and feared I never would. And he could strike like a cobra; one minute he’d be standing in front of you demonstrating a technique, the next, you’d be on the ground, blinking and wondering how you got there. Guro’s age was hard to tell; he had strands of silver through his short black hair, and laugh lines around his eyes and mouth. He pushed me hard, harder than the others, drilling me with patterns, insisting I get a technique close to perfect before I moved on. It wasn’t that he played favorites, but I think he realized that I wanted this more, needed this more, than the other students. This wasn’t just a hobby for me. These were skills that might someday save my life.

“How is your new school?” Guro asked in a matter-of-fact way. I started to shrug but caught myself. I tried very hard not to fall back into old, sullen habits with my instructor. I owed him more than a shrug and a one-syllable answer.

“It’s fine, Guro.”

“Getting along with your teachers?”

“Trying to.”

“Hmm.” Guro idly picked up a rattan and spun it through the air, though his eyes remained distant. He often did that stick twirling when thinking, demonstrating a technique, or even talking to us. It was habit, I guessed; I didn’t think he even realized he was doing it.

“I’ve spoken to your mother,” Guro continued calmly, and my stomach twisted. “I’ve asked her to keep me updated on your progress at school. She’s worried about you, and I can’t say I like what I’ve heard.” The whirling stick paused for a moment, and he looked directly at me. “I do not teach kali for violence, Ethan. If I hear you’ve been in any more fights, or that your grades are slipping, I’ll know you need to concentrate more on school than kali practice. You’ll be out of the demonstration, is that clear?”

I sucked in a breath.
Great. Thanks a lot, Mom
. “Yes, Guro.”

He nodded. “You’re a good student, Ethan. I want you to succeed in other places, too, yes? Kali isn’t everything.”

“I know, Guro.”

The stick started its twirling pattern again, and Guro nodded in dismissal. “Then I’ll see you on Saturday. Remember, thirty minutes early, at least!”

I bowed and retreated to the locker room.

My phone blinked when I pulled it out, indicating a new message, though I didn’t recognize the number. Puzzled, I checked voice mail and was greeted by a familiar, overly cheerful voice.

“Hey, tough-guy, don’t forget you owe me an interview. Call me tonight, you know, when you’re done robbing banks and stealing cars. Talk to you later!”

I groaned. I’d forgotten about her. Stuffing the phone into my bag, I slung it over my shoulder and was about to leave when the lights flickered and went out.

Oh, nice. Probably Redding, trying to scare me again.
Rolling my eyes, I waited, listening for footsteps and snickering laughter. Chris Redding, my sparring partner, fancied himself a practical joker and liked to target people who kicked his ass in practice. Usually, that meant me.

I held my breath, remaining motionless and alert. As the silence stretched on, annoyance turned to unease. The light switch was next to the door—I could see it through a gap in the aisles, and there was no one standing there. I was in the locker room alone.

Carefully, I eased my bag off my shoulder, unzipped it and drew out a rattan stick, just in case. Edging forward, stick held out in front of me, I peered around the locker row. I was not in the mood for this. If Redding was going jump out and yell
“rah,”
he was going to get a stick upside the head, and I’d apologize later.

There was a soft buzz, somewhere overhead. I looked up just as something tiny half fell, half fluttered from the ceiling, right at my face. I leaped back, and it flopped to the floor, twitching like a dazed bird.

I edged close, ready to smack it if it lunged up at me again. The thing stirred weakly where it lay on the cement, looking like a giant wasp or a winged spider. From what I could tell, it was green and long-limbed with two transparent wings crumpled over its back. I stepped forward and nudged it with the end of the stick. It batted feebly at the rattan
with a long, thin arm.

A piskie? What’s it doing here?
As fey went, piskies were usually pretty harmless, though they could play nasty tricks if insulted or bored. And, tiny or no, they were still fey. I was tempted to flick this one under the bench like a dead spider and continue on to my truck, when it raised its face from the floor and stared up at me with huge, terrified eyes.

It was Thistle, Todd’s friend. At least, I thought it was the same faery; all piskies looked pretty much the same to me. But I thought I recognized the sharp pointed face, the puff of yellow dandelion hair. Its mouth moved, gaping wide, and its wings buzzed faintly, but it seemed too weak to get up.

Frowning, I crouched down to see it better, still keeping my rattan out in case it was just faking. “How did you get in here?” I muttered, prodding it gently with the stick. It swatted at the end but didn’t move from the floor. “Were you following me?”

It gave a garbled buzz and collapsed, apparently exhausted, and I hesitated, not knowing what to do. Clearly, it was in trouble, but helping the fey went against all the rules I’d taught myself over the years. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t interact with the Fair Folk. Never make a contract, and never accept their help. The smart thing to do would be to walk away and not look back.

Still, if I helped this once, the piskie would be in my debt, and I could think of several things I could demand in exchange. I could demand that she leave me alone. Or leave Todd alone. Or abandon whatever scheme the half-breed was having her do.

Or, better yet, I could demand that she tell no one about my sister and my connection to her.

This is stupid,
I told myself, still watching the piskie crawl weakly around my rattan
,
trying to pull herself up the length of the stick.
You know faeries will twist any bargain to their favor, even if they owe you something. This is going to end badly.

Oh, well. When had I ever been known for doing the smart thing?

With a sigh, I bent down and grabbed the piskie by the wings, lifting her up in front of me. She dangled limply, half-delirious, though from what I had no idea. Was it me, or did the faery seem almost…transparent? Not just her wings; she flickered in and out of focus like a blurry camera shot.

And then, I saw something beyond the piskie’s limp form, lurking in the darkness at the end of the locker room. Something pale and ghostlike, long hair drifting around its head like mist.

“Ethan?”

Guro’s voice echoed through the locker room, and the thing vanished. Quickly, I unzipped my bag and stuffed the piskie inside as my instructor appeared in the doorway. His eyes narrowed when he saw me.

“Everything all right?” he asked as I shouldered the bag and stepped forward. And, was it my imagination, or did he glance at the corner where the creepy ghost-thing was? “I thought I heard something. Chris isn’t hiding in a corner ready to jump out, is he?”

“No, Guro. It’s fine.”

I waited for him to move out of the doorway so I wouldn’t have to shoulder past him with my bag. My heart pounded, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Something was still in the room with me; I could feel it watching us, its cold eyes on my back.

Guro’s eyes flicked to the corner again, narrowing. “Ethan,” he said in a low voice, “my grandfather was a
Mang-Huhula
—you know what that means, yes?”

I nodded, trying not to seem impatient. The
Mang-Huhula
was the spiritual leader of the tribe, a faith-healer or fortune teller of sorts. Guro himself was a
tuhon,
someone who passed down his culture and practices, who kept the traditions alive. He’d told us this before; I wasn’t sure why he was reminding me now.

“My grandfather was a wise man,” Guro went on, holding my gaze. “He told me not to put your trust in only your eyes. That to truly see, sometimes you had to put your faith in the invisible things. You had to believe what no one else was willing to. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I heard a soft slither behind me, like wet cloth over cement, and my skin crawled. It took all my willpower not to draw my rattan and swing around. “I think so, Guro.”

Guro paused a moment, then stepped back, looking faintly disappointed. Obviously, I’d just missed something, or he could tell I was really distracted. But all he said was, “If you need help, Ethan, all you have to do is ask. If you’re in trouble, you can come to me. For anything, no matter how small or crazy it might seem. Remember that.”

The thing, whatever it was, slithered closer. I nodded, trying not to fidget. “I will, Guro.”

“Go on, then.” Guro stepped aside, nodding. “Go home. I’ll see you at the tournament.”

I fled the room, forcing myself not to look back. And I didn’t stop until I reached my truck.

* * *

My phone rang as soon as I was home.