I nod and the Oracle’s icy touch lifts off my skin. The images in my head flicker to black. I open my eyes and look up at her covered face.
“Do you understand what you have been shown?” the priest asks.
I don’t know if I do—I have never heard anything about a Cypher in any of my lessons—but the entire living population of the Underrealm is watching me, and I dare not say that I don’t understand.
“Yes.”
“Very good.”
“What is her name?” I ask the Oracle. I need to know her name.
The Oracle takes three steps away from me and then turns to King Ren. She indicates the knife in his hand.
“Finish it. Seal the will of fate,” the priest says for her.
Blue wisps of lightning crackle forth from Ren’s hand and wind their way up the dagger he holds.
I have been struck by lightning several times in my nearly seventeen years—in training and in fights—but I am unprepared for the jolt of pain that sears through my body as my father stabs the electrified dagger into my tricep. I go limp against the altar.
Ren pulls the knife from my arm and then makes several small, burning incisions into my skin—cutting and cauterizing my flesh at the same time. I cannot see what he is doing but it feels as though he is carving letters into my skin.
“You want to call me Father?” he says. “To be my heir? To have your honor restored?”
“Yes,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
“Then you bring this girl to me,” he says, squeezing the wound he’s carved into my arm. It takes every last bit of strength I have not to scream. “You return victorious, and I will crown you as my heir and allow you to call me Father once again. But if you do not bring her to me when the gate between the Underrealm and the mortal world reopens in six months’ time, then mark my words, your hair is not the only thing you will lose.”
He slides his knife up to my throat to illustrate his point, then stalks away to his throne, gesturing to the ranks of Underlords who stand behind me and the crowds of onlookers beyond them. “Out!” he demands. “Everybody, out!”
The crowd quickly snaps back into its lines and begins to leave the throne room, following his order. I start to rise, but my head swims and I steady myself against the altar. I am stuck in a position that looks as though I am half bowing, half standing as the bystanders file out around me. I do not understand what is happening. After all the protestations, I have finally been Chosen. Which means the ceremony is supposed to go on. I am supposed to be endowed with the blessing of the Court. A wreath of laurel leaves is supposed to be placed upon my head, crowning me with glory. There is supposed to be a feast of celebration in honor of the Champions. The servants have been preparing it for weeks.
Instead, everyone is being sent away.
Ren looks in my direction. “I said for everybody to get out.” He speaks with a quiet composure that makes me shiver more than if he had shouted with rage.
I stumble through the now-empty throne room. My head aches, my arm throbs, and my neck feels naked and exposed without my hair. All I want to do is return to my bedchambers and collapse, but I know the challenges of this day aren’t over yet, and I’m not quite ready to face them.
The aftereffects of the lightning that ravaged through my body make it hard to concentrate on staying upright, let alone anything else. Knowing I can’t be seen by anyone at this point, I lean against one of the golden doors at the end of the torch-lit corridor. The strangest mixture of grief, relief, and pride grips me, and I let out the smallest of sobs.
When I regain my composure, I inspect the cauterized scars on my arm and discover the words that Ren has carved there.
It’s the name of the girl I have six months to convince to return with me to the Underrealm. The girl who can give me the status to be elevated over Rowan and the other Elite. The girl who holds the key to restoring everything that has been taken from me:
Daphne Raines.
chapter two
DAPHNE
“It’s do or die, Daphne,” CeCe says, with a sassy, almost devious tone as she wades through the sea of red balloons that separate her workstation from mine. Despite her flame red hair and freckled skin, she always reminds me of Billie Holiday with her warm, old-school, jazzy vibe. “Ask him while you have the chance.”
I know she’s right. Mom could be back any minute, and I am more likely to get a positive answer from Jonathan than her. Especially after the look Mom had made when she answered the phone call that came about ten minutes ago. I figured it must be the bank again, considering she took the handset outside and then all the way into the bungalow she and I live in behind the flower shop. It is calls like this that make me so determined to do what I have in mind.
“Go for it, Daph,” CeCe says, and pushes me through the bouquets of red and orange balloons we’ve been inflating for Ellis High’s September Social. Jonathan and his magenta apron come into view.
I clear my throat. It’s not that I’m reluctant to do what I need to do—it’s that I know I’m a terrible liar. But is it lying if you’re just omitting a small portion—okay, about 56.2 miles’ worth—of the truth? “Hey, Uncle Jonathan …,” I start to say, but the loud clank of the bell over the front door of the shop interrupts me.
Jonathan looks up from the ribbons he’s been cutting into balloon strings. “Can you get that?” he asks, referring to the customer who must have just entered the shop.
“Indie’s up there,” I say. “She can handle it.”
Jonathan balks. “You know she doesn’t have cash register privileges yet.”
I give CeCe a stricken look. I don’t want to lose my chance.
“I’m on it,” she says, and then mouths to me, “Do it!” as she disappears into the balloons on her way out of the back-room workshop to the storefront.
“Welcome to Paradise Plants!” I hear Indie say so enthusiastically, I can imagine the unsuspecting customer jumping at the sound of her voice.
“So … Uncle Jonathan,” I try to say so nonchalantly that it ends up sounding pained instead. I turn away slightly so he can’t see the blush that hits my cheeks. I grab a stray balloon by its string and twist it into the nearest bouquet of red and orange. No big deal. Just doing my work and striking up a conversation with my favorite uncle, who isn’t actually related to me. “Um … so … when I’m done with this, do you think I could get off early? I mean, the decorations are being picked up in a few minutes, and I know we still have some cleanup, but CeCe said she’d stay later so I could beg off a little early. If that’s okay with you?”
Jonathan cuts one more ribbon and then squints his eyes in a way that makes me worried that my not-quite-lying omission of the truth came tripping off my tongue so fast that he didn’t comprehend my words and I’m going to have to start over again. Then he gives me a jolly grin. “Need extra time to get ready for your dance date, eh?”
“Yeah,” I say, concentrating a little too hard on tying the strings of my balloon bouquet into a big knot. “You know me. Gotta look my best for that big date!”
“Daphne,” Jonathan says, his tone shifting ever so slightly lower.
I glance at him and see that his grin has disappeared.
He shakes the spool of ribbon in my direction. “Cut the crap, honey. I do know you. Enough to know you rejected both the boys who asked you. Even after that sweet Richards kid sent you a chocolate-dipped-fruit arrangement from that store in Hurricane. You threw it in the trash.”