“Lessers are not allowed …,” Garrick starts to protest.
“Tell them that Champion Haden sent you,” Dax says.
Garrick nods and exits without another word. I hear his feet slapping against the marble floor as he runs away. The sound of it sends another flash of unpleasant memories through my mind. Garrick’s sandals had made that same noise when I sent him running to fetch my father when my mother needed help. I remember how long I waited for my father to return with him. I remember how I …
The shame of those memories overwhelms me. Suddenly, all I can think about is the blood that stains my face. I try wiping it away with my leather wrist cuff but I can tell it only smears the blood more. The wound won’t stop bleeding.
“I have to go.” I step quickly away from Dax and head toward the exit, bits of alabaster statue crunching under my feet. “The Court can’t see me like this. He can’t see me. If they call me back in there”—I gesture toward the throne room where my father remains—“I have to go.…”
“Lord Haden, wait,” Dax says. “You should remain here, in case—”
“I can’t.” I pull away from him and flee from the antechamber as fast as possible. If the Court is going to punish me for what happened with Rowan, they’ll have to come and find me on their own.
chapter four
DAPHNE
I don’t know why I called him that. Dad. The man who stood in front of me now may have been my biological father, but he had never been my dad. That title is supposed to be reserved for the man who teaches you how to ride a bike, or who picks the splinters out of your skin, helps you with your homework, and argues with you about your curfew. Not for the person who married your mom in a Vegas drive-thru chapel after one date, only to leave her three days later to become a rock star. I wouldn’t have even recognized Joe if I hadn’t seen his face splashed all over the covers of tabloids in the grocery store checkout stand.
I’m so stuck on this dad detail, I don’t follow what Joe is saying. I can see his lips moving and I can tell he’s using the same practiced tone of voice that he employs during TV interviews, or while accepting awards at the Grammys, like he’s giving a rehearsed speech. But I don’t actually hear the words he’s saying until he places one of his hands on my shoulder and says, “That’s why we have to leave tonight.”
“What?” I step back abruptly, and my heel makes a squeaky noise against the linoleum floor. Upon Joe’s request, we and the glossy woman moved our conversation to my mother’s small office in the back of the shop for privacy, but I know Jonathan, CeCe, and probably Indie, are listening at the grate on the other side of the wall. I wish one of them could fill me in. “I’m sorry. What did you just say?” I ask Joe.
The grin my father has plastered on his face falters at the edges. “We need to go tonight,” he says. He waits for a moment, probably for some sign of understanding from me. When I don’t respond, he goes on. “To your new school. In California. The one we’ve been talking about for the last few minutes.”
“What?” I take another step back. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
He loops his fingers behind his giant—and, no doubt, real platinum—skull-shaped belt buckle, and rocks back on his heels. “Bugger. I thought you were taking this too well.” He runs his fingers through his long hair and clears his throat. “I know I haven’t been there for you, Daphne,” he says, starting his little speech over again. “I want to make things up to you. This school—Olympus Hills High—can open up opportunities for you that I never had and that you can’t possibly get here. The training you could get for your voice alone, and the education is top notch. It’s what you deserve. Your voice is amazing.…”
He would think so. He claimed that I had his voice.
“You can only attend the school if you’re a resident of Olympus Hills, and I just happened to have finalized the purchase of a home there last week. You would live with me. We could get to know each other.”
I probably look like some kind of dead fish with the way my mouth is hanging open. I don’t even know what to say to this … this proposition.
My father checks his watch. His smile vanishes altogether. “This is a big deal, Daphne. You have no idea how many strings I had to pull to get you in.” His voice is edged with a pleading tone that surprises me, and I notice for the first time how much older he seems in person than in the images I’ve seen of him in the Star Tracks section of People magazine. “If we don’t go tonight, you will lose your place.”
“Tonight?!” This isn’t happening. “But there’s this talent competition tonight. I’m supposed to audition for scholarships for college.” And school is starting, and CeCe’s birthday is next week, and Mom needs her flower cooler fixed, and I’m supposed to start teaching guitar lessons for the kids in my neighborhood to help bring in extra cash. All I’ve ever wanted is to graduate and get out of Ellis, but suddenly I can think of a million reasons why I need to stay. Why I’m not ready to leave. Not yet.
Joe clasps his hands. “Daphne, darling. If you’re Joe Vince’s daughter and you graduate from a place like Olympus Hills, you won’t have to audition for scholarships anywhere. Schools will throw money at you to attend. Not that you’ll even need it now. But only if you come with me—”
“She’s not going anywhere with you.”
My mother sweeps into her office, and Joe stops speaking midsentence. He looks at her wide eyed, almost as if he’s a little afraid of her, and I can’t help but notice that even the glossy woman with the briefcase and the slick chignon is taken aback by my mother. The two are polar opposites. While the woman is petite, and gives off a very even, uncluttered tone, my mom stands over six feet tall and is wearing her signature green maxi dress and the pollen-stained apron I’ve rarely seen her without. Instead of heels, Mom’s feet are bare. My mother never wears shoes, as if all those NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE signs don’t apply to her. It’s like she believes the grass won’t grow and the flowers won’t bloom if she doesn’t glide over the earth with her naked feet each day. Her hair tumbles about her shoulders like waves of golden wheat, and her eyes, bright blue like the color of delphinium blossoms, pierce right into Joe. The tone that comes off her is like the crescendo of a symphony. I’m tall like my mother, and people say I look just like her, but I don’t know how I can even compare when it comes to presence. She’s like a force of nature.
“Don’t even try me,” she says to Joe.
He clears his throat. “As I told you on the phone, Demi, I have a court order.”
The woman in the suit dress snaps open her briefcase and pulls out a document that supposedly proves that Joe is my new legal guardian. How he got a judge to grant him custody of the teenage daughter he’s seen only four times since I was born is beyond me. I mean, Joe doesn’t make the tabloids because of his more sober exploits. Then again, he probably has enough money to keep half the lawyers in California on retainer.
Mom doesn’t even look at the paper. “I don’t care what that document says. You can’t just waltz in here and take my daughter away.”
“Our daugh … ter,” Joe says, but Mom gives him a look that makes him stammer.