The Lost Prince

At least Kingston and his flunky were absent today, though I did notice Todd in one of my classes, looking smug. He kept glancing at the quarterback’s empty desk, smirking to himself and nodding. It made me nervous, but I swore not to get involved. If the half-breed wanted to screw around with the notoriously fickle Fair Ones, I wasn’t going to be there when he got burned.

When the last bell rang, I gathered my backpack and rushed out, hoping to evade a repeat of the day before. I saw Todd as I went out the door, watching me as if he wanted to talk, but I quickly lost myself in the crowded hallway.

At my locker, I stuffed my books and homework into my pack, slammed the door—and came face-to-face with Kenzie St. James.

“Hey, tough guy.”

Oh, no. What did she want? Probably to tear me a new one about the fight; if she was on the pom squad, Kingston was likely her boyfriend. Depending on which rumor you’d heard, I had either sucker-punched the quarterback or I’d threatened him in the hallway and had gotten my ass kicked before the teachers pulled us apart. Neither story was flattering, and I’d been wondering when someone would give me crap about it. I just hadn’t expected it to be her.

I turned to leave, but she smoothly moved around to block my path. “Just a second!” she insisted, planting herself in front of me. “I want to talk to you.”

I glared at her, a cold, hostile stare that had given redcaps pause and made a pair of spriggans back down once. Kenzie didn’t move, her determined stance never wavering. I slumped in defeat. “What?” I growled. “Come to warn me to leave your boyfriend alone if I know what’s good for me?”

She frowned. “Boyfriend?”

“The quarterback.”

“Oh.” She snorted, wrinkling her nose. It was kind of cute. “Brian’s not my boyfriend.”

“No?” That was surprising. I’d been so sure she was going to rip into me about the fight, maybe threaten to make me sorry if I hurt her precious football star. Why else would this girl want to talk to me?

Kenzie took advantage of my surprise and stepped closer. I swallowed and resisted the urge to step back. Kenzie was shorter than me by several inches, but that fact seemed completely lost on her. “Don’t worry, tough guy. I don’t have a boyfriend waiting to slug you in the bathrooms.” Her eyes sparkled. “If it comes to that, I’ll slug you myself.”

I didn’t doubt she’d try. “What do you want?” I asked again, more and more perplexed by this strange, cheerful girl.

“I’m the editor for the school paper,” she announced, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “And I was hoping you would do me a favor. Every semester, I interview the new students who started late, you know, so people can get to know them better. I’d love to do an interview with you, if you’re up for it.”

For the second time in thirty seconds, I was thrown. “You’re an editor?”

“Well, more of a reporter, really. But since everyone else hates the technical stuff, I do the editing, too.”

“For the paper?”

“That is generally what reporters report for, yes.”

“But … I thought …” I gave myself a mental shake, collecting my scattered thoughts. “I saw you with the pom squad,” I said, and it was almost an accusation. Kenzie’s slender eyebrows rose.

“And, what? You thought I was a cheerleader?” She shrugged. “Not my thing, but thank you for thinking so. Heights and I don’t really get along very well, and I can barely walk across the gym floor without falling down and bruising myself. Plus, I’d have to dye my hair blond, and that would just fry the ends.”

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.

After closing my bedroom door, I dropped my gym bag on the bed, listening to the buzz of wings from somewhere inside. It seemed the piskie was still alive, though it probably wasn’t thrilled at being zipped into a bag with used gym shorts and sweaty T-shirts. Smirking at the thought, I checked the trilling phone. Same unfamiliar number. I sighed and held it to my ear.

“God, you’re persistent,” I told the girl and heard a chuckle on the other end.

“It’s a reporter skill,” she replied. “If every newscaster got scared off by the threat of violence or kidnapping or death, there wouldn’t be any news at all. They have to brave a lot to get their stories. Consider yourself practice for the real world.”

“I’m so honored,” I deadpanned. She laughed.

“So, anyway, are you free tomorrow? Say, after school? We can meet in the library and you can give me that interview.”

“Why?” I scowled at the phone, ignoring the angry buzzing coming from my gym bag. “Just ask me your questions now and be done with it.”

“Oh, no, I never do interviews over the phone if I can help it.” The buzzing grew louder, and my bag started to shake. I gave it a thump, and it squeaked in outrage.

“Phone interviews are too impersonal,” Kenzie went on, oblivious to my ridiculous fight with the gym bag. “I want to look at the person I’m interviewing, really see their reactions, get a glimpse into their thoughts and feelings. I can’t do that over the phone. So, tomorrow in the library, okay? After the last class. Will you be there?”

A session alone with Kenzie. My heart beat faster at the thought, and I coldly stomped it down. Yes, Kenzie was cute, smart, popular and extremely attractive. You’d have to be blind not to see it. She was also obscenely rich, or her family was, anyway. The few rumors I’d heard said her father owned three mansions and a private jet, and Kenzie only went to public school because she wanted to. Even if I was anywhere near normal, Mackenzie St. James was way out of my league.

And it was better that way. I couldn’t allow myself to get comfortable with this girl, to let my guard down for an instant. The second I let people get close to me, the fey would make them targets. I would not let that happen ever again.

My bag actually jumped about two inches off the bed, landing with a thump on the mattress. I winced and dragged it back before it could leap to the floor. “Sure,” I said distractedly, not really thinking about it. “Whatever. I’ll be there.”

“Awesome!” I could sense Kenzie’s smile. “Thanks, tough guy. See you tomorrow.”

I hung up.

Outside, lightning flickered through the window, showing a storm was on its way. Grabbing my rattan stick, I braced myself and unzipped the gym bag in one quick motion, releasing a wave of stink and a furious, buzzing piskie into my room.

Not surprisingly, the faery made a beeline for the window but veered away when it noticed the line of salt poured along the sill. It darted toward the door, but an iron horseshoe hung over the frame and a coil of metal wire had been wound over the doorknob. It hummed around the ceiling like a frantic wasp, then finally drifted down to the headboard, alighting on a bedpost. Crossing its arms, it gave me an annoyed, expectant look.

I smiled nastily. “Feeling better, are we? You’re not getting out of here until I say so, so sit down and relax.” The piskie’s wings vibrated, and I kept my rattan out, ready to swat if it decided to dive-bomb me. “I saved your life back there,” I reminded the faery. “So I think you owe me something. That’s generally how these things work. You owe me a life debt, and I’m calling it in right now.”

It bristled but crossed its legs and sat down on the post, looking sulky. I relaxed my guard, but only a little. “Sucks being on that end of a bargain, doesn’t it?” I smirked, enjoying my position, and leaned back against the desk.

The piskie glared, then lifted one arm in an impatient gesture that clearly said, Well? Get on with it, then. Still keeping it in my sights, I crossed my room and locked the door, more to keep curious parents out than annoyed faeries in. Life debt or no, I could only imagine the trouble the piskie would cause if she managed to escape to the rest of the house.

“Thistle, right?” I asked, returning to the desk. The piskie’s head bobbed once in affirmation. I wondered if I should ask about Meghan but decided against it. Piskies, I’d discovered, were notoriously difficult to understand and had the attention span of a gnat. Long, drawn-out conversations with them were virtually impossible, as they tended to forget the question as soon as it was answered.

“You know Todd, then?”

The piskie buzzed and nodded.

“What did you do for him recently?”

The result was a garbled, high-pitched mess of words and sentences, spoken so quickly it made my head spin. It was like listening to a chipmunk on speed. “All right, enough!” I said, holding up my hands. “I wasn’t thinking.” Yes or no answers, Ethan, remember? The piskie gave me a confused frown, but I ignored it and continued. “So, were you following me today?”

Another nod.

“Why—”

The piskie gave a terrified squeal and buzzed frantically about the room, nearly smacking into me as it careened around the walls. I ducked, covering my head, as it zipped across the room, babbling in its shrill, squeaking voice. “Okay, okay! Calm down! Sorry I asked.” It finally hovered in a corner, shaking its head, eyes bulging out of its skull. I eyed it warily.

Huh. That was … interesting. “What was that about?” I demanded. The piskie buzzed and hugged itself, wings trembling. “Something was after you tonight, wasn’t it? That thing in the locker room—it was chasing you. Piss off an Iron faery, then?” The fey of the Iron Queen’s court were the only creatures I could think of that could provoke such a reaction. I didn’t know what it was like in the Nevernever, but here, the old-world faeries and the Iron fey still didn’t get along very well. Generally, the two groups avoided each other, pretending the other didn’t exist. But faeries were fickle and destructive and violent, and fights still broke out between them, usually ending fatally.

But the piskie shook its head, squeaking and waving its thin arms. I frowned. “It wasn’t an Iron fey,” I guessed, and it shook its head again, vigorously. “What was it?”