The Lost Prince (12 page)

“Hello?”

“Ethan?” The voice on the other end wasn’t Kenzie, as I’d hoped, though it was vaguely familiar. “Is this Ethan Chase?”

“Yeah?”

“This…this is Mrs. Wyndham, Todd’s mother.”

My heart skipped a beat. I swallowed hard and gripped the phone tightly, as the voice on the other end continued.

“I know the police have already spoken to you,” she said in a halting, broken voice, “but I…I wanted to ask you myself. You say you’re Todd’s friend…do you know what could have happened to him? Please, I’m desperate. I just want my son home.”

Her voice broke at the end, and I closed my eyes. “Mrs. Wyndham, I’m sorry about Todd,” I said, feeling like an ass. Worse than an ass, like a complete and utter failure, because I’d let another person down, because I couldn’t protect them from the fey. “But I really don’t know where he is. The last time we spoke was yesterday at school, before I talked to you, I swear.” She gave a little sob, making my gut clench. “I’m really sorry,” I said again, knowing how useless that sounded. “I wish I could give you better news.”

She took a shaky breath. “All right, thank you, Ethan. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She sniffed and seemed about to say goodbye, but hesitated. “If…if you see him,” she went on, “or if you find any information at all…will you let me know? Please?”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “If I see him, I’ll make sure he gets home, I promise.”

After she hung up, I paced my room, not knowing what to do. I tried surfing online, watching YouTube, checking out various weapon stores, just to keep myself distracted, but it didn’t help. I couldn’t stop thinking of Todd, and Kenzie, caught in the twisted games of the fey. And it was partly my fault. Todd had been playing a dangerous game, and Kenzie was too stubborn to know when to back off, but the common denominator was me.

Now, one of them was gone and another family was torn apart. Just like last time.

Picking up my phone, I stuck it in my jeans pocket and snatched my keys from the desk. Grabbing my gym bag from the floor, I started to leave. Might as well head to the demonstration now; it was better than standing around here, driving myself crazy.

The silver coin on the desk glinted, and I paused. Sliding it into my palm, I stared at it, wondering where Meghan was, what she was doing. Did she ever think of me? Would she be disgusted, if she knew how I’d turned out?

“Ethan!” Mom’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “Your karate thing is tonight, isn’t it? Do you want anything to eat before you go?”

I stuffed the coin in my pocket with the keys and left the room. “Kali, Mom, not karate,” I told her, walking into the kitchen. “And no, I’ll grab something on the way. Don’t wait up for me.”

“Curfew is still at eleven, Ethan.”

Irritation flared. “Yeah, I know,” I muttered. “It’s been that way for five years. Why would it change now? It’s not like I’m old enough to make my own decisions.” Before she could say anything, I stalked past her and headed outside. “And, yes, I’ll call if I’m going to be late,” I threw back over my shoulder.

I could feel Mom’s half angry, half worried gaze on my back as I slammed out the front door, making sure to bang it as I left. Stupid of me. If I had known what was going to happen at the demonstration that night, I would’ve said something much different.

* * *

The building was already full of people when I arrived. Tournaments had been going on for most of the afternoon, and shouts,
ki-yas,
and the shuffle of bare feet on mats echoed through the room as I ducked inside. Kids in their white gis tied with different colored belts threw punches and kicks within taped-off arenas; from the looks of it, it was the kempo students’ turn on the mats.

I spotted Guro Javier and made my way over, weaving through students and onlookers, gritting my teeth as someone—a large kid with a purple belt—elbowed me in the ribs. I glared at him, and he smirked, as if daring me to try something. As if I’d start a fight with the brat in front of two hundred parents and about a dozen masters of various arts. Ignoring the kid’s self-satisfied grin, I continued along the wall and stood next to my guro in the corner. He was watching the tournament with detached interest and gave a faint smile as I came up.

“You’re very early, Ethan.”

I shrugged helplessly. “Couldn’t stay away.”

“Are you ready?” Guro turned to me. “Our demonstration is after the kempo students are finished. Oh, and Sean sprained his ankle last night, so you’re going to be doing the live weapon demo.”

I felt a small, nervous thrill. “Really?”

“Do you need to practice?”

“No, I’ll be fine.” I thought back to the few times I’d handled Guro’s real swords, which were short, single-edged blades similar to a machete. They were a little shorter then my rattan
,
razor sharp and about as deadly as they looked. They’d been in Guro’s family for generations, and I was a bit in awe that I’d be wielding them tonight.

Guro nodded. “Go, get ready,” he said, eyeing my holey jeans and T-shirt. “Warm up a bit if you want. We should start in about an hour.”

I retreated to the locker room, changed into loose black pants and a white shirt, and carefully removed my wallet, keys and phone, ditching them in the side pocket of my gym bag. As I pulled my phone out, something bright tumbled to the floor, striking the ground with a ping.

The silver token. I’d forgotten about it. I stared at the thing, wondering if I should stuff it in my bag or just leave it on the floor. Still, it was my last connection to my sister, and even though Meghan didn’t care about me, I didn’t want to lose it just yet. I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket.

I stretched a bit, practiced several patterns empty-handed, making sure I knew what I was doing, then headed out to watch the tournament. The other kali students were starting to arrive, walking by me with brief nods and waves before flocking around Guro, but I didn’t feel like socializing. Instead, I found an isolated corner behind the rows of chairs and leaned against it with my arms crossed, studying the matches.

“Ethan?”

The familiar voice caught me off guard. I jerked my head up as Kenzie slipped through the crowd and walked my way, a notebook in one hand and a camera around her neck. A tiny thrill shot through me, but I quickly squashed it.

“Hey,” she greeted, giving me a friendly but puzzled smile. “I didn’t expect to see you around. What are you doing here?”

“What are
you
doing here?” I countered, as though it wasn’t obvious.

“Oh, you know.” She held up her camera. “School paper stuff. A couple of the boys in our class take lessons here, and I’m covering the tournament. What about you?” Her eyes lit up. “Are you in the tournament? Will I actually get to see you fight?”

“I’m not fighting.”

“But you do take something here, right? Kempo? Jujitsu?”

“Kali.”

“What’s that?”

I sighed. “A Filipino fighting style using sticks and knives. You’ll see in a few minutes.”

“Oh.” Kenzie pondered this, then took a step forward, gazing up at me with thoughtful brown eyes. I swallowed the sudden dryness in my throat and leaned away, feeling the wall press against my back, preventing escape. “Well, you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Ethan Chase?” she mused with a small grin, cocking her head at me. “I wonder what other secrets are hiding in that broody head of yours.”

I forced myself not to move, to keep my voice light and uncaring. “Is that why you keep hanging around me? You’re curious?” I smirked and shook my head. “You’re going to be disappointed. My life isn’t that exciting.”

I received a dubious look, and she took another step forward, peering into my eyes as if she could see the truth in them. My stomach squirmed as she leaned in. “Uh-huh. So, you keep your distance from everyone, take secret martial arts classes, and were expelled from your last school because the library mysteriously caught fire with you in it, and you’re telling me your life isn’t that exciting?”

I shifted uneasily. The girl was perceptive, I’d give her that. Unfortunately, she was now treading a little too close to the “exciting” part of my life, which meant I was either going to have to lie, pretend ignorance or pull the asshole card to drive her off. And right now, I didn’t have it in me to be a jerk.

Meeting her gaze, I shrugged and offered a faint smile. “Well, I can’t tell you all my secrets, can I? That would ruin my image.”

She huffed, tossing her bangs. “Oh, fine. Be mysterious and broody. You still owe me an interview, you know.” A wicked look crossed her face then, and she held up her notebook. “In fact, since you’re not doing anything right now, care to answer a few questions?”

“Ethan!”

Strangely relieved and disappointed at the same time, I glanced up to see Guro waving me over. The rest of my classmates had gathered and were milling around nervously. It seemed the kempo matches were wrapping up.

Nice timing, Guro,
I thought, and I didn’t know if I was being serious or sarcastic. Pushing away from the wall, I turned to Kenzie with a helpless shrug. “I gotta go,” I told her. “Sorry.”

“Fine,” she called after me. “But I’m going to get that interview, tough guy! I’ll see you after your thing.”

Guro raised an eyebrow as I came up but didn’t ask who the girl was or what I’d been doing. He never poked into our personal lives, for which I was thankful. “We’re almost up,” he said, and handed me a pair of short blades, their metal edges gleaming under the fluorescent lights. They weren’t Guro’s swords; these were different—a little longer, perhaps, the blades not quite as curved. I held them lightly, checking their weight and balance, and gave them a practice spin. Strangely enough, I felt they had been made especially for me.

I looked questioningly at Guro, and he nodded approvingly.

“I sharpened them this morning, so be careful,” was all he said, and I backed away, taking my place along the wall.

The mats finally cleared, and a voice crackled over the intercom, introducing Guro Javier and his class of kali students. There was a smattering of applause, and we all went onto the mats to bow while Guro spoke about the origin of kali, what it meant, and how it was used. I could sense the bored impatience of the other students along the wall; they didn’t want to see a demonstration, they wanted to get on with the tournament. I held my head high and kept my gaze straight ahead. I wasn’t doing this for them.

There was a brief gleam of light along one side of the room: a camera flash. I suppressed a groan, knowing exactly who was taking pictures of me. Wonderful. If my photo ended up in the school paper, if people suddenly knew I studied a martial art, I could see myself being hounded relentlessly; people lining up to take a shot at the “karate kid.” I cursed the nosy reporter under my breath, wondering if I could separate her from the camera long enough to delete the images.

The demonstration started with a couple of the beginner students doing a pattern known as Heaven Six, and the clacks of their rattan sticks echoed noisily throughout the room. I saw Kenzie take a few pictures as they circled the mats. Then the more advanced students demonstrated a few disarms, take-downs, and free-style sparring. Guro circled with them, explaining what they were doing, how we practiced, and how it could be applied to real life.

Then it was my turn.

“Of course,” Guro said as I stepped onto the mats, holding the swords at my sides, “the rattan
—
the kali sticks—are proxies for real blades. We practice with sticks, but everything we do can be transferred to blades, knives or empty hands. As Ethan will demonstrate. This is an advanced technique,” he cautioned, as I stepped across him, standing a few yards away. “Do not try this at home.”

I bowed to him and the audience. He raised a rattan stick, twirled it once, and suddenly tossed it at me. I responded instantly, whipping the blades through the air, cutting it into three parts. The audience gasped, sitting straighter in their chairs, and I smiled.

Yes, these are real swords.

Guro nodded and stepped away. I half closed my eyes and brought my swords into position, one held vertically over one shoulder, the other tucked against my ribs. Balanced on the balls of my feet, I let my mind drift, forgetting the audience and the onlookers and my fellow students watching along the wall. I breathed out slowly and let my mind go blank.

Music began, drumming a rhythm over the loudspeakers, and I started to move.

I started slowly at first, both weapons whirling around me, sliding from one motion to the next.
Don’t think about what you’re doing, just move, flow.
I danced around the floor, throwing a few flips and kicks into the pattern because I could, keeping time with the music. As the drums picked up, pounding out a frantic rhythm, I moved faster, faster, whipping the blades around my body, until I could feel the wind from their passing, hear the vicious hum as they sliced through the air around me.

Someone whooped out in the audience, but I barely heard them. The people watching didn’t matter; nothing mattered except the blades in my hands and the flowing motion of the dance. The swords flashed silver in the dim light, fluid and flexible, almost liquid. There was no block or strike, dodge or parry—the dance was all of these things, and none, all at once. I pushed myself harder than I ever had before, until I couldn’t tell where the swords ended and my arms began, until I was just a weapon in the center of the floor, and no one could touch me.

With a final flourish, I spun around, ending the demonstration on one knee, the blades back in their ready position. For a heartbeat after I finished, there was absolute silence. Then, like a dam breaking, a roar of applause swept over me, laced with whistles and scraping chairs as people surged to their feet. I rose and bowed to the audience, then to my master, who gave me a proud nod. He understood. This wasn’t just a demonstration for me; it was something I’d worked for, trained for, and finally pulled off—without getting into trouble or hurting anyone in the process. I had actually done something right for a change.