The Iron Legends: Winter's Passage\Summer's Crossing\Iron's Prophecy (27 page)

The Lost Prince

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, takedowns and freestyle 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.

I looked up and met Kenzie’s eyes on the other side of the
mats. She was grinning and clapping frantically, her notebook lying on the floor
beside her, and I smiled back.

“That was awesome,” she said, weaving around the edge of the
mat when I stepped off the floor, breathing hard. “I had no idea you could
do…that. Congratulations, you’re a certified badass.”

I felt a warm glow of…something, deep inside. “Thanks,” I
muttered, carefully sliding the blades back into their sheaths before laying
them gently atop Guro’s bag. It was hard to give them up; I wanted to keep
holding them, feeling their perfect weight as they danced through the air. I’d
seen Guro practice with his own blades, and he looked so natural with them, like
they were extensions of his arms. I wondered if I’d looked the same out there on
the mat, the shining edges coming so close to my body but never touching it. I
wondered if Guro would ever let me train with them again.

Our instructor had called the last student to demonstrate knife
techniques with him, and he had the audience’s full attention now. Meanwhile I
caught several appreciative gazes directed at Kenzie from my fellow kali
students, and felt myself bristle.

“Come on,” I told her, stepping away from the others before
Chris could jump in and introduce himself. “I need a soda. Want one?”

She nodded eagerly. Together, we slipped through the crowd, out
the doors and into the hallway, leaving the noise and commotion behind.

I fed two dollars into the vending machine at the end of the
hall, choosing a Pepsi for myself, then a Mountain Dew at Kenzie’s request. She
smiled her thanks as I tossed it to her, and we leaned against the corridor
wall, basking in the silence.

“So,” Kenzie ventured after several heartbeats. She gave me a
sideways look. “Care to answer a few questions now?”

I knocked the back of my head against the wall. “Sure,” I
muttered, closing my eyes. The girl wouldn’t let me be until we got this thing
over with. “Let’s have at it. Though I promise, you’re going to be disappointed
by how dull my life really is.”

“I somehow doubt that.” Kenzie’s voice had changed. It was
uncertain now, almost nervous. I frowned, listening to the flipping of notebook
paper, then a quiet breath, as if she was steeling herself for something. “First
question, then. How long have you been taking kali?”

“Since I was twelve,” I said without moving.
“That’s…what…nearly five years now.” Geez, had it really been that long? I
remembered my first class as a shy, quiet kid, holding the rattan stick like it
was a poisonous snake, and Guro’s piercing eyes, appraising me.

“Okay. Cool. Second question.” Kenzie hesitated, then said in a
calm, clear voice, “What, exactly, is your take on faeries?”

My eyes flew open, and I jerked my head up, banging it against
the wall again. My half-empty soda can dropped from my fingers and clanked to
the floor, fizzing everywhere. Kenzie blinked and stepped back as I gaped at
her, hardly believing what I’d just heard. “What?” I choked out, before I
thought better of it, before the defensive walls came slamming down.

“You heard me.” Kenzie regarded me intently, watching my
reaction. “Faeries. What do you know about them? What’s your interest in the
fey?”

My mind spun. Faeries. Fey. She knew. How she knew, I had no
idea. But she couldn’t continue this line of questioning. This had to end, now.
Todd was already in trouble, because of Them. He might really be gone. The last
thing I wanted was for Mackenzie St. James to vanish off the face of the earth
because of me. And if I had to be nasty and cruel, so be it. It was better than
the alternative.

Drawing myself up, I sneered at her, my voice suddenly ugly,
hateful. “Wow, whatever you smoked last night, it must’ve been good.” I curled
my lip in a smirk. “Are you even listening to yourself? What kind of screwed-up
question is that?”

Kenzie’s eyes hardened. Flipping several pages, she held the
notebook out to me, where the words
glamour, Unseelie
and
Seelie Courts
were underlined in red. I
remembered her standing behind the bleachers when I faced that creepy
transparent faery. My stomach went cold.

“I’m a reporter,” Kenzie said, as I tried wrapping my brain
around this. “I heard you talking to someone the day Todd disappeared. It wasn’t
hard to find the information.” She flipped the notebook shut and stared me down,
defiant. “Changelings, Fair Folk, All-Hallow’s Eve, Summer and Winter Courts,
the Good Neighbors. I learned a lot. And when I called Todd’s house this
afternoon, he still wasn’t there.” She pushed her hair back and gave me a
worried look. “What’s going on, Ethan? Are you and Todd in some sort of pagan
cult? You don’t actually believe in faeries, do you?”

I forced myself to stay calm. At least Kenzie was reacting like
a normal person should, with disbelief and concern. Of course she didn’t believe
in faeries. Maybe I could scare her away from me for good. “Yes,” I smirked,
crossing my arms. “That’s exactly right. I’m in a cult, and we sacrifice goats
under the full moon and drink the blood of virgins and babies every month.” She
wrinkled her nose, and I took a threatening step forward. “It’s a lot of fun,
especially when we bring out the crack and Ouija boards. Wanna join?”

“Very funny, tough guy.” I’d forgotten Kenzie didn’t scare
easily. She glared back, stubborn and unmovable as a wall. “What’s really going
on? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“What if I am?” I challenged. “What are you going to do about
it? You think you can save me? You think you can publish one of your little
stories and everything will be fine? Wake up, Miss Nosey Reporter. The world’s
not like that.”

“Quit being a jerkoff, Ethan,” Kenzie snapped, narrowing her
eyes. “You’re not really like this, and you’re not as bad as you think you are.
I’m only trying to help.”

“No one can help me.” Suddenly, I was tired. I was tired of
fighting, tired of forcing myself to be someone I wasn’t. I didn’t want to hurt
her, but if she continued down this path, she would only rush headlong into a
world that would do its best to tear her apart. And I couldn’t let that happen.
Not again.

“Look.” I sighed, slumping against the wall. “I can’t explain
it. Just…leave me alone, okay? Please. You have no idea what you’re getting
into.”

“Ethan—”

“Stop asking questions,” I whispered, drawing away. Her eyes
followed me, confused and sad, and I hardened my voice. “Stop asking questions,
and stay the hell away from me. Or you’re only going to get hurt.”

“Advice you should have followed yourself, Ethan Chase,” a
voice hissed out of the darkness.

Keep reading for an excerpt of
The
Immortal Rules
by Julie Kagawa!

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Chapter
1

They hung the
Unregistereds in the old warehouse district; it was a public execution, so
everyone went to see.

I stood at the back, a nameless
face in the crowd, too close to the gallows for comfort but unable to look
away. There were three of them this time, two boys and a girl. The oldest
was about my age, seventeen and skinny, with huge frightened eyes and greasy
dark hair that hung to his shoulders. The other two were even younger,
fourteen and fifteen if I had to guess, and siblings, since they both had
the same stringy yellow hair. I didn’t know them; they weren’t part of my
crowd. Still, they had the same look of all Unregistereds; thin and ragged,
their eyes darting about like trapped animals. I crossed my arms tightly,
feeling their desperation. It was over. The trap had closed; the hunters had
caught them, and there was no place for them to run.

The pet stood on the edge of the
platform, puffed up and swaggering, as if he had caught the kids himself. He
was walking back and forth, pointing to the condemned and rattling off a
list of crimes, his pale eyes gleaming with triumph.

“…assaulting a citizen of the
Inner City, robbery, trespassing and resisting arrest. These criminals
attempted to steal Class One foodstuffs from the private warehouse of the
Inner City. This is a crime against you, and more important, a crime against
our benevolent Masters.”

I snorted. Fancy words and legal
mumbo jumbo didn’t erase the fact that these “criminals” were just doing
what all Unregistereds did to survive. For whatever reasons, fate, pride or
stubbornness, we nonregistered humans didn’t have the mark of our vampire
masters etched into our skin, the brands that told you who you were, where
you lived and who you belonged to. Of course, the vampires said it was to
keep us safe, to keep track of everyone within the city, to know how much
food they had to allow for. It was for our own good. Yeah, right. Call it
what you wanted, it was just another way to keep their human cattle
enslaved. You might as well be wearing a collar around your neck.

There were several good things
about being Unregistered. You didn’t exist. You were off their records, a
ghost in the system. Because your name wasn’t on the lists, you didn’t have
to show up for the monthly bloodletting, where human pets in crisp white
coats stuck a tube in your vein and siphoned your blood into clear bags that
were placed into coolers and taken to the Masters. Miss a couple lettings
and the guards came for you, forcing you to pony up the late blood, even if
it left you empty as a limp sack. The vamps got their blood, one way or
another.

Being Unregistered let you slip
through the cracks. There was no leash for the bloodsuckers to yank on. And
since it wasn’t exactly a crime, you’d think everyone would do it.
Unfortunately, being free came with a hefty price. Registered humans got
meal tickets. Unregistereds didn’t. And since the vamps controlled all the
food in the city, this made getting enough to eat a real problem.

So we did what anyone in our
situation would do. We begged. We stole. We scraped up food wherever we
could, did anything to survive. In the Fringe, the outermost circle of the
vampire city, food was scarce even if you weren’t Unregistered. The ration
trucks came twice a month and were heavily guarded. I’d seen Registered
citizens beaten just for getting out of line. So while it wasn’t exactly a
crime to be Unregistered, if you got
caught
stealing from the bloodsuckers
and you didn’t have the Prince’s cursed brand gracing your skin, you could
expect no mercy whatsoever.

It was a lesson I’d learned
well. Too bad these three never did.

“…eight ounces of soy, two
potatoes, and a quarter loaf of bread.” The pet was still going on, and his
audience had their eyes glued to the gallows now, morbidly fascinated. I
slipped into the crowd, moving away from the platform. The smug voice rang
out behind me, and I clenched my hands, wishing I could drive a fist through
his smiling teeth. Damn pets. In some ways, they were even worse than the
bloodsuckers. They’d chosen to serve the vamps, selling out their fellow
humans for the safety and luxury it brought. Everyone hated them, but at the
same time everyone was jealous of them, as well.

“The rules regarding
Unregistered citizens are clear.” The pet was wrapping up, stretching out
his words for the greatest effect. “According to clause twenty-two, line
forty-six of New Covington law, any human found stealing within city limits,
who does not have the mark of protection from the Prince, shall be hanged by
the neck until they are dead. Do the accused have any last
words?”

I heard muffled voices, the
oldest thief swearing at the pet, telling him to do something anatomically
impossible. I shook my head. Brave words wouldn’t help him. Nothing would
now. It was fine and good to be defiant to the end, but it was better not to
get caught in the first place. That was his first mistake and, ultimately,
his last.
Always leave yourself an
out;
that was the first rule of the
Unregistereds. Do whatever you want—hate the vamps, curse the pets—but never
get caught. I picked up my pace, hurrying past the edge of the crowd, and
broke into a jog.

The clunk of the trapdoors
releasing echoed very loudly in my ears, even over the gasp of the watching
crowd. The silence that followed was almost a living thing, urging me to
turn, to glance over my shoulder. Ignoring the knot in my stomach, I slipped
around a corner, putting the wall between myself and the gallows so I
wouldn’t be tempted to look back.

* * *

L
IFE
IN
THE
F
RINGE
is a simple thing, like the people who live here.
They don’t have to work, though there are a couple “trading posts” set up
around the Fringe, where people collect what they find and exchange it for
other things. They don’t have to read; there are no jobs that require it,
and besides, owning books is highly illegal—so why risk it? All they have to
worry about is feeding themselves, keeping their clothes mended, and
patching up whatever hole or box or gutted out building they call home well
enough to keep the rain off them.

The secret goal of almost every
Fringer is to someday make it into the Inner City, past the wall that
separates the civilized world from the human trash, into the glittering city
that looms over us with its great starry towers that had somehow resisted
crumbling into dust. Everyone knows someone who knows someone who was taken
into the city, a brilliant mind or a great beauty, someone too unique or
special to be left here with us animals. There are rumors that the vampires
“breed” the humans on the inside, raising the children to be their thralls,
completely devoted to their masters. But since none who are Taken into the
city ever come out again—except the pets and their guards, and they aren’t
talking—no one knows what it’s really like.

Of course, this only feeds the
stories.

“Did you hear?” Stick asked as I
met him at the chain-link fence that marked the edge of our territory.
Beyond the fence, across a grassy, glass-strewn lot, stood a squat old
building that my gang and I called home. Lucas, the de facto leader of our
gang, said it used to be a “school,” a place where kids like us gathered
every day in huge numbers to learn. That was before the vamps had it gutted
and burned, destroying everything on the inside, but it was still a refuge
for a gang of skinny street rats. Three stories high, the brick walls were
beginning to crumble, the top floor had fallen in, and the halls were filled
with mold, rubble and little else. The charred halls and empty rooms were
cold, damp and dark, and every year a little more of the walls fell away,
but it was our place, our safe haven, and we were fiercely protective of
it.

“Hear what?” I asked as we
ducked through the gap in the rusty fence, striding through weeds and grass
and broken bottles to where home beckoned invitingly.

“Gracie was Taken last night.
Into the city. They say some vampire was looking to expand his harem, so he
took her.”

I looked at him sharply. “What?
Who told you that?”

“Kyle and Travis.”

I rolled my eyes in disgust.
Kyle and Travis belonged to a rival gang of Unregistereds. We didn’t bother
each other, usually, but this sounded like something our competitors would
concoct just to scare us off the streets. “You believe anything those two
say? They’re screwing with you, Stick. They want to scare you.”

He trailed me across the lot
like a shadow, watery blue gaze darting about. Stick’s real name was
Stephen, but no one called him that anymore. He was taller than me by
several inches, but my five-foot nothing didn’t make this feat all that
impressive. Stick was built like a scarecrow, with straw-colored hair and
timid eyes. He managed to survive on the streets, but just barely. “They’re
not the only ones talking about it,” he insisted. “Cooper said he heard her
scream a few blocks away. What does that tell you?”

“If it’s true? That she was
stupid enough to go wandering around the city at night and probably got
herself eaten.”

“Allie!”

“What?” We ducked through the
broken door frame into the dank halls of the school. Rusty metal lockers
were scattered along one wall, a few still standing, most dented and broken.
I headed toward an upright one and yanked the door open with a squeak. “The
vamps don’t stay in their precious towers all the time. Sometimes they go
hunting for live bodies. Everyone knows that.” I grabbed the brush that I
kept here to go with the mirror that was stuck to the back, the only useable
one in the building. My reflection stared at me, a dirty-faced girl with
straight black hair and “squinty eyes,” as Rat put it. At least I didn’t
have teeth like a rodent.

I ran the brush through my hair,
wincing at the snags. Stick was still watching me, disapproving and
horrified, and I rolled my eyes. “Don’t give me that look, Stephen,” I said,
frowning. “If you’re out past sundown and get tagged by a bloodsucker,
that’s your fault for not staying put or not paying attention.” I replaced
the brush and shut the locker with a bang. “Gracie thought that just because
she’s Registered and her brother guards the Wall, she was safe from
vampires. They always come for you when you think you’re safe.”

“Marc is pretty torn up about
it,” Stick said almost sullenly. “Gracie was his only family since their
parents died.”

“Not our problem.” I felt bad
for saying it, but it was true. In the Fringe, you looked out for yourself
and your immediate family, no one else. My concern didn’t extend beyond
myself, Stick and the rest of our small gang.
This
was my family, screwed up as it
was. I couldn’t worry about the trials of everyone in the Fringe. I had
plenty of my own, thanks.

“Maybe…” Stick began, and
hesitated. “Maybe she’s…happier now,” he continued. “Maybe being Taken into
the Inner City is a good thing. The vampires will take better care of her,
don’t you think?”

I resisted the urge to snort.
Stick, they’re vampires,
I wanted to say.
Monsters. They only see us as two things: slaves and food. Nothing good
comes from a bloodsucker, you know that.

But telling Stick that would
only upset him more, so I pretended not to hear. “Where are the others?” I
asked as we walked down the hall, picking our way over rubble and broken
glass. Stick trailed morosely, dragging his feet, kicking bits of rock and
plaster with every step. I resisted the urge to smack him. Marc was a decent
guy; even though he was Registered, he didn’t treat us Unregistereds like
vermin, and even spoke to us on occasion when he was making his rounds at
the Wall. I also knew Stick had feelings for Gracie, though he would never
act on them. But I was the one who shared most of my food with him, since he
was usually too scared to go scavenging by himself. Ungrateful little snot.
I couldn’t watch out for everyone; he knew that.

“Lucas isn’t back yet,” Stick
finally mumbled as we came to my room, one of the many empty spaces along
the hall. In the years I had been here, I’d fixed it up the best I could.
Plastic bags covered the shattered windows, keeping out the rain and damp.
An old mattress lay in one corner with my blanket and pillow. I’d even
managed to find a folding table, a couple chairs and a plastic shelf for
various clutter, little things I wanted to keep. I’d built a nice little
lair for myself, and the best part was my door still locked from the inside,
so I could get some privacy if I wanted.

“What about Rat?” I asked,
pushing on my door.

As the door squeaked open, a
wiry boy with lank brown hair jerked around, beady eyes widening. He was
older than me and Stick, with sharp features and a front tooth that stuck
out like a fang, giving him a permanent sneer.

Rat swore when he saw me, and my
blood boiled. This was
my
space, my territory. He had no right to be here.
“Rat,” I snarled, bursting through the doorway. “Why are you snooping around
my room? Looking for things to steal?”

Rat held up his arm, and my
stomach went cold. In one grubby hand, he held an old, faded book, the cover
falling off, the pages crumpled. I recognized it instantly. It was a made-up
story, a fantasy, the tale of four kids who went through a magic wardrobe
and found themselves in a strange new world. I’d read it more times than I
could remember, and although I sneered at the thought of a magical land with
friendly, talking animals, there were times when I wished, in my most secret
moments, that I could find a hidden door that would take us all out of this
place.