The Shadow Prince Read online

  EGMONT

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  First published by Egmont USA, 2014

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 806

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © Bree Despain, 2014

  All rights reserved

  www.egmontusa.com

  www.breedespain.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

  Despain, Bree, 1979-

  The shadow prince / Bree Despain.

  pages cm. – (Into the dark; book 1)

  Summary: In this modern retelling of the Persephone myth, Haden Lord, the disgraced prince of the Underrealm, has been sent to the mortal world to entice a girl into returning with him to the land of the dead.

  ISBN 978-1-60684-247-8 (hardback) – ISBN 978-1-60684-406-9 (eBook) [1. Gods–Fiction. 2. Princes–Fiction. 3. Fate and fatalism–Fiction. 4. Love–Fiction. 5. Mythology, Greek–Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.D4518Sh 2014

  [Fic]–dc23

  2013033192

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  v3.1

  In loving memory of Audrey Biesinger.

  A woman for whom there was no quest too daunting, no task too hard, and no journey too far to undertake for faith, family, friends—or even just the sake of a really good story.

  I miss you, Grandma!

  Bree

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One: Haden

  Chapter Two: Daphne

  Chapter Three: Haden

  Chapter Four: Daphne

  Chapter Five: Haden

  Chapter Six: Daphne

  Chapter Seven: Haden

  Chapter Eight: Daphne

  Chapter Nine: Haden

  Chapter Ten: Daphne

  Chapter Eleven: Haden

  Chapter Twelve: Daphne

  Chapter Thirteen: Haden

  Chapter Fourteen: Daphne

  Chapter Fifteen: Haden

  Chapter Sixteen: Daphne

  Chapter Seventeen: Haden

  Chapter Eighteen: Daphne

  Chapter Nineteen: Haden

  Chapter Twenty: Daphne

  Chapter Twenty-One: Haden

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Daphne

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Haden

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Daphne

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Haden

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Daphne

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Haden

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Daphne

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Haden

  Chapter Thirty: Daphne

  Chapter Thirty-One: Haden

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Daphne

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Haden

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Daphne

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Haden

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Daphne

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Haden

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Daphne

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Haden

  Chapter Forty: Daphne

  Chapter Forty-One: Haden

  Chapter Forty-Two: Daphne

  Chapter Forty-Three: Haden

  Chapter Forty-Four: Daphne

  Chapter Forty-Five: Haden

  Chapter Forty-Six: Daphne

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Haden

  Chapter Forty-Eight: Daphne

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Haden

  Chapter Fifty: Daphne

  Chapter Fifty-One: Haden

  Chapter Fifty-Two: Daphne

  Chapter Fifty-Three: Haden

  Chapter Fifty-Four: Daphne

  Chapter Fifty-Five: Haden

  Chapter Fifty-Six: Daphne

  Chapter Fifty-Seven: Haden

  Chapter Fifty-Eight: Daphne

  Chapter Fifty-Nine: Haden

  Acknowledgments

  chapter one

  HADEN

  I did the unforgivable the day my mother died, and for that I’ve been punished every moment of my life.

  He’s too weak-minded.

  Impulsive.

  He’s too much like her.

  He’s too human.

  It has been ten years, and regardless of everything I’ve done to try to change their minds, the Court still speaks of me as if I am unworthy of my birthright.

  I try to lock away my doubtful thoughts as I watch the Oracle make her way up and down the ranks of Underlords. She is here to help Choose the Champions, and despite the fact that Rowan and the other Elites make it a point to tell me that I will never be Chosen, I intend to be one of them. This moment is what I’ve been preparing for. It’s what I’ve lived for.

  The Oracle has passed two entire rows of Underlords without stopping to inspect a single one. Her presence is accompanied by a buzz of energy and excitement that flows through the crowd of spectators. Most of us have never seen an Oracle before, and to hear one speak is a rarity usually reserved for kings and priests. To be Chosen by the Oracle would be an honor unparalleled by any other in this realm. One collective question occupies everyone’s mind: Why would the Oracle deign to participate in the annual Choosing of the Champions?

  Perhaps the rumors are true.

  Something more important is going on—this year’s Champions will be required to do more than procure new Boons for the Court’s harem.

  The Oracle passes two more Elites without even glancing their way, and then stops abruptly beside Rowan, King Ren’s prized son, and the favored of the Court. Surely he would be their first choice for one of the Champions if the decision were left solely to them. The Oracle reaches out her pale blue fingers and touches Rowan’s forehead. He looks stunned for a moment, blinking his eyes. As the Oracle pulls her hand away, she pinches her fingertips together as if she were pulling a thread out of Rowan’s skull. She cups the invisible thread in her hand. Her face is shrouded in layers of gauzy veils to protect her holy visage from our unclean eyes, but I can tell that she’s studying what she holds with great interest. Master Crue told us that an Oracle can draw memories and thoughts from a man’s brain—take a sample of his soul, so to speak—with only her touch.

  Rowan’s surprised expression slips away and a smug smile plays on his lips. Whatever thought or memory of his the Oracle tasted is one that makes him feel even more confident in his position. No doubt one of his many victories—like the time he slaughtered the gladiator, an untrained sap, before the man had even had a chance to draw his sword.

  I ache to knock that smug look off Rowan’s face, but then the Oracle brushes her hands as if wiping his memory from her fingers. She leaves his side and proceeds on with her task. I catch his eye and smirk. What did he think, she was going to stop the Choosing Ceremony right then and declare him the sole Champion? Rowan glares back at me and starts to make a crude gesture in my direction. Master Crue must have caught our exchange, because I hear him clear his throat. He makes a stern, “eyes forward” gesture. I snap to attention, with my shoulders back and my arms straight at my sides, one of them resting against the ceremonial sword in my scabbard. As much as I want to keep watching the Oracle as she makes her rounds, I keep my focus trained on the back of the Underlord standing directly in front of me.

  I notice that one of the leather straps holding up his bronze breastplate is twisted, as if clumsy hands had put it on. He’s shaking, too. I wonder if it is nerves. Is he anxious about being Chosen? Or anxious about being passed over? I don’t recognize him from behind, but from his size, I guess he is only fourteen. He has two more chances to be selected after
this year—unlike myself. I am almost seventeen. I’ve been passed over twice before, and this is the last year I am even eligible for Champion. Anger creeps up inside of me. How dare this boy be nervous?

  I almost want to bring the flaw in his armor to the attention of one of the Heirs. The boy would receive a beating for sure for his ineptitude. But then I realize that the way his muscles tremble isn’t from nerves, but from strain. It seems he is unaccustomed to wearing the heavy bronze armor of the Underlords. That’s when I know that boy must be a Lesser—a second- or third-born son of an Heir, bred purely to serve the Court. The only time they wear the armor of the Underlords is during the annual Choosing—when they get to pretend they’re like the rest of us for the night. I don’t know why the Heirs allow it; it’s not like a Lesser has ever been chosen as Champion.

  Then again, it is not as if anyone expects me to be Chosen, either.

  The Lesser boy must’ve noticed my gaze on his twisted strap, because he turns slightly and tries to adjust it. Something about the side of his face makes me feel as though I should know him, but I do not make it a habit to associate with many Lessers. His green-stained fingers fumble with the twisted strap. I know he won’t be able to fix it on his own. He looks at me for a second, seemingly asking for my help. I snap my gaze above his head, pretending I didn’t see him. Helping a Lesser. Like I need that on my record.

  A nagging pain twists in my gut and I am suddenly reminded that I would have had the same life as a Lesser if it hadn’t been for the oath my mother had made my father swear when I was born. That oath was the only reason I had not been cast out of the ranks of the Underlords completely when my father disowned me. The day I lost my honor …

  The Lesser boy gives up on fixing his strap just as the Oracle glides into view again. She starts up our row, and I see now that she doesn’t walk but floats slightly above the ground. I try to forget about my bad memories and focus my thoughts on something that would impress the Oracle if she chooses to look inside my head. I run through my accomplishments and land on the memory of my hunting down and killing the hydra for the Feast of Return last spring. It had eluded even Master Crue and my other teachers, but I had tracked it into the cliffs above the river Styx. I was the one who had carried it into the Great Hall on my shoulders … only to have it taken from me by Rowan and his cronies before the Court witnessed my victory.

  I was so angry. Almost as angry as the day my mother collapsed and I sent a Lesser to fetch my father. He was so slow in coming, I …

  I shake my head and try to find an untainted memory as I watch the Oracle pass Underlord after Underlord, drawing nearer. I cannot let her see my shame. I silently curse the boy in front of me for dredging up memories of my darkest moment, when the Oracle comes to a sudden halt beside him. Her face is still veiled but I can tell that she is staring at him. He twitches under her inspection. I watch the way he tries to make himself appear bigger in his oversized armor. She tilts her shrouded head as if listening for something, and stands there for so long, I feel the crowd straining with anticipation.

  The Oracle is so close to me now that I can feel the icy chill that emanates off her body. Gooseflesh prickles up on the parts of my arms that are not bound by the leather and bronze of my armor. She is only two steps away from deciding my fate. I can’t bare to watch her. I glance at King Ren while he sits waiting at the edge of his ebony throne. He looks annoyed and expectant. Then I notice Moira, Ren’s latest queen, sitting beside him. She is draped in a gown made from shimmering fabric and jewels, but it does not hide how pale and withered she has become—like a bony shadow of her former self. She holds a silver scepter—the weight of it looks like it might rip her thin arms from her body. She will die soon, just like every other Boon who has been brought to the Underrealm. Just like my mother …

  No, no, no, I scream silently at my mind’s betrayal. I cannot think of this now. I will not.

  I suck in a deep breath and rack my brain, searching for my proudest moment. The Oracle steps abruptly away from the Lesser boy’s side and closes in on me. I shake as her glittering blue hand reaches toward my face. I close my eyes and concentrate on the image of myself slaying a chimera in the arena in just thirty-one seconds, besting the other Underlords in my age group by half a minute. Surely that was my proudest moment. My greatest victory. The crowd had even cheered for me.…

  All except for my father and the Court … They did not see my accomplishments because they did not care to look. No matter how hard I tried, they will not forget what I did to earn my disgrace.…

  I feel the Oracle’s icy touch land lightly on my skin, just between my eyes. My vision flickers black for a moment and then I see myself at the age of seven—as if gazing into a mirror from the past—sitting in my bedchamber. I hear my mother’s hollow voice as she cries out.…

  I feel a sharp, stinging sensation in my forehead, like someone is pulling a string through my skull, and I am snapped back into reality. My vision focuses and I see the Oracle drawing her pinched fingers away from my forehead. And I know what memory of mine she holds.

  “No! You can’t see that!” I try to grasp the Oracle’s blue hands, but as I reach for her, she disappears, and all I clutch at is the air. The ranks of Underlords gape at me for trying to touch the Oracle. Master Crue begins to stand. The Oracle reappears next to the altar in front of the throne, cupping my most shameful memory in her hands. I am too far away to stop her from watching the scene that she has stolen from my mind.

  She holds her pinched fingers out in front of her veiled face. My heart feels as though it might break through my rib cage. Will she demand that I be cast from the ceremony after what she sees? I want nothing more than to stop her from seeing, but before I can even think of what to do, she drops her hand, and her body goes as rigid as the marble statues that line the perimeter of the throne room. Her priest, a short, balding man in a red tunic, steps forward.

  “One Champion only can complete this task,” the priest says, but his voice echoes like wind whipping through a long chamber, and I realize the Oracle is speaking through him, using his voice as her own. “The son of King Ren is he.”

  Rowan stands tall and begins to take a step forward to the altar, but then the Oracle raises her blue hand and points one of her long, glittering fingers, not in the direction of Rowan, my twin brother, but toward me.

  “Your Champion is Lord Haden,” the priest says—my name echoing in the chamber, which has fallen as still as death.

  Elation rises in my hammering chest.

  That is, until a cry of outrage rushes through the Court of Heirs with a force akin to the wake of Charon’s mighty boat.

  “This is absurd,” Lord Lex, the king’s chief advisor, says, rising from his seat among the Court. “The boy lacks proper training. He is not one of the Elite. He’s too emotional. We all know that.”

  My hands tingle with heat. I ball them into fists but keep them tight against my sides. An outburst would only prove him right.

  “It should be Rowan,” Lord Killian, my father’s second advisor, demands. “The Court agreed on Rowan. He should be …”

  “The decision has been taken out of the Court’s hands,” the Oracle’s priest says, using his own raspy voice. “The Oracle was brought here to make it for you. She has made her decree; it is now your pleasure to listen and obey.”

  “It is you who must obey!” another one of the Heirs demands, but his blasphemous comment is almost drowned out by the other members of the Court who add their protestations to the din.

  I have heard rumors of strain between the members of the Court—I have even heard of whisperings against my father’s rule among the Heirs—but there seems to be one thing that still unites them: their disdain for me.

  I don’t know why I didn’t realize that this is exactly how it would play out.

  The elation I couldn’t help feeling when the Oracle said my name twists inside me until it becomes something darker. Perhaps this is more than the usu
al scorn of the Court against me? Perhaps this is all some kind of sick joke? Something orchestrated to humiliate me for hoping that I could rise above the lot I have been cast? Hope is a shameful emotion after all—another useless thing my mother must have taught me.

  I keep my eyes trained on the Oracle. She is unmoving, swathed in her many veils. I wish I could see her face. I ache to know what she was thinking when she made her decision.

  I need to know why.

  “Silence!”

  All voices cut off at once, and all eyes turn toward the towering throne.

  King Ren Hades rises from his ebony seat. His long black hair is plaited in a ceremonial braid like mine and the other Underlords’. The firelight from the torches surrounding the altar reflects in the polished gold of his breastplate. He holds his open hand out in front of him. Threads of blue lightning hiss up from his palm and encircle his hand. It is meant to be a warning.

  “Oracle,” he begins, “I brought you here to predict the best possible outcome, but you have obviously chosen wrong. The boy is unfit.…”

  “You dare question an Oracle?” the priest asks.

  “I am king here,” Ren says.

  “And I am the infallible voice of the universe,” the priest says, his voice that of the Oracle. “I have chosen my Champion. The boy is the one who can save you.” The Oracle’s bluish skin pulses purple and then deep red when she turns toward King Ren, her veils rustling about her as if blown by an invisible gale. The ground beneath my feet trembles, and I know I am not the only one who feels it. “Only ruin lies in wait for those who disobey the words of fate.”

  The ranks of Underlords behind me jostle for a better view. Even the Lessers have dared to fall out of position.

  The lightning in Ren’s hand pulses brighter and coils its way up his arm. “Is that a threat?”

  “I speak only the truth,” responds the Oracle. “You are the one who summoned me here. You and I both know why.”

  King Ren’s face grows dark. He advances upon the Oracle, with the lightning crackling in his raised hand. The ground shifts again, and I almost lose my footing when I leave my place in the ranks. The Oracle’s words have emboldened me, and I don’t think about what I am doing before I throw myself down on my knees between her and King Ren.