The Lost Prince. Julie Kagawa

      To Guro Ron, and all the ‘badges of courage’

      I received in class.

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      First and foremost, a huge shout out to my Guro, Ron. Thanks for answering all my crazy kali questions, for all the “badges of courage” I picked up in sparring, and for making Hit-People-With-Sticks class the best night of the week. I could not have written this book without you.

      To Natashya Wilson, T. S. Ferguson, and all the awesome HQ people, you guys rock. Tashya, you especially deserve a standing ovation. I don’t know how you juggle so much and still manage to make it look easy.

      To my agent, Laurie McLean. This has been one crazy ride, and I’m so grateful to be taking it with you. Let’s keep shooting for the stars.

      And of course, to my husband, sparring partner, first editor, and best friend, Nick. To many more years of writing, laughs and giving each other “badges of courage” in kali. You keep me young (and deadly).

      CHAPTER ONE

       NEW KID

      My name is Ethan Chase.

      And I doubt I’ll live to see my eighteenth birthday.

      That’s not me being dramatic; it just is. I just wish I hadn’t pulled so many people into this mess. They shouldn’t have to suffer because of me. Especially … her. God, if I could take back anything in my life, I would never have shown her my world, the hidden world all around us. I knew better than to let her in. Once you see Them, they’ll never leave you alone. They’ll never let you go. Maybe if I’d been strong, she wouldn’t be here with me as our seconds tick away, waiting to die.

      It all started the day I transferred to a new school. Again.

      The alarm clock went off at 6:00 a.m., but I had been awake for an hour, getting ready for another day in my weird, screwed-up life. I wish I was one of those guys who roll out of bed, throw on a shirt and are ready to go, but sadly, my life isn’t that normal. For instance, today I’d filled the side pockets of my backpack with dried Saint-John’s-wort and stuffed a canister of salt in with my pens and notebook. I’d also driven three nails into the heels of the new boots Mom had bought me for the semester. I wore an iron cross on a chain beneath my shirt, and just last summer I’d gotten my ears pierced with metal studs. Originally, I’d gotten a lip ring and an eyebrow bar, too, but Dad had thrown a roof-shaking fit when I came home like that, and the studs were the only things I’d been allowed to keep.

      Sighing, I spared a quick glance at myself in the mirror, making sure I looked as unapproachable as possible. Sometimes, I catch Mom looking at me sadly, as if she wonders where her little boy went. I used to have curly brown hair like Dad, until I took a pair of scissors and hacked it into jagged, uneven spikes. I used to have bright blue eyes like Mom and, apparently, like my sister. But over the years, my eyes have become darker, changing to a smoky-blue-gray—from constant glaring, Dad jokes. I never used to sleep with a knife under my mattress, salt around my windows, and a horseshoe over my door. I never used to be “brooding” and “hostile” and “impossible.” I used to smile more, and laugh. I rarely do any of that now.

      I know Mom worries about me. Dad says it’s normal teenage rebellion, that I’m going through a “phase,” and that I’ll grow out of it. Sorry, Dad. But my life is far from normal. And I’m dealing with it the only way I know how.

      “Ethan?” Mom’s voice drifted into the room from beyond the door, soft and hesitant. “It’s past six. Are you up?”

      “I’m up.” I grabbed my backpack and swung it over my white shirt, which was inside out, the tag poking up from the collar. Another small quirk my parents have gotten used to. “I’ll be right out.”

      Grabbing my keys, I left my room with that familiar sense of resignation and dread stealing over me. Okay, then. Let’s get this day over with.

      I have a weird family.

      You’d never know it by looking at us. We seem perfectly normal; a nice American family living in a nice suburban neighborhood, with nice clean streets and nice neighbors on either side. Ten years ago we lived in the swamps, raising pigs. Ten years ago we were poor, backwater folk, and we were happy. That was before we moved into the city, before we joined civilization again. My dad didn’t like it at first; he’d spent his whole life as a farmer. It was hard for him to adjust, but he did, eventually. Mom

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