Authors: Emily Evans
I yanked free. “Ouch.” It didn’t really hurt, but he was as rough as my little brothers. What gene made boys so rough? Were the gentle cavemen unable to spear mastodons? Having no meat to share, they couldn’t invite a woman back to the cave for dinner? Their genes died out and the women of my generation got stuck with the direct Neanderthal line who could lure a woman to his bedroll.
“Don’t wuss out,” Austin said. “Head in the game.” His icy blue eyes strove to motivate me into not shaming us, and staring into their rare light color gave me an idea.
I rubbed my arm and slowly nodded. “Okay.”
The principal tapped the microphone. “Distinguished guests.”
The principal welcomed the prince’s royal cousin Sean to the stage. He introduced him as the moderator of the trivia challenge and then Sean took a seat near the wings. “And now for the speeches.” The principal turned to me. “Our first speech is brought to you by Trallwyn High’s own Hayley McLaren.” Polite claps met my introduction. “Hayley’s currently in the running for valedictorian, a member of the math club, and an alto in the school choir.” The principal stepped away from the lectern and motioned for me to get up and come to the front. “Hayley.”
No.
Austin shoved until I moved.
Rhys hunched over his chemistry set and stirred some clear liquid with an orange peel. He was either blocking his recipe from the airflow or trying to stop me from jacking his idea. Smart guy. I could talk about chemicals for a while.
Pieces of my newly forming speech flashed through my brain as I carried my thumb drive to the lectern. I plugged it into the port with cold fingers. The drive held two files: my forbidden football speech and the brochure announcing the academic decathlon. I glanced at Austin.
Austin mouthed, “Don’t you dare.”
I clicked the cursor over my only other choice, the flyer. Pictures of the six decathlon participants appeared on screen and beamed out at the crowd. I swallowed against my dry throat and leaned toward the microphone, my gaze on the image. “My presentation today is on human genetics and inherited traits.”
The audience slumped in their chairs, and the people along the sides took seats on the steps. I was losing them. I had to lead with a personal anecdote to pull them in. “On the event flyer, I bet you noticed a fun fact in our bios. My competitors and I were all born in June, on different days, but all during the week of hurricane Doris.”
The auditorium’s speakers reverberated with a metallic whine until I backed off the mic. I unclipped the handheld from its stand, grabbed the laser pointer, and paced over to Prince Callum. I’d use our famous guest to draw in the audience.
“Our births made the news, because we were born during the hurricane and because visiting royalty gave us the first prince born on American soil.” The audience clapped, sucking up. I appreciated it, as those claps were likely the only applause I’d receive.
“Of course that isn’t how my mom remembers the day. She doesn’t talk about the royal birth. She talks about the power going out and the lack of an epidural.” The audience laughed, and my nerves eased.
I clicked the pointer over my own picture and dug in. “Inherited traits. Few things can be said for certain, but some traits are genetically-linked and dominant.” I stuck my finger into my cheek. “I have dimples. Dimples are dominant. That means one of my parents most likely has dimples.” Even though I couldn’t see him, I waved at the audience. “Thanks, Dad.” The move got another chuckle. “Mom doesn’t have dimples. Now, if neither of my parents had dimples, there would be almost no chance for me to have dimples.”
I surveyed the prince. “Prince Callum’s dominant traits are dark curly hair and a widow’s peak.”
Prince Callum glared at me.
Frown away, handsome, you know I just scored a point for our side
. Next, I tugged on my straight brunette hair. “Now, you may think that because I have dark hair and green eyes, that my parents do too. They don’t. Hair color and eye color are complicated. They are polygenic traits affected by many factors. So, despite the teasing from my blond parents, they didn’t bring home the wrong baby.” The audience chuckled again.
I gestured to Prince Callum. “We’ve all seen pictures of the fair-haired royal family. But again, hair color is a polygenic trait, so the royal family didn’t bring home the wrong baby either.”
More laughter sounded, but some of it was uneasy.
I moved behind Prince Callum and thought to end with a little drama. “Though between the hurricane and the out-of-sync coloring, it
is
possible.” My hand hovered over his shoulder.
No one touches His Highness.
My hand dropped down and my fingers closed over the navy fabric covering his shoulder. No shoulder pads. My fingertips curved in. His muscles tensed, and I moved to his side so he could see me. “What do you think? Did your parents take home the wrong baby? Are you ready to give up the throne to Princess Hayley?”
He wore a fake smile, and his eyes glared back at me, stormy blue.
The audience snickered. “Kidding, I don’t have the right coloring either.” I tugged on my hair. “Straight. Brunette.” I walked behind the tables and paused to take a drink of my water. The cold liquid eased my throat, but my real purpose was to burn time. This speech was so lame I was boring myself.
I took a final drink, replaced the glass, raised my hand, and gave a thumbs up. “Will everyone in the audience give me a thumbs up?” The audience shifted in their seats, but most complied. “Take a look at your thumb. The top bends backwards or is straight. If the top is bent, you have a
hitchhiker’s thumb
, a recessive gene, and another genetically linked trait. If your parents both have them, you can catch a ride too.”
With my first real smile, I said, “Thank you,” and then passed the microphone back to the principal. My pathetic speech was over. I slid into my hard plastic chair and blew out a breath. Not bad. Not good, but not bad.
“We’ll make up the points in the trivia round,” Austin whispered.
“Bite me.”
The principal, wearing his own polite smile, one that strained the dent in his chin, said, “Thank you, Ms. McLaren. Next up we have Rhys Zukowski with a scientific demonstration on cloud formation and climate variance across—”
Rhys scooted his chair back to get up.
“One moment, Mr. Zukowski. There’s a question.” The principal pointed his cane toward the audience to give them the go-ahead.
One of the reporters yelled out, in a carrying, accented Irish voice, “Ms. McLaren, are you a member of
The Birthers
?”
“Sorry?”
Austin leaned forward and turned on our microphone.
“Sorry?” I repeated, and the speakers amplified my ignorance throughout the auditorium.
The reporter snapped my picture and said, “
Birthers
. The group of people who say Prince Callum can’t be king because he was born in America.”
My face heated at his challenge, but I was glad the question wasn’t about science. “I’m not familiar with that term. But, as I understand it, the only qualification for a royal throne is to be a blood descendant of the royal family.”
“Exactly,’ the reporter said. “You’re saying that because Prince Callum has dark wavy hair—and his parents don’t—
that he’s not their child? That he doesn’t have a right to the throne?”
A few women in the audience gasped. Everyone else remained silent except the reporter, who clearly wanted my team to lose. “You’re saying, for the record, that Prince Callum may have been switched at the hospital during the hurricane? Like some type of mistake? Or, are you saying the rumors are true? That the Queen cheated and plans to put a cuckoo on the throne?”
Audience chatter picked up at his rudeness.
I hadn’t said any such thing. That guy was using my speech to stir up controversy. I blinked rapidly, but couldn’t seem to make a sound to defend my position. I just sat there. Did I even have a position? I didn’t know enough about genetics to form an intelligent response. And I hadn’t heard any royal rumors, though clearly I’d hit on an Irish scandal.
The principal frowned at me in disapproval, as if I’d done this on purpose. “Ms. McLaren?”
I’d rather drink some of Rhys’s chemicals and burn off my tongue than touch this topic anymore. I sat in silence while hundreds of eyes stared at me. Nausea churned in my stomach and lights blinked in front of my eyes. Crap, I was going to faint. Again. Or worse.
Prince Callum rose and moved behind me. He leaned forward and clicked off my microphone with deft fingers. His hands went to the back of my chair, his knuckles grazing my back. He put his lips to my ear and whispered, “That’s not the way to get my attention.” His voice was deep, lyrical, enthralling, like melting chocolate.
I tilted my chin and the back of my head met his hard chest. I found his blue-grey gaze. “I wasn’t trying to get your attention.” I inhaled, feeling better.
“You chose to give a speech based on tabloid lies.” He smiled at the crowd and leaned over me to fake-adjust our microphone as if he were actually assisting us and not chastising me. “Will there be an alien invasion story as a follow-up?”
“The only alien here is you. And you’re about to get your passport revoked.”
He put his mouth back to my ear. “And you have that kind of power, do you?”
Shiver. “You have no idea.” I reached for the switch. “I’ll set them straight.”
He flattened his hand over mine. The warmth of his rough touch contrasted with the cool tabletop, and his hand completely concealed mine. My fingers twitched. Why would a prince have strong hands? Didn’t everyone fetch and carry for him? His shoulders touched mine, and I leaned toward his chest. “Move your hand.”
He didn’t move.
Pounding steps sounded on the ramps. Three men wearing black and carrying large weapons burst onto the mezzanine.
Ski masks covered their faces.
Two blocked the exits. The third aimed a large semiautomatic weapon at the crowd. The muzzle shifted in a steady motion, pointing from one end of the auditorium to the other.
People screamed. Some stood in a panicked confusion and some dropped to the floor.
My heart raced, and I froze. Prince Callum grabbed my arms and pulled me up and behind him.
People crowded into the aisles. One of the prince’s bodyguards moved toward the gunman. One moved toward the stage.
“Stop,” the lead gunman said. His voice came out grainy. “Stay where you are.”
Most people stilled, but two men in dark suits hurried toward the senator’s son.
The gunman focused on the motion. “Steady now, or I’ll be removing your security teams from the equation. I’ll be shooting anyone who moves.”
The bodyguards froze, as did most of the audience. Everyone had dropped to the floor now and there were row upon row of empty chairs in front of us.
The scary end of the gun swung our way, waving in steady motions back and forth along our tables.
My heart pounded, and my brain emptied.
“Give us Prince Callum and no one will be getting hurt.”
Prince Callum took a step forward, releasing my arm.
His cousin Sean rose. “I’m Sean Cétchathach of the royal Irish house of Cétchathach.”
Prince Callum stiffened and made a small gesture with his hand, his palm open and flat toward Sean as if telling him to be quiet.
Sean said, “The prince may not be the prince. You have no purpose here. Leave us.” I gawked at him. Did he really believe that, or was he just trying to confuse the gunmen?
The gunman eyed him. “What are you saying then?”
“It has been established that one of the other students may be the true blood prince. Genetically. Biologically. Taking Prince Callum is no longer viable. You have no clear target.”
The gunman’s gaze and the gun swept the stage again. “Any one of them?” He jerked his elbow at his man blocking the right exit, and said, “We’ll be taking all six students. The cousin too.”
“You’ll not,” Sean said.
Prince Callum took another step forward. “It’s me you want.”
As he moved, his bodyguards reacted too. One went toward the gunman, one took another step up the stairs.
Rhys, who’d stayed seated, dumped a full vial into the beaker. A huge puff of acrid smoke floated out, rapidly expanding. Sharp. Stinging my nose.
The fire alarm shrieked.
My eyes stung, and my ears rang. The sprinklers kicked on, and jets of water streamed out of nozzles in the ceiling, splashing us and the stage.
Shouts and screams rose from the crowd as people took advantage of the distraction and dove for the ramps. I grabbed Prince Callum’s arm and jerked backwards, pulling him through the curtain to the dark backstage. Austin and Lisette came behind us, water dripping off their clothes.
Austin pointed toward the wings. “This way.”
Yells from the main room and shouts from the gunmen filled me with adrenalin. “No.” I ran, skidding on the slick floor. “The prop room.” I dropped to my knees, ignoring the hard wood floor, and pried at the small groove marking the entrance to the under-stage storage, lifting the hatch.
Steps thumped, screams sounded along with blasts.
Oh god. We had to hurry. I maneuvered over the edge and onto the ladder.
Sean slipped around the curtain, water streaming over his face, darkening his blond hair to dishwater. “They’re coming,” he gasped out and ran toward us.
Sean’s warning made us move even faster. Lisette, Austin, and Sean followed me down. Prince Callum came last, and secured the hatch, sealing the five of us in the cold blackness under the stage.
Austin held his cell phone up and a bright light pierced the dark. He shined the flashlight app around the space, illuminating the materials pile. “There.” He snagged a rope and scrambled back up the ladder, tying one end through the leather loop door pull.
Prince Callum secured the other end to the leg of a large table. When they finished, Austin let the glow die out.