PRAISE FOR BESTSELLING AUTHOR
JULIE KAGAWA
âKatniss Everdeen better watch out.â
âHuffington Post on The Immortal Rules
âJulie Kagawa is one killer storyteller.â
âMTVâs Hollywood Crush blog
âJulie Kagawaâs Iron Fey series is the next Twilight.â âTeen.com
âFans of Melissa Marr ⦠will enjoy the ride.â
âKirkus Reviews on The Iron Queen
âwholly satisfyingâ
âRealms of Fantasy on The Iron Queen
âa book that will keep its readers glued to the
pages until the very end.â âNew York Journal of Books on The Iron Daughter
âTheIron King surpasses the greater majority of dark fantasies.â âteenreads.com
First and foremost, a huge shout out to my Guro, Ron. Thanks for answering all my crazy kali questions, for all the âbadges of courageâ 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 donât 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 Iâm so grateful to be taking it with you. Letâs 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 âbadges of courageâ in kali. You keep me young (and deadly).
My name is Ethan Chase.
And I doubt Iâll live to see my eighteenth birthday.
Thatâs not me being dramatic; it just is. I just wish I hadnât pulled so many people into this mess. They shouldnât 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, theyâll never leave you alone. Theyâll never let you go. Maybe if Iâd been strong, she wouldnât 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 isnât that normal. For instance, today Iâd filled the side pockets of my backpack with dried Saint-Johnâs-wort and stuffed a canister of salt in with my pens and notebook. Iâd 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 Iâd gotten my ears pierced with metal studs. Originally, Iâd 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 Iâd 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-grayâfrom 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 âbroodingâ and âhostileâ and âimpossible.â I used to smile more, and laugh. I rarely do any of that now.
I know Mom worries about me. Dad says itâs normal teenage rebellion, that Iâm going through a âphase,â and that Iâll grow out of it. Sorry, Dad. But my life is far from normal. And Iâm dealing with it the only way I know how.
âEthan?â Momâs voice drifted into the room from beyond the door, soft and hesitant. âItâs past six. Are you up?â
âIâm up.â 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. âIâll be right out.â
Grabbing my keys, I left my room with that familiar sense of resignation and dread stealing over me. Okay, then. Letâs get this day over with.
I have a weird family.
Youâd 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 didnât like it at first; heâd spent his whole life as a farmer. It was hard for him to adjust, but he did, eventually. Mom finally convinced him that we needed to be closer to people, that