Dreamland (Riley Bloom #3)(20)

I couldn’t remember it ever once getting dark. Everywhere you went there was light to be found. Always sort of radiating with a soft, goldeny, glistening glow. And though I could never spot the source, it was constant, luminous, making it seem as though the entire place was lit from within.

Unless, of course, you wanted to manifest snow, or rain, or wind, or some other type of foul weather (believe it or not, some people actually missed that kind of thing)—but even then it was relegated to a small, selected area that was easy enough to avoid while it played itself out or the person grew bored of it, whichever came first. And in no time at all, everything returned to that soft, beautiful glow once again.

But the kind of all-encompassing, opaque, inky dark I found myself in, well it was the sort of thing I hadn’t seen since our family camping trips back on the earth plane. And even then, we still had the moon. We still had the stars to shine down upon us.

But in Dreamland there was nothing like that. And when I tried to manifest a flashlight, and then a whole armful of flashlights, it barely made a dent in the heavy canopy of black velvet sky.

I should probably admit right now, that that was pretty much the moment when I started to have second thoughts. I’d never been a fan of the dark—especially the pitch-black kind of dark—the kind of dark that can’t be easily cured.

I started to leave, was more than willing to cut my losses and vámanos myself right out of there. The night felt so threatening, so ominous, that the idea of lingering on a really long waiting list was starting to look pretty good.

But just because I was willing to leave doesn’t mean I was able. When I lifted my own hand before me, held it before my eyes and wiggled my fingers, well, I couldn’t even see it. It was as though I’d lost all my digits.

With no way of knowing whether or not I was headed in the right direction, I resorted to baby steps. Small, timid, baby steps. All the while cursing myself for sending Buttercup off on his own, for telling Mort I could handle it fine. Picking up the pace when the panic started to mount, and regretting the decision the moment I crashed straight into a wall. Crashed so hard I was sure I’d just made my semi-stubby nose even stubbier.

I stood there, palms pressed to my face, my entire body shaking as I choked back the tears. Stealing a moment to give myself a very stern talking-to, reminding myself that fear was for sissies, panic led to no good, and crying was an indulgence I could not afford.

Repeating it again and again until it started to feel real—until I started to believe.

And that’s when I saw it.

The tiniest, briefest flicker of light.

It was quick.

Fleeting.

Here and gone in an instant.

Still, it was enough to convince me to wait patiently, silently—hoping with all of my might that I’d see it again.

The second time was as brief as the first, but it was enough to get me moving—enough to convince me to take one more baby step toward the source. Stopping each time it went dark, then taking another step forward when that quick beam of light pierced through, then stopping the second it went black once again.

It felt like forever before I reached it.

Though by that point I was just glad to have made it, even though I had no idea where I might be.

I stood outside the building, ran my hand along the coarse, rough wall, pretty sure it wasn’t one of the ones I’d already visited—overcome with the sinking, dreaded feeling that it just might be the building I’d glimpsed earlier.

The one that looked old.

Run-down.

Forgotten, abandoned, and left to rot in a way that should’ve been condemned.

And when the light flashed again, I saw where it came from. Saw the way it slipped through the cracks of an old, boarded-up space that probably once held a door.

I edged toward it, smooshed my cheeks against the splintery slats, and peered in.

Startled to find a kid I guessed to be about my age—a boy with hair so blond it was practically white, and skin so pale it blended into the hair. And when he turned, when he looked in my direction and his gaze settled on mine, I saw that his eyes were so deep and blue they reminded me of California swimming pools.

With the blond hair, blue eyes, and pasty pale skin, he wasn’t all that different from me—and yet, his features seemed so exagger-ated, so startling and unexpected, I couldn’t decide if he looked like an angel …

Or more like its opposite.

I froze, unsure what to do. But before I could do much of anything, he’d already jumped from his chair, already moved to the place where I stood.

A couple of distressed pieces of wood the only things standing between us, as he placed his hands on his hips and said,

“You’re not supposed to be here.” His voice was much higher than I would’ve expected, but deadly serious nonetheless.

I nodded. There was no use denying what we both knew was true.

“No one’s supposed to be here after closing.”

I shrugged, folded my arms across my chest, and peered past his shoulder. Trying to think of something to say that might get him to lighten up, let me hang around for a bit, at least until the darkness went away.

But the second I met his eyes, I knew those words would never come. There was something very odd about him, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

“Usually the dark does the trick. It’s enough to keep all the stragglers away. That’s the whole point, you know. That’s why it happens. And yet, here you are.” I bit down on my lip, did my best to hold on to his gaze.