Shimmer (Riley Bloom #2)(11)

I looked at him, part of me wanting to deny I even had a problem, mostly because I was a little creeped out.

Okay, maybe I was a lot creeped out. I mean, here he’d pretty much just jumped out of the bushes, appeared out of nowhere really, claiming to know everything—and since I couldn’t hear his thoughts either, I had no way of knowing just what his motives might be.

But when I gazed into his kind and shining eyes, I realized that thought had come from the more paranoid part of me.

The more reasonable part knew I needed help.

Needed it, like, pronto to say the least.

I’d gotten myself into quite a mess—found myself in a situation so beyond me, I was left with no choice but to look for a solution outside of my own, admittedly meager, means.

I was far too lost and clueless to even try to go it alone.

And that’s pretty much the only reason I decided to take the leap—decided to place all my trust in this odd, shabby stranger who claimed to be a prince, despite the pile of evidence to the contrary.

Allowing the more logical part of me to reign as I squared my shoulders, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “I do need your help. I really do. Not only does she have my friend, but she’s got my dog too.”





9


He regarded me carefully, his face solemn, eyes grave, his gaze sweeping mine as though giving it some majorly serious consideration.

Then, without another word, with no other signal than the slightest nod of his shiny bald head, he turned, motioned for me to follow, and led me right out of that graveyard, away from the bubble and over to what appeared to be a small, straw-covered hut on the sand.

I stood at the entrance, totally unwilling to venture any farther. Drumming my fingers against the side of my hip, as I said, “So, I guess this is your … palace?” I scrunched up my nose and surveyed the place.

Taking in the thatched roof, the four dried-out bamboo sticks that supported it, the woven-grass mat that stood in as some sort of carpet, and the two brightly colored pillows he’d arranged in the center—surroundings so plain and humble, I have to admit that my already shaky faith in him took a pretty swift nosedive.

I mean, not to be rude or anything, but didn’t he claim to be a prince?

Hadn’t he actually made it a point to emphasize the word?

I watched as he busied himself in the corner, his back turned toward me as he took on some kind of task. Ignoring my comment, paying me absolutely no attention whatsoever, and it was then that I realized what I’d failed to see before.

Prince Kanta was crazy!

Like one of those poor, destitute, homeless people I sometimes saw wandering around and muttering to themselves back on the streets in the earth plane.

He was delusional.

Insane.

Living in some made-up fantasy world that existed only in his head—a world where princes dressed in rags and lived in shacks. Fully convinced he was some kind of royalty, when in fact, from what I could see, he was anything but. And apparently I’d been just dumb enough, just desperate enough for him to almost succeed in convincing me too.

I started to bolt, eager to get myself the heck out of there, when he turned, held his hands cupped before him, and offered me some kind of tea he’d just brewed.

I rose up on my tiptoes and peered at the dark, steaming liquid in the small yellow cup—saw the way the small bits of leaf clung to each other and collected around the edges. My eyes narrowing in suspicion as every warning I’d ever heard about the dangers of taking candy from strangers, especially completely wacko, psycho strangers, came back to haunt me. (Never mind the fact that my being dead ensured I could no longer be harmed in that way.)

“Take it.” He thrust it upon me as he reached for a cup of his own. Lowering himself onto the blue patterned cushion in one quick, fluid move, he patted the orange one with the large starburst design just beside it. “Now sit,” he commanded.

I knew better.

Knew I should take that opportunity to get myself the heck out of there. Take advantage of my proximity to the entry and just hit it while I could.

But instead, for some inexplicable reason, I found myself sitting right down beside him. Obediently crossing my legs as I held the warm cup in my hands.

He blew on the liquid, probably more out of habit and ritual than actual necessity, gazing out at those turquoise waters for what seemed like a very long time. Gazing at the sea for so long I was starting to get more than a little bit antsy. Starting to get more than a little annoyed with the whole situation. Sure that there was no way some dumb Mad Hatter–style tea party could do anything toward helping me free my friends. If anything, it was the exact opposite—it was all amounting to a big waste of time.

And I was just about to express those feelings when he looked at me and said, “Drink.” Probably figuring since I’d already gone along with his earlier commands, I’d just blindly go along with that too.

But I was done being bossed around. Done being treated like one of his royal subjects, and I was just about to start making a few demands of my own when he turned, looked me right in the eye, and said it again.

“Drink.”

I tried to break his gaze, but couldn’t.

Tried to get to my feet and get myself out of there, but I couldn’t do that either.

It was as though his eyes were holding me captive, paralyzed, in the strangest of ways. And the more I tried to fight it, the more I realized just how useless it was.