Shimmer rb-2

by Alyson Noel

  Already lifting his arm and pointing toward the very spot where Rebecca now stood.

  18

  Her dog stood right alongside her, looking nothing like the Snarly Yow/Black Shuck/Hell Beast I remembered from before.

  This dog was tiny.

  And nervous.

  The kind with yippy barks and dancing paws.

  While I’d done my best to fill Bodhi in on everything that I’d learned about Rebecca, when we were still searching for Buttercup, while I’d tried to make it clear just how dark and evil she was, one look at his face was all it took to see he wasn’t quite sure if he should believe me.

  He was conflicted.

  Despite all that I’d said, he was so swayed by her sugary-sweet, beribboned exterior he seriously doubted that someone who looked as harmless and fluffy as that was capable of creating a bubble from hell.

  Boys.

  They are all the same.

  All so easily influenced by a bright and shiny saccharine display.

  I tensed as she approached, noting the way she made the ground just under her feet transform and bloom into a bouncy, vibrant carpet of green grass and yellow flowering buds that perfectly matched the bow on her dress. Her smile held firm but radiant, her eyes hiding a whole world of secrets I couldn’t even begin to guess at, as she thrust forth her hand and offered a tall, sweaty glass filled with some kind of iced murky liquid.

  “Thirsty?” she asked, her voice so high-pitched and syrupy, I felt like I’d overdosed on Halloween candy just by listening to it. Prompting me to grab hold of Buttercup, determined to keep him close to my side. Not wanting him to get anywhere near that runty little pooch of hers who could just as easily turn into the worst kind of Hell Beast.

  I glanced at Bodhi, seeing the way he looked at her. Carefully observing as though trying to find some kind of middle ground between all the things I’d said, and all the things his eyes were telling him. His brow lowered, eyes narrowed, while his normally bobbing straw paused against his lips, coming to a complete and total standstill.

  “Why not give yourself a break and enjoy a little taste? After all you’ve been through, you deserve it.” She pushed the glass toward him and stared deep into his eyes, but Bodhi just continued to stand there, taking her in. His eyes squinted in such a way that I had no way to read them, no way to know what he might’ve been thinking

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, you know. You should trust me when I say I no longer blame you for being so cowardly and caught up in your own fragile image that you made no move to save me.”

  I squeezed my lids tighter, squeezed till my eyes turned to slits, and though I still couldn’t see exactly what he was seeing, I saw enough to know something had changed.

  It was the way the air moved and shimmered all around her, making her appear fuzzy and obscured from my view. And I knew at that instant that, to Bodhi anyway, she looked just like Nicole again.

  I grasped for his hand, afraid of losing him to that brand of anguish, but he stepped out of my reach in favor of her. His fingers outstretched, gaze unwavering, reaching for the drink I couldn’t allow him to consume.

  I thrust my hand between them, determined to keep Bodhi away, the sudden movement alerting her dog and causing it to lower its head, raise its back, and direct a deep, menacing growl right at me.

  But before I could intervene, Bodhi had already grabbed it.

  Already gripped his fingers around the glass as he stared at Rebecca and said, “You’re wasting your time.” Knocking the drink so hard it shot clear out of her hand and into the trees. “Your glamour doesn’t work on me anymore. You’re not Nicole. In fact, you’re not even close. And just so you know, I’ve let it all go. I’ve forgiven myself. Which means you’ve got no hold over me now that I’m no longer angry.”

  She tried her best to hide it. I’ll give her that. But still, it was clear by the way she tilted her head and lifted her chin, by the way she fluttered her eyes as she gazed over him, that she wasn’t quite expecting that.

  “Suit yourself.” She lifted her small, slim shoulders, allowing the shimmer to fade until she was fully back to being her overdressed self once again. Her eyes flitting toward mine when she added, “How about you, Riley? Would you like a sip?” Her brow rising as her gaze grew dark and deep, she manifested a whole new glass of tea in her hand. “I promise, it’s nothing at all like that false memory tea the prince served you.” She rolled her eyes and shook her dainty head. “You do realize he’s crazy, right? I mean, you don’t actually believe he’s a prince, do you?” Her lips curled and smirked as her brow arced in a superior, haughty way.

  “He was one of my father’s workers—and not a very good one, I might add. And he was also a murderer.” She paused with meaning, allowing enough time for her words to fully penetrate. “But never a prince, I assure you of that. You know he’s responsible for what happened to me, right? He’s a member of the same group of rebels who planned the revolt. It’s true!” she urged, reading my gaze and correctly assuming I didn’t believe a single word that she’d said. “And you’re a fool for both believing him and feeling sorry for him. Not to mention that you’re a hypocrite too.”

  I quirked my brow, curious as to what she could possibly be getting at, and she was all too eager to inform me.

  “Murderers get sent to prison all the time, so why is this any different?”

  “Because it is different.” Bodhi jumped to my defense, even though I wasn’t really in need of it. “It’s not the same at all. You have no right to interfere with any soul’s journey—no right at all! And deep down inside, I have a feeling you know that, or you wouldn’t be near as defensive as you are.”

  She bristled. Her eyes practically glowing like her Hell Beast’s just had. “You think you know so much—you think you can barge into my turf and push me around just because you both have some kind of weird glow around you?” She gripped the glass so tightly I was sure it would shatter in her hand. Staring us down in a way that made it clear just how truly outraged she was, as though all the ugliness inside her was finding its way to the surface. Her hair lifting, becoming crazy, wiry, as her hate shone so bright it took everything I had not to look away.

  And I couldn’t help but wonder if she truly did believe what she’d said about the prince and her reasons for keeping him and all the other slaves she’d imprisoned, or if that’s just the story she told herself so she’d have an excuse to do what she did.

  There was only one way to find out.

  “You don’t know anything!” she screamed, her whole face transforming. “You know nothing—nothing at all!”

  She continued to carry on like that, raging and shrieking with no end in sight. And feeling more than a little fed up with all the threats and dramatics, and more than a little eager to get to the bottom of it, I looked at her and said, “Fine. I’ll see for myself then. Hand it over already.” Totally convinced she was little more than an evil, spoiled-rotten brat, but also knowing that there were two sides to every story, and in order to get hers, I had to see it from her point of view.

  She stopped, her eyes widening, clearly wondering if it was some kind of trick.

  But it was no trick. I was entirely serious. And though Bodhi wasted no time in gripping my arm in warning, well, it was too late.

  I was already reaching for the glass.

  Already plucking a sparkle from her dress and tossing it in.

  Already bringing the brew to my lips.

  Already committing to the journey no matter what sort of scene I’d find myself in.

  Bodhi’s voice a mere trace of an echo as he begged me to stop, begged me not to go through with it.

  But it made no difference.

  I’d already entered her world.

  19

  It wasn’t at all like I thought.

  I mean, not that I can really explain just exactly what I was expecting since it happened so fast I hadn’t really allowed myself all that much time to thin
k about it. But still, if I hadn’t downed that tea so quickly, if I’d stopped long enough to actually ponder a few things, I don’t think I would’ve envisioned anything even close to the scene in which I found myself.

  I was a baby.

  No, scratch that. Because actually, Rebecca was the baby, and I was just along for the ride. Observing the events from her point of view, immersed in an event so vivid, so detailed, so real, it was as though I was her.

  I could see the morning sun eke its way around the scalloped edges of the curtains as her mother’s soft arms circled me, cradling gently, as she gazed down in the most loving, deeply profound way.

  I could feel the depths of Rebecca’s sorrow, the full range of her confusion, from that very first morning when her mother failed to appear—and all of the mornings that followed—to the moment when it came as no surprise that her first word spoken was “Mama!” soon followed by “Dead” and then “Buried.” The two most often used words to explain the absence of the first.

  I grew along with her, transitioning from a crawling baby to a walking child, feeling her body stretch and grow as the soft rolls of baby fat melted away, allowing her to slim down for a time, before she began to blossom into a pretty young girl whose thirteenth year found her with a closet full of sparkly dresses and drawers stuffed with colorful ribbons and bows. Longing for her father to take notice of her, to appreciate the way she looked in them. But he had neither the time nor the interest, viewing his daughter as a nuisance that was best left to the servants to deal with.

  And so they did.

  So fearful of her father’s legacy of anger, they indulged her every whim in hopes she’d never bad-mouth them. Giving her sweets and treats and presents of every kind: a vast array of delicacies she only vaguely desired; a vast array of delicacies they’d long been denied.

  It was the recipe for making a monster.

  And there was no end in sight.

  If there was resentment in their eyes, Rebecca remained unaware of it. She barely paid them any real notice. To her, they had no other purpose than to fulfill her demands—she was sure that was the sole reason for their existence. Her indulgent life had turned her into the kind of brat I’d only seen on reality TV but never once in the reality of real life.

  She was a brat of mammoth proportions.

  A spoiled-rotten, clueless, friendless girl, who was so firmly entrenched in her fantasy world—one where everything revolved solely around her—she had no idea how awful she’d become.

  No idea that the people who served her had not actually asked to be employed by her father.

  No idea of the sadistic game of “bowling” he played with those he’d deemed unworthy of a job they didn’t even want in the first place.

  And yet, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

  Couldn’t help but pity her.

  Even though there was no getting around the fact that she was just as beastly as that dog of hers, there was also no denying that she just didn’t get it.

  Like the prince would say—she was resisting the truth.

  And the next thing I knew, she was on the move.

  Running so fast I could actually hear the huff of her panting breath in my ears, could actually feel the moment of confusion when she lost her footing and sprawled across the dirt. Her body hitting so hard, I was jolted even deeper inside her.

  So deep, I’d become her.

  I lifted my face from the ground, snorting out a pile of dirt I’d inhaled while clearing a bunch of small rocks from my mouth.

  Spitting and gagging as I struggled to stand, wiping my sleeve hard against my face, then spitting and gagging some more as I paused long enough to look around.

  Aware of a voice in my head, urging, “Move!”

  And though I tried to obey, I was so unused to being her, so unused to having limbs so much longer than mine (not to mention the stiff, pouffy dress and tight shoes that were practically binding my feet), it was pretty rough going at first.

  But when the voice repeated, adding, “Hurry! There’s no time to waste! They’re coming!”

  I stumbled forward, feet fumbling, heart beating frantically, turning toward the house just in time to see a man racing away from the barn, a man I immediately knew was my father, with a confusing array of emotions held in his gaze.

  “Git!” he yelled, pointing at the house, allowing no time for pleasantries. “Git upstairs and hide in that closet in your mama’s old sitting room, and don’t come out till I git you myself. Do you hear me?”

  I tried to read his gaze, wondering what it was he was hiding from me, but then he said it again, louder this time, and I couldn’t help but obey.

  “Do not come out for anyone but me. No matter what! Now, git!” he practically screamed.

  I was off. His words trailing behind me as I raced through the front door and up the creaky wooden stairs. The thought of saying good-bye not even entering my mind, since it all seemed surreal, like a game of some kind.

  Bad things happened to other people, not me.

  I was rich, privileged, the only child of a big, important, plantation owner, which made me special in a way that far surpassed all the others. Aside from my mother’s untimely death, anything negative, dreary, or bad had always whizzed past me on its way toward somebody else.

  I made for my mama’s old sitting room, just like my papa had ordered. And though I was sure no one knew, the truth is, I’d often visited that room.

  I liked to sit in the soft, cushy upholstered chair she used for reading, before switching to the less comfortable straight-backed one she used for correspondence and list making. And more often than not, I’d play either one of two games: one in which I pretended she was still here, reading and chatting with me, and another in which I’d somehow become her, find a way to stand in her place.

  But today there was no time for games.

  Soon enough my papa would climb the stairs and come find me. And when he did, well, I was eager for him to see just how perfect I was.

  Just how willingly I’d obeyed his every word.

  Then maybe he’d finally take notice of me, since he never seemed to notice before.

  I made for the closet, crawled into the small, dark, rarely used space, wrapped my fingers around the edge of the door and pulled it shut as well as I could. Crouching all the way against the back wall, just about all settled in, when I remembered my dog.

  I scooched forward, propped the door open, peeked my head out, and called, “Shucky! Here boy!” before chasing that with a low, even whistle I prayed my father wouldn’t hear.

  Relieved by the sound of Shucky’s paws scurrying across the wood floors, I caught him as he slipped inside the closet and jumped right onto my lap. Yipping softly, he excitedly lapped at my cheeks, as I shut the door again and moved us back into place.

  I clutched him to my chest and tried not to giggle at the way his icy-cold nose prodded against my shoulder and neck. Struggling to ignore the cloying scent of mold and mustiness and various things that hadn’t been used in a very long time, while I worked to decipher the look I’d seen in my father’s eyes.

  Was it love that I’d seen?

  And would I even recognize it if it was?

  It’d been so long since anyone looked upon me that way, I had no way to recognize the signs.

  And that’s how I spent my last moments.

  Fending off old closet smells, fending off my dog’s stale, panting breath, while trying to determine just exactly what my father’s gaze had meant.

  My legs beginning to ache from being so awkwardly bent, my back and buttocks growing sore from leaning for so long against the hardwood floor.

  Wondering if I should maybe take a quick peek, see what might be taking him so long to find me, when my dog suddenly stiffened, perked up his ears, and narrowed his eyes as he let out a low, menacing growl.

  But while he may have been the first to sense it, it wasn’t long till there was no mistaking it.

 
The sound of a stampede—hundreds of bodies running with purpose.

  The sound of violence—things crashing and breaking as a series of screams rang out, one in particular, one that I recognized as my father’s, that rose above all the rest.

  The sound of my front door being pulled from its hinges.

  The sound of my house being stormed, invaded, ransacked, and looted.

  The sound of the horrible, lingering silence of a papa that never came looking for me.

  And yet, I continued to wait like he asked.

  Waited long past the time the crackling began and the closet floors began to heat.

  Long past the time gray ribbons of smoke curled their way in and around the door frame and rendered it impossible to breathe.

  Long past the time the flames licked at my heels and rose up my dress like snakes.

  Long past the time my frightened dog clawed huge gaping holes in my dress as he fought with all of his might to escape.

  But I wouldn’t let him go, wouldn’t let him leave without me, I just held him fast to my chest, my lips incessantly whispering my father’s warning:

  Do not come out for anyone but me, no matter what!

  My body blistering and burning, as the bow on my dress worked like some kind of accelerant and encouraged the flames to leap onto my hair and my face. Engulfing me in a pain so wrenching, so great, I told myself it was a game.

  That it couldn’t possibly be happening to someone as special as me.

  Repeating the words as a wave of red, searing-hot timbers crashed down upon us, reducing my dog and me to nothing more than a pile of charred bones and black dust.

  Obedient till the end, I’d died in the exact location where my father had told me to wait.

  Then, just as quickly, I was out.

  Gazing down at what little remained of myself and my dog as the scene continued to play, seeing smoke, fire, destruction, and blood, most of which belonged to my father, judging from the looks of his severely mangled body.

  And when I saw what had caused it or, rather, who had caused it—when I realized we’d all been murdered—well, from that moment on, all I could see was red.