Shimmer Read online

  4

  “We can’t do it. You can’t do it,” Bodhi said, and even though I chose to ignore him, it’s not like that stopped him. “Riley, did you not hear me? If the Council didn’t assign it, it’s none of our business.”

  He looked at me, shot me this long, hard, determined stare, but I chose to ignore that too.

  Partly because I was already moving away from him, already making my way down the beach, headed in the same direction that the Hell Beast had run in.

  And partly because I wasn’t interested in listening to that kind of dissent, nor to any dissent. Not when I was so busy forming a plan.

  “It’s not like we can just go crossing over whomever we feel like, whenever we feel like. There are rules about these sorts of things, rules you’re not even aware of. Besides, it’s not like you’ll find him anyway,” Bodhi called out from behind me, his voice fading, the pitch growing weaker and weaker with each passing step I took. “Seriously, you’re just wasting your time. They only show themselves when they want to be seen. And even then, it’s usually only when they’re trying to ward off some kind of threat or something.”

  I stopped.

  Dug my toes deep into the wet, grainy sand and reconsidered my whole entire game plan.

  I was headed the wrong way.

  Instead of going in the same direction the beast had run, I should’ve been headed the way he’d come.

  The same direction I’d originally been headed.

  The same direction Buttercup and Bodhi had returned from.

  Because if what Bodhi claimed was true, then there was something over there that the old Snarly Yow/Phantom Dog/Hell Beast found worthy of guarding. And if I could just find what that was, then I could also find him.

  So I turned, turned and headed right back to where Bodhi was standing. Noting the look of smug relief on his face, the way he nudged Buttercup with his knee, signaling that now that I’d caved in to his infinite wisdom, now that I’d finally come to my senses and seen his side of things, it was time for us to move on.

  But I just kept going.

  Just sailed right past him, as I pierced though the fog and he called out from behind me, yelling, “Riley! I’m serious. Why do you still find it so impossible to listen to me? I thought we we’re past this. I thought we had an understanding. I am the guide, and you—” He paused, searching for just the right word, one that would serve to get his point across, but hopefully not offend. His voice sure and confident the second he found it, he said, “And you are the apprentice. Which means you can’t go making up assignments—you are not a free agent! You can only get them from the Council or me. Riley! This is not a joke. I’m completely serious. What will it take to get you to listen to me? To respect me?”

  It was a lot of words.

  Quite a mouthful really.

  But to me, they were just a whole bunch of consonants and vowels haphazardly strung together.

  The only reason I’d heard any of it was because he’d decided to follow me. And as he rushed to keep up, he added, “You can’t just do whatever you want, you know. There are rules and regulations, and all it takes is just one ridiculously irrational move on your part to jeopardize everything I’ve worked so hard to build! It’s my job to look after you. I’m responsible for you whether you like it or not. And yet, even though you’re well aware of that, even though you know all too well how I just got back in good with the Council after almost getting demoted and falling out of favor, you insist on doing this. Refusing to stop and consider how your reckless ideas might affect me. You just get some crazy idea about saving some Hell Beast that’s probably not even on the Council’s radar, and then you just dive in headfirst, without the slightest consideration as to how you’re about to risk all my hard work! You have no idea what you’re doing, no idea what the consequences are, or just how much I have to lose! Besides, little do you know, but just like people on the earth plane have destinies to fulfill, spirits also have destinies to fulfill. Not to mention a little something called free will, which is something you have no right to interfere with. The ability to exercise one’s free will is an imperative part of a soul realizing its destiny! And, I hate to break it to ya, but for someone who didn’t get their glow on until very recently, for someone whose barely there, pale green shimmer clearly marks you as a member of the level 1.5 team, you are neither allowed nor authorized to interfere in anyone’s destiny or fate or chosen path or free will unless specifically ordered to do so by either the Council or me! Why do you not understand this? Why do I have to keep explaining it to you?”

  And that’s when I turned. That’s when I spun on my heel, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “As it just so happens, that’s exactly what I’m doing right now.”

  He looked at me, his expression a little muddled, chaotic—a result of that hectic word deluge he’d spewed forth.

  “I’m exercising my free will. And though I may not be as well versed in the rule book as you, Oh Mighty Guide of Mine, I’m pretty dang sure you lack the authority to keep me from realizing my destiny.”

  Then, without waiting for a response, I was gone. Feet pushing hard into the sand, intent on keeping my progress steady and sure, choosing walking over flying since, in my experience anyway, flying in the fog isn’t nearly as much fun as it might seem at first. The poor visibility makes for a pretty blah view.

  Bodhi’s voice continuing to haunt me as he hurled words like stubborn, obstinate, headstrong, overly willful, misguided, irrational, impulsive—none of them the least bit flattering, but all of them piercing through the fog and trailing right behind me nonetheless.

  And just like before, they bore no lasting effect.

  To me, it was just a bunch of bippidy blah blah.

  I mean, maybe what he said was true.

  Maybe it wasn’t.

  It was of no particular interest to me either way.

  Because despite what Bodhi claimed about the rules, and the Council, and my own very long list of extremely flawed character traits, there was one thing I knew for absolute sure:

  There were no accidents, coincidences, or random events.

  The universe just didn’t operate like that.

  I’d seen that dog for a reason.

  And I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  5

  Although I couldn’t say for sure how far I had walked—due to the intensity of the mist I could neither see behind me nor in front of me—I did know that I’d walked far enough for Bodhi’s voice to completely fade into nothing.

  Walked for so long I could no longer hear Buttercup’s panting breath or excited barks.

  Aside from the constant lull and sway of the sea lapping the shoreline, and the familiar, almost-plaintive cry of the seagulls soaring overhead, I couldn’t hear much of anything.

  Couldn’t see anything.

  Couldn’t hear anything.

  Which probably explains why I was so surprised when I stumbled upon it.

  And I do mean stumbled.

  I’d been so intent on merging my energy with the sand, the sea, the sky, and all the rest of my surroundings, so focused on merging my vibration with that of the physical world, that one moment I was just strolling along, more or less minding my own business, and the next I’d toppled right over, headfirst.

  Yep, even in my ghostly form I could still get tripped up.

  Even though it probably seems as though I should’ve just slipped right through it, the thing is, in the end, it all came down to energy. In order to make contact with something more solid, in order to experience the earth plane in the same way I used to, I had to draw upon its energy. And my being so focused on drawing upon the energy of just about everything around me … well, let’s just say that’s pretty much what did me in.

  I screwed up my face, pushed my long blond bangs out of my eyes, and glared at the offending piece just before me.

  Expecting to find some kind of jagged, water-carved beach rock, only to see that it
wasn’t a rock at all—or at least not the kind I’d assumed.

  Somewhere along the way, the beach had managed to transition from a misty shroud of white sand and turquoise waters into a desolate, seemingly forgotten, fog-free, patchy-grass graveyard without my even noticing.

  A seriously decrepit, seriously old graveyard.

  The kind with crumbling tombstones, sunken graves, and creepy-looking trees with cruel, leafless branches that hovered in such a way they looked as though they’d pluck you right off the ground and into their clutches.

  The kind of graveyard you see in scary movies.

  Only this was no movie, this was the real thing.

  I squinted at the tombstone that’d tripped me, searching for a name, a date, something that might mean something to me or provide a clue of some kind. It was so old and crumbly, all I could make out was the vague outline of what might’ve been an angel’s wing, but could’ve just as easily been something else entirely, along with a partial name and date that’d been etched away by the cruel hand of time.

  I looked all around, seeing there were more—lots and lots of them. Some similar, some not, some with elaborate markings and angels and crosses and things, some not much more than a sad little stump.

  And just as I remembered what Bodhi had said about the Phantom Dog’s penchant for guarding graves and tombs and such, I saw it.

  Not the dog.

  Not—well, not anything substantial enough for me to really put a label on.

  Let’s just say it was more of a shimmer.

  A soft, pink-gold shimmer.

  And I watched, mesmerized, pretty much spellbound really, as it twirled and danced and flitted and jumped. Bouncing lightly from the head of each grave, gracefully leaping from tree to tree, until it finally landed before me. Hovering in place as I scrambled to my feet and watched in amazement as that glowing ball of energy slowly stretched, and curved, and transformed itself into a pair of eyes, a nose, a mouth, and teeth—

  Transformed itself into—me!

  It was all there.

  All of my features present and accounted for.

  Lanky blond hair: Check.

  Bright blue eyes: Yep.

  Semi-stubby nose: Roger that.

  Completely flat chest: Um, unfortunately, yes.

  Fussy, overly frilly dress, with way too many sparkles and bows: Wha—?

  I was speechless.

  Really and truly speechless.

  My eyes darting all around, searching for Bodhi and Buttercup, wondering if they were somehow behind it, determined to freak me out, creep me out, and teach me a lesson about making up my own assignments.

  But when I turned back to her, er, me, er, it, I started to get really annoyed by the dress. I mean, seriously, one frivolous accent would’ve been more than enough, but to add frills and lace and ruffles and bows and buttons that actually sparkled and shone, well, it clearly amounted to complete and total overkill.

  Besides, anyone who knew me knew I wouldn’t be caught dead (literally!) wearing a dress like that. So that meant either Bodhi was seriously determined to get back at me for ignoring his rules, or someone else, someone who obviously didn’t know me at all, had made the mistake of seriously underestimating me.

  “Sorry.” She smiled, instantly transforming my features into ones that belonged to someone else, someone who was totally unrecognizable to me.

  The hair became brown and curled instead of blond and limp, the eyes a deep hazel instead of bright blue, the nose long and elegant as opposed to, well, the way mine was built, and a chest that bloomed into something a little more substantial than the pathetically flat version I was stuck with.

  A chest that bloomed in a way mine never would.

  But for some strange reason, she chose to keep the dress, which, had it been me, would’ve been the very first thing I would’ve ditched.

  “It’s always good for a scare though. Which I guess is why it’s just too good to resist.” She laughed in a way that lit up her face, the sound of it light and melodic and, well, tinkly even. Though her gaze stayed the same, heavy and observing. “It’s naughty of me, I know, but sometimes…” She gazed all around, and I mean all around. Her head spinning in quick circles, her neck creasing and twisting in the most grotesque way as she wrapped her slim arms tightly around her impossibly tiny waist. “Well, sometimes I just can’t help myself.” She looked at me again, her head having rotated all the way back until it snapped into place. “But, seeing as you’re dead like me, I’ll play fair. I’ll stop with the games. Oh, and please excuse my lack of manners. My name’s Rebecca, by the way.” She smiled and dipped deep down into what I immediately recognized as some old-school, ladylike curtsy. Bowing her head before me, and revealing an array of even more ribbons and bows that meandered their way down her back.

  I hesitated, still a little shaken from the whole head-spinning display, and waiting to see what else she’d come up with, what else she had planned.

  But when nothing more happened, when she chose to remain as the same, over-accessorized version of herself, I nodded slightly and said, “I’m Riley.” Hoping that alone would suffice, since I had no intention to curtsy. Not then, not ever.

  Only to hear her reply, “Riley?” She squinted, her eyes becoming two tiny pinpricks, devoid of all light. “Why, excuse me for saying so, but isn’t that a boy’s name?” She tilted her head to the side and stared. Her eyes providing no clue to what her real thoughts might be. And strangely, unlike a lot of the other dead people I’d met before her, I was unable to hear them. Somehow she’d found a way to hide them from me.

  “Do I look like a boy?” I responded, more than a little miffed by her comment, and wanting her to know she was treading on very thin, very shaky ground.

  But she just pressed her lips together and shrugged daintily. Taking her own sweet time to reply, acting as though it was just too close to call. As though she was actually wavering between the two choices of male versus female.

  I was about to walk away, deciding I’d had enough of her games, when she brought her hand to my shoulder and tapped.

  Only once.

  Light and quick.

  Yet that was all it took to instantly transport me all the way back to my very first day of school.

  Back to the skinny, scrawny, jeans-and-sweater-wearing version of me, sporting what could only be described as a very ill-advised pixie cut.

  A very ill-advised pixie cut that seemed like a good idea at the time (mostly because my sister, Ever, had gotten her hair cut short too), but that ultimately left everyone, both classmates and teachers, assuming I was a boy.

  It was as though I’d gone back in time.

  I watched as the series of crumbly, old grave markers magically transformed into a group of small desks, while the clump of tall, creepy trees, with the wide, hollowed-out trunks and long spindly branches that reminded me of the gnarled old fingers on a storybook witch’s hands, turned into chalkboards and easels.

  The walls closing in all around me, keeping me, trapping me, until what had once been an old, forgotten, abandoned cemetery transformed into an exact replica of my kindergarten classroom. The scene playing out exactly as I remembered, complete with hysterically laughing, fellow five-year-olds, and an overly apologetic, red-faced teacher.

  “Riley, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Patterson said, her shoulders lifting in embarrassment, as a spot of color burst forth on her cheeks.

  But that was nothing compared to the way I felt.

  Our first assignment of the day—just after pinning our name tags to our chests—was to line up in two separate groups: boys on one side, girls on the other. And according to my teacher, I’d already failed that particular task.

  One glance at my androgynous clothes and super-short, tomboyish haircut, and Mrs. Patterson had assumed the worst.

  Assumed I was a boy.

  “What with your … I just assumed that you…” Her hand fluttered before her, as her eyes searched for a dist
raction, some kind of escape.

  And I stood before my giggling classmates, my eyes squinched and stinging, my throat hot and dry, experiencing the full brunt of what it means to be horribly humiliated for the very first time in my life.

  I gazed at all the other girls, taking in a seemingly never-ending sea of curls and braids and barrettes and ribbons, all of them dressed in varying shades of pink and purple and sky blue—not so unlike that bratty ghost-girl Rebecca—and one thing became clear, perfectly clear: I was pretty much the worst thing a person could be.

  I was different.

  I was someone who didn’t fit in.

  While I’d left my house just a little while before feeling nervous for sure, but mostly excited and good, fifteen minutes into it, I’d already been tagged as a freak.

  I bolted from my place and made a run for the door. But unlike my real classroom, this door was locked.

  So then I bolted toward the large windows, but they were locked too.

  Leaving me with no choice but to gaze all around, searching for an exit, and struggling to settle myself as the horrible truth slowly crept upon me:

  I was trapped.

  Held hostage in a classroom full of giggling, mocking, sneering students, whose hysteria rose and swelled and became so contagious, even my teacher couldn’t help but join in.

  Even though I knew, on some small level, that this wasn’t exactly real, that it hadn’t actually gone down in quite that same way, it’s not like it mattered. Deep down inside, all the way down to the very core of me, the very soul of me, the emotions were exactly the same as they had been that day.