ISLAND ILLUSIONS (#2 PARADISE ISLAND duology)

--fifteen--

The girl hastened off before Miles could ask any follow up questions.

And oh, he had plenty.

The gods hovered? They could listen to and see what Miles and the others were doing, but they didn't read the English language? How did this girl know that? How did Mr. Reynolds?

And why, why was the wretched man implying he was going to help Miles and the other students get out?

The questions swirled and swirled inside Miles' head, making it ache. Mr. Reynolds, the firmest, fiercest asshole of a human, the worst on this island, had read Ms. Moreno's book and done a one-eighty on his beliefs. Was it a trap? Or was it real? And if he hadn't known these gods were in fact aliens, how did he still know so much about them?

Miles leaned against a tree, catching his breath. Every question left him more winded than the last, and he knew he wouldn't get answers—if any at all—until the next day.

But it was a lot to take in. Mr. Reynolds, taking their side. He'd mentioned a manual with a bunch of rules in it—one that he hadn't even bothered to fully read, because of the blind faith he'd given the supposed gods. But now he was willing to throw it into the fire?

And what about that ritual he spoke of; was that real? And would he really use it to invoke the gods, the aliens? Maybe it'd be a means to divert them, keep them occupied while Miles and the others found a way out. Or maybe, as Miles' conscience kept telling him, Mr. Reynolds wasn't that good and was only drawing Miles in to better slice into him later. It was a trap, a means for Mr. Reynolds to get on the alien's good side, and earn himself a pretty little prize. Once faithful, always faithful, regardless of what he was faithful to?

If that turned out to be the case, if Mr. Reynolds had lied to Miles to betray him—the only pretty little prize he'd get was a whopping punch in the nose and hopefully a dagger to the heart; if Miles could manage throwing one through the barrier at him.

And now that I know it doesn't stop inanimate objects from going through...

He tucked that information away for later use. He'd have to find a knife small enough to stash in his waist-band, but big enough to break through Mr. Reynolds' tough skin.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Miles pushed off the tree he'd used for support, took three steps forward—and paused.

It appeared he'd been followed, eavesdropped on. He'd been discovered.

"Miles?" Vick stood feet away from him, dressed in a gray sweat-pant set, tugging a hand through his tousled dark curls.

Miles froze, uncertain how to respond. Acknowledge his former friend? Wave, like an idiot? Or attack him? He was, after all, Jessa's play-thing. She'd dug her claws in deep with this one, meaning the ruler had dug her claws in deep. Vick belonged to the alien-gods, to the ruler, and him coming after Miles only meant one thing—that he was obeying their command and that he'd come to battle with Miles to the death.

Or had he? Vick didn't look like the animalistic, sex-craving weirdo he'd been back at camp for the past few days. If anything, he looked bewildered, peeping behind Miles, his gaze zoning in on the barrier, then on the book in Miles' grasp. He hadn't bothered to hide it anymore, now that he knew the aliens couldn't read it; but Vick could. And Vick was staring at it with way too much interest.

"Hey, man," said Miles, cradling the notebook to his chest as he took a small, tentative step forward. He lifted an arm, his palm facing Vick, approaching him as one would a scared, cornered animal.

Vick didn't make any abrupt gestures, nor did he give off the vibe that he was in a violent mood. He was calm, standing his ground and watching Miles with narrowed eyes, but didn't stop him from coming closer, didn't bare his teeth.