Vestibule raised an eyebrow. “You sound skeptical.”
I shrugged. “Grilled cheese is grilled cheese. I mean, I like it, but I can’t imagine it being as dreamy as you describe.”
“Care to bet on that?” Vestibule said, a sly smile forming on her lips.
“What kind of bet?” I asked.
“Just that this will be the best grilled cheese sandwich you ever had,” she replied.
I drummed my fingers. “Taste is purely subjective. There’s no real way to measure whether it’s the best.”
“I trust you to be honest and admit it if it is,” Vestibule replied. “So, do we have a bet?”
“I don’t know. What exactly are we betting?”
Vestibule opened her mouth to speak, but found herself cut off by Smokey.
“I’m just going to jump in right here,” he announced. “No bets. You already hustled Jim once with the costume thing. I wouldn’t be his friend if I let it happen on my watch.”
“Hustled?” Vestibule echoed, feigning offense and laying a hand upon her chest. “Moi? I’m just some ditzy airhead. Pulling the wool over someone’s eyes is outside my skill set.”
“Hmmm,” Smokey droned. “That sounds like a prelude to me getting hustled.”
This statement was followed by a chorus of laughter from all of us. Around that time, the waitress came back with our drinks on a tray; she swiftly distributed them, along with four bamboo straws, then quickly departed.
“So,” Cat intoned as she placed a straw in her drink, “what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”
Smokey and I exchanged a glance.
“Well,” I began, “we really only came out for the costume party. That being the case, I guess we’ll have some breakfast in the morning and then head back home.”
“Ix-nay on that,” Vestibule declared forcefully. “Smokey’s got a yacht party to attend, in case you forgot, and the rest of us get to tag along.”
“And if you’re staying for breakfast,” Cat tacked on, “why not just come by my house for brunch instead?”
Telepathically, I reached out to Smokey. <What do you think?>
<I’m fine with it,> he replied. <I mean, I was hoping to stay for the yacht party anyway.>
I gave a mental nod. <All right, sounds like a plan.>
Telepathic communication takes place much faster than actual speech, so barely a second had gone by since Cat had asked her question.
“Brunch sounds great,” Smokey said with a smile.
Cat seemed delighted by the response and appeared on the verge of saying so, but didn’t get a chance.
“Excuse me,” I muttered, pulling out my cell phone. “I’ve got a call I need to take.”
Without waiting for anyone to respond, I quickly slid out of the booth and headed to the exit. Once outside, I put away my phone and strode swiftly to the back of the diner.
As I had previously noted, there were no windows at the rear of the building. In fact, there was only a single door that led out to an area currently occupied by a couple of dumpsters. After looking around to make sure no one could see me, I floated up into the air and onto the roof of the diner.
After waiting a few moments, I said, “You can turn off the stealth gear. I know you’re there.”
For a second, nothing happened, and then the air about five feet in front of me began to shimmer and glow. The coruscation only lasted a few seconds, and when it was gone, I found myself facing someone wearing the armor of a Caelesian royal guard.
The guard reached up with both hands and lifted their helmet, allowing me to see their face for the first time. It was a woman, with long, dark hair braided into a ponytail.
Tucking the helmet under one arm, the guard inclined her head and said, “Highness.”
Her greeting was a reminder of the fact that I was actually Caelesian royalty – something I honestly seldom thought about. However, I put that out of my mind and got down to business.
“You wanted to talk?” I asked.
The guard gave me a curious look. “Pardon, Highness?”
“Well, you turned off whatever gadgetry or tech you normally use to block me from sensing you empathically,” I explained, reflecting on how I had suddenly picked up on Caelesian emotions while sitting in the diner. “That means you wanted me to know you were there, which implies that you wanted to talk to me about something.”
The guard seemed to reflect on this for a moment, then asked, “Where is the princess?”
“You know where she is,” I shot back tersely. “You’ve got her tagged, outfitted with a tracker, or bugged in some other way that lets you know her exact location twenty-four hours a day.”
“The question was not meant for my edification, but intended as a reminder that the princess is your responsibility.”
“Well, Myshtal is fine – I talk to her every day. She’s with my cousin Monique and having a great time.”
“The welfare of the princess is not an obligation you can foist off on others.”
“No one’s foisting anything,” I muttered angrily. “Myshtal has to develop relationships with other people. She can’t be under my wing all the time – it would drive her crazy, and even she admits that.”
“Her sanity is not your concern. Her well-being is.”
“Aren’t you people only like two feet away from her at any given point in time? Plus, you can track her within seconds to any spot on the planet. She doesn’t need me to protect her. You guys have it covered.”
The guard gave me a wary look, as if trying to decide something. Finally she said, “Some of what you surmise is correct, but much of it is completely inaccurate.”
“Such as?”
“To begin with, we are not ‘two feet away’ from the princess at all times. Truth be told, we seldom set foot on this planet. The surveillance we undertake – which is generally limited solely to the princess’s location – is done from space. The only other monitoring we do is of her vitals, which we do to get an indication of when she’s injured, in
