Page 6 of The Prince of Hidden Shadows (Runaway Prince Hotel #5)

Chapter Five

PARADISE CITY

Zagreus

A few weeks ago in New York

F ingers intertwined, I stretch my arms above my head and yawn. “It’s good to be back,” I murmur, although my position isn’t ideal.

Intruding on an NDE isn’t my style, but it’s not like I have a choice. Rose, Nathan’s twenty-something friend, is squeezing his lifeless body. Or so she thinks. She’s not yet privy to the crucial “N” in his near -death experience.

My heart thumps inside my chest.

These moments are always disorienting. Invisible and omniscient, I hover just outside of time—an observer hitching a ride through another person’s out-of-body experience.

I once tried to explain it to Charon. I compared it to that scene in the movie Ghost, when Patrick Swayze realizes he’s dead and stares down at his own body in disbelief.

That’s what this is. Except I’m clinging to Nathan Price’s hand.

The famous calligrapher ’s floating in his own limbo, but can’t escape. Not on my watch.

See, when I saw Nathan, I thought Eros was screwing with me—sending temptation in the form of a painfully attractive human to test my willpower.

I mean, look at the guy. Ultra-pale skin, sharp cheekbones, lips too full for his own good.

Snow White with a bad attitude. I was convinced that my pent-up lust was doing the talking.

Typical Eros. Claims he’s an expert in all things love and insists everyone has a soulmate waiting somewhere. Hecate warned me he had me in his sights—says he’s trying to fix my “aching heart.” What he refuses to understand is that gods don’t have souls. So, soulmates? That’s a mortal concept.

And as for pairing a god with a human?

That’s either a joke… or a catastrophe in the making.

Am I missing something here?

Hades’s little assignment arrived right on time, even if I wasn’t eager to take it on. It spared me from explaining that my heart wasn’t broken—my pride was, bruised where Hermes had stomped all over it. Relief, bitter and laced with sourness, loosened the knot in my chest. At last.

Anyway, here we are, in the bathroom of Nathan’s Tribeca loft, as I urge him to crawl back into his supine body, which he does without too much trouble.

First part of the mission: check. Nathan is safe, and his female friend is relieved.

Good! I give myself credit for a job well done, reminding myself to keep an eye on those two.

I’m no guardian angel, but Father wanted me to investigate, and my new friend Nathan grew on me.

After all, Nathan suspected his friend had a hand in the commotion.

At moments like these, I hate that I can’t sense magic.

I’m stuck observing from a distance. Once I have a clearer idea of what we’re dealing with, I’ll work on a game plan.

Until then, I leave the two friends alone and spend a few days at a downtown hotel, getting reacquainted with Manhattan life.

The amber glow of Tiny’s I lack practice.

He lingers, staring at the empty chair across the table, as if expecting something—or someone.

“Thank you,” I offer, and he saunters off.

There’s a lightness to his steps, like he’s amused.

Thoughtful, I shrug, opening the David Baldacci book I bought the day after my arrival.

Tracking Nathan’s powerful witch friend took up most of my time, so I didn’t get to read as much as I’d hoped.

The suspense is killing me, so to speak.

The risotto arrives, steaming and fragrant, with little flecks of sage on top. “Here you go. Careful, it’s hot—like me.” He chuckles, setting the plate down. Then, leaning slightly closer, he adds, “Kidding. Unless?”

I blink at him, once again, unsure of his intentions. Is he serious or just playing around? “Thanks,” I repeat, focusing on the food. It’s good risotto—creamy and perfectly spiced—but my brain is a little stuck on whether I’m the punchline of some inside joke I don’t get.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of small exchanges—refills of wine, some bread I don’t care for, and a recommendation for dessert (that I decline).

Each time I glance up, I’m greeted with that friendly grin.

When the bill arrives, I drop some cash on the table and leave what I believe is a generous tip.

I depart the restaurant without seeing him. Oh well!

The late February night air doesn’t affect me, but looking at the shivering and rosy-cheeked people around me, and the way they gawk at my summer attire, I remind myself to do some shopping tomorrow.

I have to blend in! How careless of me… With that in mind, I search my jacket pocket out of reflex when I’m halfway down the street and unfold the receipt.

I stop dead in my tracks—not literally—as I notice the scrawl on the other side.

You look like you’re in the mood for dessert. I can offer à la carte - Andy :)

There’s a phone number beneath it.

I gasp, staring at the paper as if it holds a riddle. Even if I wanted to call him, I don’t own a phone; the last time I walked the Earth, cell phones didn’t exist. Maybe I should buy one—everyone clutches theirs, and I aim to belong. So much to catch up on!

Hurrying back to my hotel to watch my favorite show, I slam the door behind me and grab the remote. My cheeks burn—and not from the cold. I roll my eyes at myself and drop onto the bed as the opening credits fade.

Am I flattered by human attention?

Ludicrous. And yet, Andy’s playfulness disarms me. It’s not the wine talking either—I don’t react to it like humans do.

“ A la carte …” I whisper. My interest is piqued, but will I act on it?

Despite missing some pointers, I’m still part of this world. Humans see me as one of them, and I couldn’t be happier. Long after I fold the receipt and tuck it back into my pocket, the question lingers.

My restless night gives me pause. I have nightmares about disasters caused by gods meddling with humans.

In the morning, I reconsider. I won’t reach out. Instead, I’ll wander Manhattan for fun. I’ll check on Nathan and Rose on occasion. I’ll let the city get used to me again. I’ll take things one step at a time.

Tribeca is a strange pocket of the city—quieter than midtown, with cobblestone streets threading past old warehouses and sleek cafés. It’s where old bones meet new skin, industrial history pressed against glossy modernity. Walking its streets feels like straddling two timelines.

Stalking Nathan’s friend for over a week leads me to the conclusion that Rose’s witchcraft isn’t an actual threat.

.. yet. Still, my connection to Nathan allows me to witness Rose pulling some serious shit—somewhat harmless—that I’m not keen on dwelling on.

I make a mental note to report her abilities to Hecate, my best friend, who knows her fair share on the subject.

For now, my job is to ensure that her progress doesn't lean towards black magic.

Nathan will be my ally in monitoring her.

That’s how I find myself facing Nathan in a coffee shop that serves $8 lattes and smells of burnt espresso and leather-bound journals. Dressed in all-black attire, my unlikely human friend is fully back to life. Talking animatedly about his oddball friend, his hands fly through the air.

“Damn, Rose Perry,” he grumbles, his tone half-scared and half-amazed.

All in all, the reckless witch learned her lesson thanks to his not-so-tender-loving care.

He swears that after the bathroom incident and a few that followed, she now understands the error of her ways.

Time will tell… I’ll give updates to my father, but I doubt he’ll view it as a closed case.

As for Nathan, he’s alive in a way that he wasn’t before.

All of this is enough to soothe the soul I don’t possess.

I can’t deny that he looks slightly different from when we first met: He now bears a constant reminder of his unexpected trip to the Underworld.

Stepping foot in a forbidden zone altered his eye color.

It’s much lighter, almost golden, with darker circles around his irises, as if he were wearing colored contacts.

I don’t comment on it, nor do I bring up how his friends reacted to the change.

I don’t ask if he saw me spying on him and his friends.

I don’t interrupt, watching how people—drawn to his charisma—move around him.

Content with the absence of any immediate threat, I let him ramble, a smile tugging at my lips .

I’m reassured, at least for now. Off to the next part of this journey.

Shadow traveling is pretty convenient and enables me to stay under the radar.

No last name. No fake ID. No complications.

And for this particular trip, it wouldn’t be worth the hassle.

So, given my connection to the realm of the dead, stepping through cracks in reality is easier for us. That’s also how Father moves unseen.

By the time I'd fled West a few weeks later, Manhattan had worn its way under my skin again. Its constant noise. Its exuberant architecture. Its claustrophobic expansiveness. But I know when to leave. Things are under control in Manhattan, and they jumpstarted Nathan’s epiphany, leading him to the road to recovery from his addiction and zero intention of joining the dead until his day comes.

The Oregon hotel I settle into was my refuge decades ago. I’ve missed it as much as I’ve missed the lovely owner, Layla and her wife, Sheena.

This place—with its 1920s vibes, polished floors, and familiar faces—has been my human home for as long as I can remember. Even princes need somewhere to land somewhat incognito sometimes, especially those who are eager to escape an overbearing immortal father who happens to rule the Underworld.

The Renversé Hotel is a place where time slows down and everything feels weathered, rather than worn out. The lobby smells faintly of sandalwood and old books, and the marble floors have softened edges, smoothed by decades of footfalls.

The infamous fountain sits proudly in the plaza. Nowadays, it leads to an adjoining coffee place. It’s cozy, has a great java selection, and their homemade pastries are delicious. Who knew I had such a sweet tooth? This can only be a good omen.

Right?