All Shadows Eve

by Alana (Siegel) Mag

  Customers throughout the store cheered, having caught Zander's proposal. The pizzeria which used to fill this group of friends and family with dread was turned merry with a flip of a switch.

  They exchanged jovial congratulations, passing hugs and kisses between Kelvin, Lotus and each other. Vicki jumped into Marcus's arms, her celebration knowing no boundaries. Even Rayley forgot her anxiety as she wrapped her arms around Nic, catching him off guard.

  Nic returned the hug but kept his eyebrows furrowed. He surprised himself by enjoying the warm attention from Rayley, even if he kept that opinion to himself. He knew it was short-lived and watched as her sunny disposition turned to anxiety. She pulled back, her eyes darting in all directions. Nic wanted to peel back every layer and decipher what made her tick.

  Lorenzo came over to congratulate the newly engaged couple. With one hand on Zander's shoulder, Lorenzo's other hand wiped away a tear.

  “Don't go soft on me, Lorenzo,” Zander teased.

  “A large pizza on the house!” Lorenzo announced.

  As Zander and Lorenzo embraced, Rayley caught the change in Lorenzo's expression over Zander's shoulder. She turned in the same direction he was looking and saw a shadow turn into a floating spot in the back corner of the room. Her chest seized up. She was never going to escape the fear.

  Rayley took a deep breath. She didn’t want the panic to consume her. Forcing her pounding heart to slow down, she resolved that, for one night, she was going to ignore the fear. She was going to be happy for Zander and Jade, and she was going to appreciate the first lovely Thanksgiving Eve in a long time. Because this was a night to celebrate!

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  Thank you for reading All Shadows Eve and following Jade and Zander’s adventure. Stay tuned for book #2! To show your support for the books, please leave a review on the Amazon page. Your feedback guides other readers to the story! Amazon Page: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B086PLXYFS

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  About the Author

  Alana (Siegel) Mag is the author of the two fantasy young-adult book series: Olivia Hart and the Gifted Program and (after)life lessons. She was raised on Long Island, New York. She currently lives in San Mateo, California, with her husband, Stefan Mag, and their ragamuffin cat named Thor. Since early childhood she has loved to read fantasy books and perform dance routines. Add a little romance and a happy ending and in her eyes you have a perfect afternoon of reading.

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  Read a bonus excerpt from The Light of Supremazia, book #1 in the (after)life lessons series—available now!

  The Light of Supremazia

  Think it's difficult to get into Harvard University? Try Vita Post Mortem Academy, a prestigious high school where John F. Kennedy teaches a class called American Ghosts stories, Albert Einstein grades science tests, and history's most brilliant and deceased minds make up the rest of the teaching staff. Not a problem for Jules Winklevoss, one of the few who can see spirits.

  Getting into school was a cakewalk, but Jules learns not all spirits are engaging and inspiring teachers. Fourteen years ago, Jules’s family thwarted an evil spirit's rise to power. Now, the evil spirit wants revenge on all Winklevoss's, beginning with Jules.

  As if evil spirit problems aren't enough, add best friend drama, unattainable boy crushes, and homework to the mix, and needless to say, high school is going to be dreadful. Jules is determined to protect her family and keep herself alive, even if that means delving into the world of the dead.

  Prologue

  “I’m a psychic medium,” the woman on the television stated. Her bleached hair surrounded her head like a halo. “I communicate with loved ones who have crossed over to the Other Side.”

  I dropped onto the worn-out couch in our family's modified two-bedroom Manhattan apartment. Television remote in hand, I was ready to change the channel, but I paused. My curiosity didn't stem from the woman's claim she could see ghosts. There was something about her confidence that intrigued me.

  I kept my eyes glued to the TV as my best friend, Johnny, sat down next to me in ripped jeans that dragged under his sneakers. At ease with each other's presence, we watched in silence.

  With one eyebrow raised, the host of the show nodded her head, like she expected a self-assured answer about the woman's special abilities, but didn't believe it. “Have you always been able to do this?” she asked with fake enthusiasm.

  My little sister, Meggy, plopped on to the couch, wearing my army-green T-shirt that hung off her shoulder one size too big. I felt her thigh pressed against mine as if sitting on the cushion next to me wasn't close enough.

  “Since I was four,” the kooky woman said without hesitation.

  I laughed even though it wasn't a funny comment, and Meggy and Johnny joined in a beat later. Most likely, they were unsure of what I was laughing at, but were unwilling to be left out. I continued to watch without saying a word. It would have been hard to explain that I pictured a blonde baby sucking her thumb and shouting, “I see dead people.”

  I dropped the remote in my lap as the peculiar woman continued, “I was given this life for a reason—to use my gift to heal people from the loss of their loved ones.”

  The bored anchorwoman looked into the camera and recited, “Nashara Winklevoss is the star of the hit TV show, Channeling…”

  As the lady chattered on, the camera focused on Nashara. Her gaze wandered away. As it fell to the space behind the host and out of the camera’s view, she stiffened. Her demeanor changed; anxiety filled her face, and she bit her bottom lip.

  Unable to stop herself, Nashara cut the anchorwoman off. “Your sister!” The words rushed out. “She passed away when you were young.”

  “Wha…what?” the journalist stammered.

  “Your sister, she's here. How did she die?” The startled reporter blinked a few times, unprepared to have a psychic reading on live television. Nashara ignored the awkward pause and gazed at the emptiness in front of her. “She said it has to do with water.”

  The anchorwoman took a deep breath and looked down at her hands in her lap. Her shoulders sagged. You could see the intense feelings, perhaps grief, or maybe guilt, weighing her down. The viewers in the audience were sitting on the edge of their seats. “She drowned,” she whispered. The studio gasped in unison. I felt Meggy's body jolt as well.

  Nashara reached over and squeezed her hand. Her mournful eyes were sincere. “She says it wasn't your fault. You need to let go and stop blaming yourself.”

  The scarred woman looked up. Her eyes were filled with heartfelt tears. Her moving response was so raw that I felt my own eyes stinging.

  “Thank you,” was all she could respond. Nashara gathered her in a warm embrace.

  I flipped off the television. “Come on, let's go,” I said, covering up my wave of emotion with curt commands to my band of loyal followers.

  Johnny hopped off the couch. “Yeah, I don't believe in ghosts, either.”

  “I never said that.” I focused on maintaining a bored tone. I grabbed my key chain from the arm of the couch, hustled out the door, and stepped into the elevator.

  Johnny shook his mop of black hair. At fourteen and lacking a growth spurt, he was the same five foot six as me. His eyebrows furrowed, confused
by my dismissal of the show. I shrugged my shoulders as if that was enough of an explanation. Johnny didn't press me.

  As we descended, I glanced at my wavy reflection in the metal door. Despite my potentially pretty features, I had pulled my brown curly hair into a messy bun and wore the same neglected jeans as yesterday.

  We were on our way to the Angelika Theatre to see the revival of the 1990s Goosebumps TV series based on the children's horror books by R.L. Stine. I concentrated on the movie to clear my head. The showing promised to be campy with outdated visual effects, which made it all the more worthwhile.

  At this time of day, we were going to walk down Broadway, rather than pass through Washington Square Park, where upperclassmen from school pretended to be New York University students and followed celebrities into clubs.

  Meggy pointed to the ordered numbers adorning the elevator wall. “Hey, Jules. Why is there a button for thirteen, but no actual floor for thirteen?” she asked, looking up at me.

  “There is a thirteenth floor,” I said, remembering the story a kid from floor seven told me. “But no one is allowed on it.”

  Meggy's eyes widened. “Why not?”

  “Because a long time ago there was a little boy on the thirteenth floor, who pressed the button to go down, and when the elevator doors opened, he stepped inside.” I paused for dramatic effect, and then added, “But there was no elevator, and he plummeted to his death.”

  Meggy's mouth hung open in disbelief. “Why didn't the elevator come?”

  “No one knows, but the boy began haunting the floor, so they closed it off, and banned everyone from entering.”

  Meggy turned to Johnny for confirmation. “It's true. Thirteen is an unlucky number,” he verified.

  The elevator wobbled as it landed at the first floor. A freaked-out Meggy held out her hands to steady herself. When the doors opened, she released her breath.

  Johnny and Meggy made a beeline for the building's front entrance. Neither of them paid any attention to the frightened boy who hurried into the elevator after us. A cold chill tickled my spine. There was something curious about him, so I turned back to look.

  “What's wrong?” Johnny asked.

  Pulling my attention away from the boy, I squinted at Johnny standing in the doorway against the streaming light from the setting sun. “Nothing,” I lied and heard the elevator door shut behind me. I could have sworn the boy was reaching for button thirteen.

  Chapter One: Johnny

  I twisted my hair around my fist and held it away from my face as Johnny and I strode down Delancey Street without saying a word. My fingers brushed the sweat-drenched strands at the back of my neck. The muggy air suffocated New York City in August.

  Johnny and I were heading home after a concert at Bowery Ball Room. The band had been dull, but my eyes were glued to the pictures on my phone. My act of excitement was a little too intense, considering how terrible the concert was. Fine, my excitement was outright fake, and Johnny knew it.

  I needed an excuse to put space between us. There was an awkward moment in the mosh pit when Johnny grabbed my hand, and I didn't mean brushing fingertips or pulling me out of the way of an oversized crowd surfer. As the singer belted the chorus of a romantic song, Johnny reached over and linked our fingers.

  I let him hold my hand for the remainder of the song, and then I insisted I needed to search for my phone. That was an hour ago, and I hadn't let go of my mobile device yet. His sudden display of affection caught me by surprise. I've known Johnny for so long, and I never considered him anything but a friend. Apparently, he didn't feel the same way.

  The sound of my foot tapping was the only noise in the empty Spring Street subway station. In my head, I was screaming for the train to come and end the awkward silence. Perhaps some Cupid love god was dragging out my discomfort with the hope I would change my mind about Johnny.

  Johnny stood a few feet behind me with his hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes on the ground in front of him, like I had scolded him for breaking the number one rule of our friendship. If he could disappear into the grimy tiles that lined the walls, I was sure he would have. I felt guilty just looking at him, so I focused my attention on the impending train down the track.

  An orange glow twinkled against the pitch-black tunnel. “Do you see that?” I asked Johnny, happy for the diversion. Johnny joined me on the edge of the platform and looked into the tunnel. The twinkling ball of light was gradually growing larger.

  “See what?” Johnny asked. He bit his lip in concentration.

  “The orange light,” I replied, like it was obvious.

  Noticeably taking a beat to smooth his facial features, Johnny turned to me and said, “Sure, Jules.” It was clear he didn't see it.

  I centered all my attention on the orange blur. I had ridden subway trains my entire life and never had I seen a light like that before. Most trains had two bright white headlights that shined forward like massive flashlights.

  As we stood there, staring into the darkness, a cool, crisp wind howled down the corridor. The change in the air was distinct. It tingled against my skin, and caused the hair on the back of my neck to stick up.

  “Did you feel that?” Johnny asked. He looked a little spooked, and seemed pleased to prove he believed there was something strange happening. I nodded, trying to make sense of it. There was rarely construction in the dead of summer.

  Johnny pulled his arms across his chest. His eyes widened as we heard an odd scratching noise. I looked around the dank station. It was abandoned, except for us.

  “Look!” Johnny shouted and pointed at the track. A foot-long chubby gray rat scampered past us. He didn't stop to nibble on an apple core or check for crumbs in an open bag of Doritos. It looked like he had his mind set on the same direction as the howling wind. Away.

  I took a deep breath. Rats were a regular occurrence underneath Manhattan's skyscrapers, but something irked me. I glanced down the tunnel once more. The orange brightness was larger, but still too far away to make out any details. It hung in midair, drooping every once in a while.

  The scratching sound buzzed louder. My heart pounded inside my chest as Johnny and I remained frozen. I reminded myself there were no flesh-eating predators roaming the subway tracks at night. However, I gasped as a pack of rats passed our feet at a dizzying speed.

  Johnny moved closer to my side. “What are they running from?” he whispered, like he was afraid to raise his voice. I shrugged my shoulders, attempting to look nonchalant, but I had a terrible feeling the rats were escaping from the fiery light.

  Hoping to feel some of the confidence I was projecting, I stepped to the edge of the platform. Maybe I could get a picture of the light and zoom in to analyze it. I focused the camera app on the bright spot at the back of the tunnel. Snapping a photo, I turned toward Johnny to examine it.

  “Huh?!” I shouted in disbelief. The screen was pitch-black. There was no burning orange menace. “It was right there,” I objected. Johnny leaned in to get a better look at my phone.

  Craning my neck over Johnny's shoulder, I caught a swish of curly brown hair in my peripheral vision. I turned my head to see a girl rush down the stairs twenty feet behind us. Her steps were stealthy. I wouldn't have known she was there if I had kept my gaze on the tracks.

  The girl caught me looking in her direction. Our eyes locked, and her butterscotch irises and dilated pupils pierced me with shocking, intense loathing. The jolt of it paralyzed me. Did she know me? Nothing about her looked familiar.

  In the back of my mind, I heard the painful screech of the train's metal wheels against the tracks. The chilled air escaping the tunnel pricked my skin. The sensation felt wrong for an August night, and alarm bells rang in my head.

  Before I could comprehend what was happening, the train and the livid girl were headed in our direction. I stepped forward and began shouting for Johnny to get out of the way. He didn't need to get hurt. It was obvious her death stares were meant for me, but John
ny planted his feet between us anyway.

  In one swift movement, she rammed her shoulder into Johnny's gut and sent him flying sideways, out of her way. He teetered and tottered, throwing his arms out in an attempt to balance himself.

  “Johnny!” I screamed, worrying if he was hurt, but my eyes were pinned to the girl. It seemed like removing Johnny from the battle was a means to an end, since she never lost focus on me.

  With a final push, the train broke through the cavernous tunnel. A penetrating, disturbing, and frigid aura saturated the station. Filling my lungs with icy air, it shocked and choked me.

  Fear layered on top of the ice as intolerable, dark, and heinous laughter echoed from somewhere on top of the train. It must have been related to the foreboding orange glow, but I didn't dare turn to look.

  The noise seemed to ignite a do-or-die sort of fight in the brown-haired fiend's action. Even though we were the same height, she was able to slam two hands into my chest with as much force as a linebacker. I stumbled backward from the blow, away from the subway tracks.

  “Consider yourself lucky, Juliandra,” the devil child snarled at me. How did she know my name?

  The train's horn wailed, and my heart pounded in my ears. Our female attacker growled at the oncoming train like a wild animal toying with its enemy, and then she ran for the exit.

  What I sensed next was intrusive and foreign. Someone or something caused me to feel overwhelming hate, like a bizarre out-of-body experience. The thing threatened to suffocate me in dark and evil thoughts. Somehow, I understood it was angry because I was out of harm's way.

  A final blast of freezing air blew through the station at hurricane speeds. I struggled to maintain my balance and watched in horror as Johnny tripped over the cautionary yellow line, just out of my reach.