Gift of Shadows

by Amir Lane

  I wasn’t planning on killing anybody, even though I knew in the pit of my stomach, it was a thought I was going to have to consider. If push came to shove, I might not have any choice. I had no faith in the police department anymore. It was just us.

  At first, the name didn’t ring any bells. I didn’t know anyone named Wes, but Cohn… Where had I heard Cohn? It didn’t seem like a common enough name that I could assume I’d heard dozens of times, not like Harper or Fisher. I knew several Harpers and Fishers who weren’t related, but no Cohns, and certainly not a Wes Cohn. Unless Wes was short for something. I wasn’t very good with nicknames. Shortening names wasn’t very common in Arabic, not nearly as common as English. Wes certainly could have been short for something. I raked my brain for any names that began with those three letters.

  Wes…

  Weston, my neighbourhood.

  Wesson, my gun.

  Wes…

  My stomach sank.

  Wesley Andrew Cohn.

  Wesley, the death-by-necromancy case. Wesley, the victim I had bet on cause of death. Wesley, the man Angelo loved.

  I wasn’t a killer. The one fear I had always had about being a police officer wasn’t that I might one day be killed, it was that I might one day have to kill someone. That day was coming soon.

  I nodded.

  “You have yourself a deal.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I awoke before I even fully realized I had fallen asleep. My body jerked and pushed into the barrier that was hanging onto me by a thread. The thread thickened until it blocked the light coming from overhead. In the same instant, I realized what I was doing and pulled the barrier back. The combination of pushing and pulling made one of the lightbulbs shatter. I threw my hand over my head, though I wasn’t near enough to that light to worry about it. With my hand came the remaining barrier to shield my head.

  “She always this put-together in the morning?” Angelo asked in a sarcastic drawl.

  When he received no answer, I thought he must have been talking to himself. Or maybe he was talking to me. But as my eyes adjusted to the light and my brain caught up to the rest of the world, I noticed Ariadne sitting on the arm of the loveseat. I couldn’t see her face, but I could see the tight line of her shoulders, and I could imagine her scowl.

  “Your girlfriend is a regular chatterbox. She hasn’t stopped talking all morning.”

  I rubbed my face with one hand. One of my rings scraped against my nose. Every muscle in my body felt stiff, and yet, I hadn’t felt this well-rested in a while.

  “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Ariadne said. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  She really did not trust this guy, did she? Part of me didn’t blame her. He was a stranger connected to an organ thief.

  Memories of last night came flooding back as I stood and stretched. My joints cracked and blood rushed into my muscles. I was getting too old for sleeping on the loveseat like this. I wondered if Angelo had this problem. Did his body age until he regenerated again, or did he stay the same age? He certainly looked comfortable enough despite the fact he had also spent the night on the couch. He gave me a pleasant smile as though we were old friends and he was genuinely happy to be here. It was early enough and I was still out of it enough that I hated him a little.

  I washed my hair with nothing but hot water as quickly as I could. While I had no choice but to trust Angelo, I wasn’t sure how much I liked leaving him alone with Ariadne. That felt like my guilt talking. He had done nothing to suggest he had any intention of hurting either me or Ariadne. On the contrary, he needed my help.

  He needed my help killing someone.

  What was I supposed to do? What would Mama tell me to do?

  Mama would tell me I should have gone to medical school, and ask when I was going to get married already and what we were going to do about grandbabies.

  I pressed my forehead to the shower wall. The heat of the water was beginning to make me feel light-headed. I adjusted the knob, but I didn’t turn it off just yet. I still needed to think. Even though I did my best thinking in the pool, I didn’t want to swim. There wasn’t the time with Angelo here and even if there was, thinking about swimming made me think about Rachel Cherry.

  I should have taken her home. I should have made sure she was safe.

  The whole reason I existed was to keep people safe. What good was I if I couldn’t do that? If I couldn’t keep one girl safe?

  I slammed my palm against the shower wall. The dull thud satisfied something primal inside me. Part of me still had the sense to push a barrier up around me, thick enough to be more or less soundproof. The shock of pain that ran through my fingers was drowned out by the heat of my anger. I hit my hand into the wall again and screamed until I thought my throat would tear. What good was I if I couldn’t keep one girl safe?

  What good was I?

  What good am I?

  Tears mixed with the water. I gasped for air, alternating thoughts of What good am I? and Stop crying, you have to be better than that spinning through my head. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. It was the single biggest show of weakness that would invalidate everything I had worked for in my life. More than crazy, irrational anger, can’t handle it tears was the worst possible thing I could do in front of other cops.

  Except there were no other cops here. It was just me and my thoughts, and I was allowed to cry as much as I wanted.

  By the time I made my way back downstairs, all evidence of my meltdown was gone. The fresh coat of makeup hid any lingering redness on my face. I smiled at Ariadne, still perched on the arm of the loveseat and watching Angelo.

  “Did he do anything?” I cleared my throat to cover the scratchiness.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  If she noticed anything odd about my voice, she didn’t show it. I was simultaneously relived and disappointed. Was she really so focused on Angelo that she couldn’t see I was upset?

  She’s still mad at you for bringing him home.

  I reminded myself she had every right to be upset with me as I poured myself a cup of coffee, adding the appropriate amount of milk, and grabbed a banana from the basket on the counter. After a moment of deliberation, I poured a cup for Angelo too, and made my way back to the living room, balancing the banana and both mugs. I made it without spilling any coffee. Angelo took the mug I offered to him without hesitation, sipping before I could ask if he wanted anything in it. Evidently, he and Rowan shared taste when it came to coffee.

  Yet another twinge of guilt perforated my stomach at the thought of Rowan. With the chaos of the past few days, I hadn’t even thought of calling to check up on him. Was he okay? Would he even want to talk to me?

  “You look stressed, investigatrice.”

  The nickname was starting to grow on me. It was better than bella. Though I always preferred my real name to any nicknames, I had heard worse; assuming, of course, that investigatrice really did simply mean what it sounded like. I tore a piece off the banana and shoved it into my mouth for an excuse not to answer. Unfortunately, he was just as persistent during the day as he was at night.

  “I’m talking to you. Are you stressed, or is that just your face?” Angelo tipped his head toward Ariadne. “Is she stressed, or is that just her face?”

  “It’s just my face,” I muttered before taking a sip of my coffee.

  Ariadne turned to look at me, and there was something in her expression I didn’t immediately recognize. It was almost a frown, but softer somehow, almost a pout.

  She was worried about me.

  How could she not be? In the span of a week, I had almost lost my partner, effectively lost my job, and stumbled on the murder of a girl I knew. It seemed fitting this spiral was ending much the same way as my last one, with me bringing home a strange man from a club. The circumstances may have been different, and I had no intention of sleeping with this one to prove to myself I was straight, because I wasn’t, but the parallel almost made me laugh into my coffee.<
br />
  “I think she’s cracking, bella.”

  “I’m okay,” I promised. “He reminded me of something funny.”

  It hadn’t been funny. That year had been a nightmare. I thought it would be the worst year of my life. How could I, at barely nineteen, had known that it could get so much worse? I had known the world was cruel and terrible before then, of course I had. Lebanon had been torn apart by civil war and occupation since before I was born. Had the Universe not given me the gift of barriers in that instant the car bomb had gone off, I wouldn’t be here. They would have had to scrape us off the street like they had Rachel Cherry. I knew cruelty.

  This was so much worse than that.

  This was targeted and specific. This was the worst serial killers I had ever seen backed by some ungodly power that should never have been allowed to exist.

  I needed to end this. The sooner the better. I couldn’t allow this to go on. But I needed more information first. I needed to know what I was up against.

  Before I could decide which question to ask first, my phone rang. The default ringtone was muffled, buried beneath my jacket still behind me on the loveseat. I gave Ariadne the banana peel, though I kept my coffee, as I dug through my pockets one-handed for it. There, in the right pocket. My fingers closed on the metal rectangle and I pulled it out, no rings to get caught in the seams for once. Indira’s name — Indira Krishnamurthy-King — took up two lines. I untangled my legs from their crossed position and made a quick exit from the living room. The sudden change in elevation quickened my heartbeat.

  I needed to start cutting back on the caffeine.

  “Arshad speaking,” I said into the mouthpiece, the greeting more of a reflex than anything.

  “Oh—! I was expecting voicemail. How are you doing?” Indira asked.

  “I’m good, how are you?”

  Could we skip the small-talk? I hoped he wasn’t calling just to check in. Though it would have been a very Indira thing to do, I hadn’t forgotten that I had asked him for a translation I was still waiting for.

  “Well, I have good news, bad news, and… news. What do you want first?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. Did it matter? “That order is fine, Indira.”

  “The good news is, Rowan is back at work. He’s a little jumpy, but he’s okay. I think he quit coffee for a few days.”

  If Rowan was jumpy, then maybe quitting caffeine was a bad idea. So much for that.

  “The bad news?”

  “You remember Cerys Rees, the faerie girl you and Rowan didn’t talk to? She died last night. Her roommate found her this morning.”

  My knees nearly buckled. I leaned against the wall for support.

  “Nobody was watching her?”

  “Somebody was, but it didn’t matter. Homicide is investigating but they’re saying she must have let the killer in through a back door or a window. There were no signs of forced entry, and an officer was posted outside her house.”

  The shade wouldn’t need a door, would he? If he could disappear the way Cerys had originally described—

  I couldn’t think about her right now. Not right now, not when I was still trying not to think of Rachel Cherry. Two young women I had failed to protect.

  “And the news?” I rubbed my throat to smooth out the crack in my voice.

  “I have that translation for you. Give me a second.” The movement on the other end of the line suggested he was going into the stairwell for privacy. When he spoke again, his voice echoed. “It means, Time to pay the piper.”

  Time to pay the piper? What did that mean?

  There was another part of that memory from Rowan’s apartment, something else.

  “I didn’t tell no-one nothing about where you are, and you know it!”

  And yet, someone had found Rowan. His family? The gang that had trafficked him?

  No, worse. He had made a deal with someone, someone who would get him out of the trafficking ring. He promised he could help me, but I would owe him down the line. This was what that expression meant; a repayment of debts. This was the debt.

  I slid down the wall until I sat on the floor. My entire body felt cold. When I looked down at my hand, I realized it was trembling.

  He had been so calm when we had gone to the prison to visit Lucas Terrel, so sure he wouldn’t tell anyone we had gone to see him. I had no idea what they’d said during that Russian conversation. They could have been saying anything. Rowan could have told him to point us to Solanace. The information had all come so easily.

  “Fairuz?” Indira said. “Are you there?”

  “I’m here. Is Rowan there with you?”

  “Not here, but he’s at his desk. Are you okay? You don’t sound good.”

  I didn’t feel good, either.

  “Don’t tell him about the note. Don’t— Don’t tell anyone about it. Please.”

  “I won’t. You can trust me.”

  I wasn’t sure if I could, but I would trust him with this much. Indira hung up to get back to work, and I stayed sitting on the kitchen floor long enough for Ariadne to come looking for me, followed closely by Angelo. I didn’t look up at them. If I did, I would start crying. I knew myself well enough to know that. There was no guarantee I wouldn’t start crying anyway.

  “You say you don’t know anyone named Rowan Oak?” I asked, hoping it was obvious I was talking to Angelo.

  It must have been, because he answered after an appropriate length of time, not too fast to be suspicious. “I know the Roanoke Colony. You know, the one that went missing.”

  Roanoke. Rowan Oak. I was sure there was no connection. I knew Rowan wasn’t his birth certificate name. Oak wasn’t his real last name, either. What had he told me it was? Something that meant something of Oak. I knew people who did that, people who anglicized their names or chose different ones entirely to avoid the confusion of syllables that didn’t fit together or sounds that didn’t exist in English. I had never done that myself, but I also never faulted anyone who did.

  “But no dryad named Rowan,” I asked, just to be sure.

  “No.”

  I swallowed and nodded. “What do the Ruby Vipers have to do with the shade? The gang.”

  “Vipers? Not much. He was mostly working with another gang. Some kind of dryad gang. Clearing out territory for them.”

  “Black Birches.” It wasn’t a question, even though my voice came out weak.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Solanace was working with the Vipers.”

  “The nightshade? Double agent, a decoy. Bromley… collects people he thinks will be useful to him.”

  A decoy to throw suspicion off the Black Birches. To throw suspicion off Rowan. I tried to remember his story, the one he had told me when we’d gone to see Lucas Terrel.

  “Do the Black Birches deal in human trafficking?”

  “Not here, but I’ve heard of them doing it in Europe.”

  And they had done it. They’d done it to Rowan. Bromley saved him, and Bromley found him. Bromley got to him. And Rowan almost got to me. Rowan almost convinced me to let this go. I looked up at Angelo and Ariadne. True to my prediction, rogue tears ran through my mascara. When I spoke, it was with a small tremble in my voice.

  “How do you kill a shade?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  As far as Ariadne was concerned, we were out of our minds. I was inclined to agree with her. Even after another well-earned nap, I was still dead-set on going after Bromley.

  Rutherford Bromley.

  The shade.

  “You need to talk to someone,” she said softly. “You’re going to get hurt.”

  She was right on both counts, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. Every part of me screamed at myself to do something, anything it took, to stop Bromley. This was personal to me, and it was personal to Angelo. When I thought of all the people Bromley had killed, hundreds of years of victims, I felt sick. How could I not do anything?

  “I’ll talk to someone when
this is over. I promise.”

  I told myself that somehow, everything would go back to normal.

  As they always seemed to these days, my thoughts drifted to Rowan and Angelo, though not for the same reasons. What would happen to Rowan when this was over? I couldn’t think of any crimes he had committed that would get him in trouble. The only thing that came to mind was tampering with a case that, as far as anyone else was concerned, didn’t even exist. Officially, nobody cared. Nobody would care.

  How much of that is actually because of him?

  Sabine had told me that the orders to stop investigating these cases came from higher up in the police, but how could I be sure of that? The only person who had been honest with me so far was Angelo. And Angelo was at least partially responsible for who knew how many of these murders.

  Ariadne’s hands on my shoulders made me jump. Purple sparks broke through my skin where she touched me, jolting us both. We both muttered apologies, and I slumped down until I was nearly folded in half on the bed. After a moment, she tried again. I was ready for it this time. Some of the pain eased as my shoulders relaxed. I hadn’t realized how tense they were.

  “I’m worried about you, Fairuz. He’s right, you’re stressed. You’ve been stressed for a long time. I… I should have noticed it.” She pressed her forehead to my back. I felt her breath through my tank top. “I always worried about someone hurting you. Every time I hear about a stand-off with the cops, I wonder if you’re involved. If… I never even thought about what you were doing to yourself.”

  Guilt, so much guilt. Everything I did was wrong, everything I did left me feeling like I was going to be sick. It made me want to tear my own skin off, as if it would somehow fix all of this.

  “I’m okay. Really. It’s just… all these things happening at once… It’ll be over soon, I promise.”

  I wasn’t sure who I was promising. It had to be over soon. I didn’t know how much more of this I could take, and it showed in my face. Even when I finished putting on a full face of makeup to make myself look more put-together than I felt, I barely recognized myself. Was this really me? I reminded myself of Rowan after he’d been beaten up. There was something wild and dangerous in my eyes.