Binding the Shadows

by Jenn Bennett

  Jupe, Lon, and I made our way past half-empty grandstands and a massive warehouse-like building that housed a retail shop and a long aisle lined with food vendors. There, we stood for a moment, watching the track. Old, rusted muscle cars sat near the starting line.

  “So they don’t race the restored cars?” Jupe asked.

  “Too much money and time in the restorations to risk wrecking them. The race cars are beaters with souped-up engines,” Lon said. “It doesn’t matter. We’re not here to watch races. We’re here to find the ass who robbed Cady.”

  Jupe zipped up a green army surplus field jacket covered with old horror movie patches. “I know, but what’s wrong with multitasking? Oh man, I think I smell nachos.”

  Funny, because all I smelled was burnt engine oil and stale valrivia smoke. “Help me find a sky-blue Road Runner in that side lot over there,” I said, pointing to rows of restored cars that filled a curving strip of asphalt, hoods propped open to showcase gleaming engines. “And if you do, I’ll buy you nachos with extra cheese.”

  “Throw in some jalapeños and you’ve got yourself a deal,” Jupe said, waggling his brows.

  Lon snorted. “So I can listen to you moan and bitch when you’ve got a stomachache later? Forget it.”

  “Jalapeños are barely even hot going in,” Jupe noted. “Why do they hurt so much coming back out?”

  “God moves in mysterious ways.”

  “Hoof it,” I said, planting my hands on the kid’s shoulders and pushing him into motion.

  Jupe loves cars. Jupe loves old things. So a couple of months ago Lon and I gave him a busted-up 1967 GTO for his fourteenth birthday. Lon thought it would be a good experience for his son to learn how to rebuild a car in the two years he had until the dreaded sweet-sixteen driver’s license—otherwise known in the Butler residence as the first day of the apocalypse. Neither of us expected Jupe to actually do all the work by himself. I personally thought he’d remove a few rusted bolts and call it a day. Surprise, surprise: Jupe had managed, with a little help, to strip out half of the parts under the hood. The kid was smart. And determined. Lon might’ve made a huge mistake giving him that thing.

  We strolled down the first aisle of vintage cars, stopping every few feet so Jupe could ooh and ah. The fourth car we came to was a red convertible GTO. “Look, Dad! It’s just like my car!”

  “I see.”

  Jupe leaned over the engine, craning his neck to peer inside as the owner, a middle-aged Indian man with a light blue halo and matching blue-framed glasses, walked up. “Did all the work myself,” the man said, proudly.

  “Cool. I’ve got one, too!” Jupe blurted. “Mine’s a ’67. What year is this? ’70?”

  “You’re close. ’71.”

  Jupe backed up to look at the grille. “Wire mesh. I should’ve known.”

  “Ah, very sharp. I’m Nihal, by the way,” he said, offering his hand to Jupe.

  “Jupiter.”

  “You restoring yours, too?” the man asked.

  “Sure am. It’s a hunk of junk right now, but I’m going to get it in shape like yours. Hey, how long did this take you, Nihal?”

  “Eight years, I—”

  “Eight?” Jupe’s horror-striken eyes were big, green grapes. “Man, it better not take me that long. How much did it cost you?”

  “Jupe,” Lon chided. “That’s rude.”

  Nihal grinned. “No, that’s okay. He’s a fellow GTO-lover.” He walked with Jupe, who was now checking out the driver’s seat. “I bought it for $18,000 and put about $15,000 into it.”

  Jupe mouthed the amount to Lon.

  “But I’ve insured it for $55,000. That’s how much it’s worth.”

  “Holy sh—”

  “Crap,” Lon and I both spoke over his response.

  Jupe frowned at us. “I was going to say ‘shamrock.’ Geez, give me some credit.”

  Nihal grinned.

  “He was raised by wolves,” Lon said to the car owner.

  “Oh, please,” Jupe said. “Don’t flatter yourself.” While Lon shook his head and slowly inhaled, Jupe ran a slender finger over the leather headrest. “Hey, Nihal. You wouldn’t happen to know about a blue Road Runner that shows here?”

  Nihal’s eyes tightened briefly, then his brows shot up. “Sky blue? Black stripe on the hood?”

  “That’s the one,” I said.

  “Sure, I’ve seen that here before. I think someone bought it at last month’s rally.”

  Dammit. “Do you know the owner’s name?”

  “His first name was Dan, I think. But I never knew his last name. Ask Freddie—he’s the guy at the end of the row standing next to the white Barracuda. Freddie’s a Plymouth man. I’ll bet he knows.”

  “Thanks, man!” Jupe said.

  “No problem. Good luck with your restoration. If you need any pointers, I usually come here every month. Stop by and see me again.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  We strolled away from Nihal, heading toward the man he’d pointed out, but stopped a few cars away for Jupe to inspect another Ford.

  “So Nihal was being honest?” I asked Lon.

  “Completely,” Lon said as Jupe ran a hand over white-walled tires.

  Kinda figured he was, but you never knew. Lon often busted my bubble when it came to trusting people—not that I need much help in that department. But because of his knack, I no longer ate at the sweet little fish-and-chips restaurant near Tambuku with its nicer-than-pie elderly owners. Lon informed me that they were lying about their spotless food safety inspection scores; the grade A posted in the window, much like my own birth certificate, had been falsified.

  We made our way down to the Plymouth expert, Freddie. He was in the middle of a conversation with someone. Jupe wandered off, chatting up another muscle car expert, while Lon took a work phone call.

  I glanced toward the racetrack and felt the ground-shaking rumble of rusty old beaters steering into place behind the starting line. It was almost eight. About time for the races. I wanted to have the name of the Plymouth owner before they started. Feeling antsy, I swung my attention back to Freddie, who was facing the other way. As he laughed, he leaned against a shiny yellow car, allowing me to see the person with whom he’d been conversing. Not a man, but a boy. A blond boy with a pale green halo. He adjusted the fit of his crimson Speed Demon baseball cap, pulling it down tighter . . . which made his ears fan out like two pale seashells glued to the side of his head.

  Well, well, well. Theater makeup or not, it was the blond elf who robbed me.

  The boy laughed at Freddie. As he did, his gaze drifted to mine. His eyes widened for a moment. Yeah, that’s right. Recognize me, don’t you? He spun on his heels and took off.

  “You little pig fucker,” I mumbled as I bolted after him.

  The boy was young, skinny, and fast. He wove in and out of the crowds mingling near the cars on display, heading toward the back of the lot. Adrenaline spiked through my body as I pushed myself to catch up. I heard Lon yelling my name, but I didn’t look back.

  He made it to the end of the lot. Towering in front of him was a wall of cement bricks painted with the Morella Racetrack logo. Beyond it was a garage for the racecars. No way he could scale the thing. Either he could head to the left behind the grandstands, or turn around and try to make his way past me, back through the lot.

  He did neither.

  Instead, he made a sharp right turn, heading for a rusty chain-link fence that separated the showcase lot from the main dirt parking lot outside the racetrack. With feline grace, he jumped several feet and grabbed the top of the fence, then pushed himself over it.

  Dammit!

  Chain-link fences and I don’t mix. The last time I went over one was at the abandoned putt-putt course outside of La Sirena with Lon. I nearly cleaved myself in two in the worst possible way. But I’d be damned before I let this little ratfink get away from me. Mentally girding my loins, I climbed the fence as best I could. Rust bit into my
fingers as I groaned and swung a leg over the top. It felt all wrong. In trying to keep the prized parts between my legs safe, I overshot and tumbled over the fence. The air whooshed out of my lungs when my shoulder hit the dirt.

  I ignored the pain and scrambled to my feet.

  The kid’s red cap danced in the distance. I bounded between two parked cars and skirted a sign identifying the color-coded parking area. He was two rows away from me. A car backed up in front of him, causing him to skid. Maybe it was just the break I needed. For a moment, I had a vision of how crazy I must’ve looked, chasing after a skinny little boy like he was the devil. But what did I care? They’d all do the same thing if they knew what he’d done to me and Kar Yee.

  Zigzagging through unevenly parked cars, I halved the distance between us while he sidestepped the moving car. He glanced back at me, looking like a frightened rabbit. I wanted to shout something cool and intimidating, like “you’re dead!” but frankly, I was huffing and puffing too hard to spit out the words.

  Maybe I should have tried.

  To my surprise, the boy pitched to the side, then leapt onto the hood of a parked leopard-spotted van and sprinted over the top of it, jumping off to land in a cloud of dust in the next row. Showoff. But a few seconds later I saw why: the cars were parked too close together here. I mentally grumbled and followed suit.

  The leopard-print hood creaked with my weight. Just as I leapt to the roof, I heard a loud grunt from the boy. An oh-too-familiar noise followed: the buzz and pop of electric current being overloaded. Multiple explosions cracked through the parking lot before everything went dark. White sparks showered the air above me . . . in front of me . . . they fell from every light pole in the parking lot. Glass tinkled across the tops of cars. A few random shouts echoed around the lot. The lights inside the racetrack were still on. Must’ve been wired separately. At least I knew the kid’s knack had some limits.

  As I teetered on top of the van, I caught sight of his red cap. He was picking his way around a damaged light pole. No night vision goggles. He was hindered like I was. Glass crunched under my feet as I jumped to the ground. I dashed across the dirt lot, weaving through parked cars until I saw the boy skid to a stop in front of a car. He bent low, struggling with keys.

  My lungs burned as I picked up speed, trying to catch him. He got the door open. I wasn’t going to make it.

  No way in hell was I letting him get away again.

  I stopped short in the middle of the aisle and called up the Moonchild power. The grays and blues of the parking lot shadows turned black as my pinpoint of blue light appeared . . . and along with it, those same strange whispers I’d heard before. No discernible language or voice. It struck fear in me, but at least it didn’t catch me off-guard like it had when I tried to use the power during the robbery. I ignored the whispering and focused on the task at hand.

  No screwing around this time. I didn’t bother concentrating on the binding symbols, nor trying to shape the blue light as I had in the past. Like I had at Merrimoth’s, I just poured all my willpower into one singular thought—

  Trap.

  The boy made a choking sound as my immediate environment snapped back into view. The whispering hushed. And there was nothing foreign slithering down my leg. So far, so good.

  Silver fog shrouded the air in front of me, creating a tunnel of swirling ethereal light that led to the blond boy. He was trapped inside it, sprawled on the front seat of his car, one leg dangling over the doorframe, gasping for breath.

  What the hell kind of trap was this? It was as if I was radiating some sort of noxious silver gas. Then I noticed the point of origin: above my head. My hand flew to my hair. I jerked my head back and looked upward at my silver halo. Impossible! It was growing and spreading—like the silver fog from the night I slowed time at Merrimoth’s house.

  An intense nausea made the ground below my feet seem to buckle. I stumbled, panicking, as the boy began crying for help, pleading for me to stop. Lon’s voice bellowed in the distance, entwining with the boy’s pleas. But it was the third voice, a lighter-than-air feminine voice that stabbed me like a dagger to the chest.

  “Ma petite lune.”

  I jumped back in surprise, lost my footing, and fell on my ass. The silver fog funneled back into me, rushing toward my face like a vortex was centered above my head, sucking it all back in. It happened so fast it made me dizzy. Every muscle contracted at once. I cringed, biting down on my tongue until it bled. I felt sick. Exhausted. And scared out of my mind.

  An engine rumbled. Tires spun and squealed, kicking up a small cloud of dust that went up my nose as the blond boy drove away. I coughed, tasting blood. When the dust cleared, I spotted a dark figure huddled between two cars across the aisle. A man. Something about the way he was standing made me thing he was hiding. And the way he retreated deeper into shadow as I tried to focus on him made me think he was trying to slip away unseen.

  As he moved out of sight, I thought of the dark sedan I’d seen outside the corner shop, though God only knew if there really was a connection. My head was so rattled at the moment, I was probably half-crazy. I tried to push myself up, but I was too weak.

  “Cady!” Lon’s deep voice vibrated through me. “What happened? Talk to me.”

  But I couldn’t talk. Intense, jumbled emotions flooded my senses. And when he gathered me up, pulling me against his chest, all I could do was wilt inside his arms as he mumbled, “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

  But it wasn’t. As much as I didn’t want to admit it to myself, it was all kinds of not okay. Something was wrong with my powers and it was getting worse.

  Ma petite lune. My little moon. Only two people ever called me that, and both of them were supposed to be dead.

  Jupe stuck his head between the front seats of the SUV on the ride back to their house, touching me with little pokes and prods, trying to get my attention. Trying to make me smile. I finally gave in—there was really no other option with him, as he’d mastered the art of pestering—and turned sideways in my seat, letting him hold my hand. His skin was soft and he smelled nice, like the coconut in his shampoo.

  “At least we got the name of that punk,” Jupe said.

  Noel Saint-Hill. Lon had tracked down the Plymouth guy, Freddie, before we left the racetrack. He didn’t know where the Saint-Hills lived, but we could probably do some Internet sleuthing and figure it out. Something positive came out of all of it, but I couldn’t shake the sound of my mother’s voice, repeating in my head like a bad song.

  “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong,” Jupe said as we sped along the dark highway that connected Morella with La Sirena. “Maybe I can help.”

  “I wish you could,” I said. My tongue was fat in my mouth, swollen from me biting it.

  “If I were you, I’d be bragging to everybody. You need a comic book hero name, like Silver Fog, or something. That was insane!” he said enthusiastically.

  “Yeah, it was pretty crazy.” It was the other crazy thing I was more concerned about at the moment.

  “And you didn’t know you could do that?”

  “Can’t say I did.”

  Lon grunted. His eyes were on the road in front of us, lost in his own thoughts. Probably wondering the same thing that was floating through my mind: how was my mother still alive in the Æthyr, and what the hell was I going to do about it?

  “Well, you shouldn’t be upset,” Jupe was saying. “Because that fog spell was one hundred percent badass. When you jumped up on that van, I was all, holy shit! I thought—”

  “Shut it, Jupe,” Lon warned.

  “I’m just sayin’, maybe she should be happy about it. Who knows what she could do if she tried.” He poked me on my elbow. “Besides, you told me magick is unpredictable.”

  “I told you that the results are unpredictable. And that talent is varied.”

  “Oh, please. Don’t quote semantics to me.”

  “You mean ‘argue’ and ‘with me.’ ”

&nb
sp; He chuckled sheepishly. “I don’t really know what it means.”

  “Well, you used it right, by some miracle.”

  He made a pleased clucking sound with his tongue. “Because I’m smarter than I have any right to be. That’s what Mr. Ross says every time I prove him wrong in class.”

  Lon made an exasperated noise and knocked the back of his head against the headrest.

  “You aren’t supposed to prove your teachers wrong,” I said. “You’re supposed to listen and do what they tell you.”

  Lon’s phone rang. He looked at the screen and answered in his usual terse manner, grunting and mmm-hmming his way through the call.

  “What-ev,” Jupe whispered, eyeing his father as he conspired with me. “Mr. Ross is wrong, like, twenty times a week. He said yesterday that if I was so sure about myself, maybe I should be teaching the class. And I said, ‘Hand me the chalk!’ And I think he was this close to sending me to—” He glanced at Lon, then silently mouthed detention to me.

  I almost laughed. He was making me feel better, despite everything swirling in my head. It was hard to be upset with all his energetic mile-a-minute chatter.

  “Oh!” he said, suddenly changing gears. “Lemme read your palm. I read a book today in the library that teaches you how.”

  Like that.

  As Lon hung up the phone, I let Jupe spread open my palm and squint over the armrest, studying the intersecting lines in my skin by the soft blue glow of the dashboard and the brighter bud-green emanations from his halo. Skinny fingers traced flowing patterns as his spring-loaded, flouncy curls tickled my cheek.

  “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’re going to die, like, whoa! Three times. Wait, wait, wait. Hold on.” He squinted harder, peering an inch away from my hand. I was tempted to smack him in the face, Three Stooges style. “That’s not your life line. What the hell kind of line is this? I can’t tell jack about any of these lines. That palmistry book was junk.”