Secondhand Shadow

by Elizabeth Belyeu

  Damon made a frustrated sort of growl and took hold of my shoulder. “Fine, you don’t have to walk. I’ll shade you.”

  “No! No, that’s not — I was just talking, I wasn’t trying to guilt you. Honest to goodness.”

  “If you say so.” He let go. Reluctantly.

  We kept walking, silent, my brain spinning. I chose my next words very carefully. “It helps you, doesn’t it? Touching me. When you’re scared or stressed or hurt.”

  A long pause. “It’s a Shadow thing.”

  “That’s what I thought. And I know you’re trying to fight all those Shadow things. But you’re tired and hurting and worried about Paris, and, and I don’t see any reason why you should suffer when you don’t have to. It’s up to you. I just wanted you to know that it doesn’t bother me.”

  Walking. Silently. A car went by. I have just made an enormous idiot out of myself.

  Then his hand slipped into mine — mostly gloved, but I could feel his fingertips, pressing hard into my skin, and it was hard to imagine anything more important than those five tiny, warm points of contact. My blood pressure dropped out the bottom of my feet, even as my pulse went up a notch. Was that physically possible? I didn’t dare look at Damon, but the nuclear tension radiating from him seemed to be easing.

  We walked the rest of the way to the Salvation Army without talking. It seemed unnecessary.

  DAMON

  Naomi scoured the Salvation Army as if convinced that the Hope Diamond was buried somewhere beneath the faded sweaters and tattered paperbacks.

  “There has to be something in here that Carmen would like,” she said, digging through a pile of throw pillows.

  “Are you sure you even want to get her anything? She did hit on me.”

  “And she deserves to die for it. But it’s her birthday.” She pulled out a pillow with blue silk brocade and regarded it thoughtfully. “When’s your birthday?”

  It shouldn’t have been a difficult question.

  “Well?” she prodded when I didn’t answer.

  “Define birthday.”

  “Um, the day you were born?” She set down the pillow and looked at me sideways. “Shadows are born, aren’t they? You don’t, I don’t know, hatch or anything?”

  I had to chuckle. “Actually, we pop up in cabbage patches.”

  “Ha ha. And also, ha.”

  “Gabriel DiNovi was born October eleventh, nineteen seventy-six, in precisely the same manner as any human baby.”

  “Nineteen… seventy…” She appeared to be counting on her fingers. “You’re thirty-two?”

  “And still haven’t figured out what to do with my life. Shameful.”

  “After finding out Paris is in his forties, I didn’t know what to expect from you. Vampires in the movies are usually into three digits.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Well, it would have contributed to your angsty aura, to be older than dirt. But then again, I’ve always wondered if anyone could really sustain a good angst that long.” Before I could respond, she darted across the room with a gasp. “Oh my goodness! Look at this! It’s perfect!”

  I stared at the monstrosity on the shelf. “It’s a pig, Naomi.”

  “Not just any pig. This is the king of pigs.”

  “It’s a green porcelain pig with goggle eyes and a plastic crown.”

  “Carmen says all men are pigs. And then whines that she doesn’t have one. Well, I will bring her a Prince Charming for her birthday.” She hugged the porcelain pig to her chest with what appeared to be deep satisfaction.

  “Okay,” I said, trying not laugh. “Your funeral.”

  “My eviction,” she corrected. “Trust me. She’ll love it.”

  She paid for the pig with a single crumpled dollar bill, dredged from the bottom of her pocket, and had the woman at the counter wrap it in several layers of plastic bag so that it wouldn’t get broken on the way home.

  “What did you mean when you said Gabriel was born October eleventh?” she asked as we walked out the door.

  Rats, she wasn’t going to let that go. “A lot of Shadows take their befasting day, or even the day they covanted, as their birthday. I did. But I’m not Romeo anymore, either. I suppose Damon’s birthday is May second, but it’s not a day I celebrate.”

  “Understandable,” she muttered. “Yikes, that wind is getting frisky, isn’t it?” She batted at her skirt, which the breeze was tossing around.

  I hadn’t been paying attention to the weather, but now I looked up at the sky, which was crowded with bruise-colored clouds. The air smelled like rain.

  “Oh, brother,” I said, just in time for the first wave of water to fall.

  With a shriek of laughter, Naomi took off down the sidewalk, arms over her head, the bag with the porcelain pig waving like a flag from her shoulder.

  I ran after her, biting down on an image of her tripping, falling, rolling down the hill like a snowball. But she came to a stop on her own, more or less, hooking an arm around the stoplight pole at the crosswalk, and spinning around it until I caught up.

  “‘Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens!’” She had to nearly shout over the roar of the rain. “‘Brown paper packages tied up with strings, these are a few of my favorite things!’”

  “Pregnant ladies aren’t supposed to get drunk.”

  “I’m high on life, Damon. You should try it!” She punched my shoulder and ran off again, looking so much like Claire for a moment that I staggered, breathless as if kicked by a horse.

  Reckless. Whimsical. Childish. Just like Claire. It was only logical, really. Lumi and Tenebri were yin and yang, they balanced, filled each other’s empty places — and even as a child I had been serious, reserved, even grim. Naturally my Lumi would be the opposite. Naturally I would attract another Claire.

  But she wasn’t Claire. Claire had been headstrong, willful, determined to have her way, while Naomi was almost neurotic in her need to please. She just saw no reason not to enjoy running in the rain.

  By the time I caught up with her, Naomi had given up running and was pirouetting her way down the sidewalk, splashing in every puddle she came across.

  “‘Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes, snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes — ‘ What took you so long, Damon? Come on, we’re already wet, we might as well enjoy it!” She grabbed my hands and began pulling me in a circle. “‘Silver white winters that melt into springs, these are a few of my favorite things!’”

  “If we’re going to dance, we might as well do it right.” I shifted us into waltzing position, one hand in hers, the other around her back.

  “Let me guess, your mother made you take dancing classes as a kid,” she said, her free hand settling, hesitant, bird-like, onto my shoulder.

  “Got it in one. Though I doubt this is the scenario she had in mind.”

  “Well, I like it.” She started singing again, and we waltzed several turns around, ignoring the odd looks from passing cars. She fell into the rhythm of it pretty well, for someone with no experience, perfectly willing to follow me forward, backward, forward, backward. I tried not to attach too much significance to that, or to the contrast between the cold rain streaming down our faces and the warmth of our hands together, one hand drifting down her back, hers drifting up my shoulder to touch my hair. Rough half-moons, nearly healed, on either side of her neck, both my fault, but that hunger was gone, I didn’t have to be afraid of myself anymore. I was befasted, she’d already done the worst thing she could, I didn’t have to be afraid…

  An SUV with little regard for the speed limit sent a great wing of water slopping onto the sidewalk, drenching us from the knees down. Sputtering, Naomi let go of me to pull at the skirt plastered to her legs and dash water from her eyes.

  The rain was falling harder and colder now, I realized, each drop stinging, and Naomi’s teeth were chattering.

  “We should get inside,” I said, but my
voice hardly made it out of my throat. I tried again, shouting over the rain.

  “Inside what?” she shouted back. “Shall we knock on random doors? Ooh — there’s a nice tree.”

  “Tree? Um, Naomi — lightning — I don’t think—” But she was already towing me across the street to the shelter of a big magnolia.

  “Yeah, this is better,” I said, raising an eyebrow at the streams of water leaking down through the leaves.

  She shrugged, looking sheepish, and I sighed. “Your hands are freezing. Here.” I stripped off my jacket and helped her get her own arms through it, pulling the collar up around her face.

  We were standing awfully close together. This was not the plan.

  “Oh, a place to sit down,” Naomi said, and began trying to climb onto a branch, wide as a bench and slung down to hip-level. Judging by the number of initials scratched onto the bark, this tree was a popular hangout for besotted students. “Oof!” One foot went out from under her.

  “Javek!” I caught her around the waist and lifted her onto the branch.

  Which put our faces at very much the same level, and only inches apart.

  “W-what does javek mean?” she asked, and I tried very hard to ignore the part of me that was pleased to have made her stutter.

  “It’s a Tenebrial swear word. My mother once washed my mouth out with soap over that word.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widened and she put a hand over her mouth.

  I tried to laugh, though it came out a little breathless, and managed to pull my hands from her waist. “You don’t ever swear, I’ve noticed,” I said, at random.

  She shrugged. “My mother always said ‘no boy wants to kiss a girl with a foul mouth.’”

  Oh, I wished she hadn’t said that, because everything about her was clean and soft and warm and smelled good, and I only just managed to turn so that I kissed her cheek instead of her lips.

  “I’m going to miss you,” I whispered, pressing my face into her hair so that I wouldn’t have to look her in the eye.

  She hugged me, arms around my neck, a simple hug that neither asked nor offered anything else. “Then don’t leave.”

  I didn’t answer. Eventually the rain stopped, and we walked back to the apartment, hand in hand, without saying another word.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  S’mores

  NAOMI

  I smiled as warm water gushed down over me and washed away the cold rain, tingling on chilled skin. The baby turned a slow somersault. He liked showers.

  I could feel Damon’s presence, just a few yards away, calling his parents to say we’d be late for dinner because of the rain. I had left him standing by the table, hair dripping, white shirt plastered most pleasantly to his chest, stripping off his soaked gloves to lay across the back of a hard-backed chair. A sight to savor.

  He was calmer, of a sudden, since… I didn’t know what to call it. Under the magnolia tree, anyway, which could totally be the title of a dime romance. He was calmer, cooler, unwound somehow. The hot pain haunting his every movement seemed eased.

  He’s made a decision, I thought. He’s given up on breaching, on fighting what he is.

  I was almost right.

  I got out of the shower and toweled my hair as best I could — I could have borrowed Carmen’s blow dryer, but it would make us another half hour late — then dithered in front of the closet, biting my nails over what to wear. The DiNovis had already seen my best dress. Were they expecting church-caliber? Or just not-a-homeless-person? I could compromise on my black skirt and one of my nicer shirts, maybe the fuchsia… except that they were both in the living room with Damon. A dress it was, then. I tugged the green-and-white A-line off the hanger, the one that hadn’t been quite nice enough for the befasting ceremony, and pulled it over my head.

  I was delaying, I realized, when I saw how long it had taken me to pick out shoes and do my make-up and hair. I was putting off opening the door between me and Damon, because I wanted to see him so badly. It was like when I went to see Star Wars: Episode I. I’d been counting down the hours for weeks, and then once we were at the theater, Jonathan had to literally shove me out of the car. What if it wasn’t any good after all? What if seeing it ruined the original trilogy forever?

  Calm down, girl. You can’t be any worse than Jar Jar Binks.

  I took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  Damon looked up from The Hobbit and smiled. “Ready?”

  “Ready.” I think I knew there was a funny distance in that smile. It didn’t fit with the world I had decided I was in, so I tuned it out.

  “Hold this while we shade.” He handed me a dark blue bag.

  “My backpack? Why?”

  “I’ll explain later. Let’s go.”

  “Are you sure you want to shade? You look awful tired.” In fact, he looked worse than when we had first gotten home, his face drawn tight against his bones. He’d put his jacket back on, but he was still damp and chilly-looking, as if he hadn’t so much as toweled off while I was dressing. I guess he doesn’t feel a need to dress up for his own mom and dad.

  “I’ll be okay.” He put his arms around me, and I was reassured. Damon hugs were generally enough to interfere with my rational thought processes — especially when, for the first time, he was acting like shading meant something. Even with a backpack and a belly between us, he managed to pull me closer and tighter than usual, tucking my head under his chin in a movement distinctly similar to a snuggle. I gladly snuggled back, and hardly noticed the stomach-twist of the shade.

  I was surprised that no one greeted us in the DiNovis’ living room, and surprised again when Damon didn’t let me go.

  “Mom and Dad are waiting for you in the foyer,” he said, voice low.

  I put it together after a moment. “Waiting for me. Not us.”

  “I can’t stay.”

  “We’re just going to look at baby pictures and stuff. If you’re embarrassed, all you had to do was say so. You don’t have to stay.” My voice sounded nervous, even to myself.

  He pulled back far enough to slide a hand along my cheek, thumb brushing my lips. I closed my eyes.

  “I can’t stay,” he repeated in a hoarse whisper, and then he was gone.

  I stared at the empty room for a second, then heaved the backpack onto the nearby couch and unzipped it savagely. Clothes spilled out. Three shirts. A skirt. A pair of jeans.

  And a note.

  .

  I am a coward and I hope you hate me for it. I can’t be around you. Correction: I can’t be around you and not be a Shadow, and so I choose not to be around you. Maintaining a polite distance hasn’t worked. I refuse to dig us both in deeper.

  Your risk of kathair attack is much lower now, but it still exists. My parents have agreed to let you stay with them for a few days, until Audrey is stable enough that I can take my turn without overburdening my orphans. That will require seeing you again, but only briefly. I will have to strike you but it doesn’t even have to hurt, really. And then we will be done with each other.

  I’m sorry about everything.

  .

  I laid the note out flat on the coffee table and stared at it. Was I going to be sick? My stomach felt so empty. All of me felt empty.

  Oh, come on. You really should have seen this coming. It’s not like he hasn’t been trying to get away from you from Minute One. Not his fault you got your hopes up.

  I looked at the bag he had packed me while I was in the shower, while I was thinking how wonderful it was that we were finally okay, that he had finally made up his mind. He had made up his mind, all right.

  I shoved a shirt off the couch, experimentally. It felt good. So I picked up the rest and started flinging them to the floor as hard as I could, followed by the backpack, and then stomped on them, looking up in startled embarrassment when Dr. and Mrs. DiNovi opened the door from the foyer.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Helen said, and I burst into tears and fell into her arms.

  .


  ‘Dinner’ turned out to be plates of fettucine in the kitchen, as opposed to the tall-dark-and-handsome dining room, while flipping through Helen’s pregnancy journal.

  “You’re what, twenty-seven weeks?” she asked.

  “Thirty-two.” My voice was still a touch thick from crying. The DiNovis had chosen to… not so much ignore my tantrum as move past it, which made a nice change from my own parents’ inevitable emotional dissection. I had been permitted to build a fragile layer of composure, where I perched like a water bug, afraid that if I moved, I’d break the surface tension and drown.

  A last gasp of sunlight, red with evening, fell through the kitchen window, casting multicolored shadows through the rainbow of jars and vases on the windowsill. Helen got up from the table to pull the curtain across the window, blocking the glare, before returning to the journal, a leather-bound affair with thick ivory-colored pages.

  “Week thirty-two,” she said. “Ah, yes. This is about when it became impossible to sleep. All my internal organs, including my lungs, seemed to be pressed down to half their usual size. I had dreams wherein I woke to discover that little Gabriel had shoved some organ or other out through my navel.”

  “It is starting to feel pretty crowded in here,” I said, rubbing the Wonder Tummy.

  “That’ll get better in a few weeks, when the baby drops into birth position.”

  Dr. DiNovi was peering over her shoulder with interest. “I’d almost forgotten this part. Playing Simon and Garfunkel to get Gabriel to go to sleep. He liked ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper,’ too.”

  That seemed oddly appropriate.