Secondhand Shadow

by Elizabeth Belyeu

  I lost her quickly in the dark maze of desks and offices, but she hadn’t shaded. It was almost too dark for it, but more importantly, I could still smell her — Teya’s stolen perfume, blood and sweat and clothes worn a bit too long, the salty edge that differentiated Shadow from human, and the scent that was uniquely Jewel, soft and dusty with a hint of strawberry shampoo. If I didn’t find her, it could be years, and dozens of bodies, before she was caught again.

  Not your problem, said the part of me that was still screaming for Naomi.

  Yes my problem. My responsibility. Curse you, Jewel, why are you doing this? I had never found Jewel easy to like, but she was still part of my family. I’d admired her self-control, ironically — she’d ridden out the first three days of breach near-catatonic in a closet, resisting the traditional post-breach killing spree with a strength of will somewhere between ‘mind-boggling’ and ‘unimaginable.’ She was a conscientious hunter, the only person who could smooth Paris’s feathers, a good friend to Audrey — I was sure she’d meant Martin’s death, in her own twisted way, as a favor, a gift. How did this happen right under my nose? How did Westley, of all people…

  Westley, who had vanished during the fight in the lobby. Who could drop back into the fight at any moment. Whose side would he be on?

  I saw movement — dust motes swirling in a shaft of sunlight. I stepped toward the light; it was leaking around a boarded-up window in an office that lay empty but for a massive, dust-veiled desk.

  “You’re a hypocrite, Damon.”

  I spun toward Jewel’s voice but she was already ramming me through the doorway. I stumbled backward into the desk, managed to turn so that Jewel slid across its top, leaving a path in the dust. It didn’t stop her for long, and the tangled threads of fear for Naomi, fear for Westley, grief for Jewel, all disappeared from my view. I had to keep my focus on Jewel and the blood-darkened blade in her hand.

  I kept the desk between us, a delaying tactic. What was I waiting for?

  “You’re a hypocrite,” Jewel said again. “Wes told me what really happened to Claire.”

  The jab of pain was very nearly physical, and gave her an opening; she came over the desk at me, and put a slice in my left arm before I could throw her off and dance around the desk, putting it between us again.

  “How did you drag Westley into this?” I snarled.

  “Drag? It was his idea.” She wiped at the blood streaming down the side of her face, matting her pale hair. “His sister Kitty. Steve was breaking her bones on a daily basis. She’d miscarried twice. She wanted to kill herself. Well, Wes and I decided she wasn’t the one who needed to die.”

  “But she did die.”

  “She lived long enough to thank us. Thank us, Damon, with her last breath. That’s when I knew we were doing the right thing.”

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe Westley wanted to do this.”

  “He had doubts, after Kitty. He didn’t want to do it again. But Adonis told us about his Lumi’s brother, the one who made his Shadow fetch him other girls. I told Westley I was doing it with or without him. He could either help me, and give the Shadow a chance of surviving, or he could stay home, knowing she would probably die. I knew he wouldn’t tattle on me, not on me, his new Emily.” She spread her hands, as if showcasing herself, and I leaped.

  Seconds tangled, dust swirling. I tried to pin her but she bit me, and kicked me off when I snatched my hand away. She was ninety pounds soaking wet, but stronger than I expected, and her size gave her a maneuverability I couldn’t match. She lunged at me again, but I caught her in the face with one arm, sent her tumbling back across the desk.

  With the light streaking the room, the desk cast a distinct shadow. She could have shaded at any time. But she didn’t want to escape me. Didn’t even really want to kill me. She wanted to convert me.

  She wants to talk. Use that.

  “How long has this been going on?” I asked, trying to catch my breath. “With Westley?”

  “Over a year.” She looked smug. “Just a week or two after I arrived. I knew the second he saw me that there was something. You went out of town on one of your little jaunts and left Westley in charge, so when I had a nightmare and woke screaming, he was the one who came to comfort me.” She shuddered, in an oddly self-satisfied way. “It was an awful nightmare. I needed… lots of comfort.”

  Oh, Wes.

  Jewel was on her feet, leaning one hand against the wall, the other pressed to the wound in her scalp. Bleeding buckets, and not even blurry; Jewel had the strength of will to survive breach alone in a closet. She was not going to be easy to kill. I was worse off, panting and lightheaded, and I shouldn’t have been. I hadn’t bled nearly enough to feel this dizzy…

  Javek. I looked down at the teethmarks in my wrist. Tenebrii had a much higher tolerance for somna than humans did. But we could still feel it.

  Jewel chuckled. “I was wondering when that would kick in.”

  “What do you want from me, Jewel? You want me to let you kill Naomi? I gotta tell you, your track record isn’t very persuasive. One survivor out of four attempts.”

  “Better to die free than live a slave,” she said. “You said so yourself. I owe you everything, Damon, and one way or another, I’m going to free you.” She wiped sweat from her face with a blood-smeared hand and straightened, light glinting on the edge of her knife. “Liberty or death.”

  NAOMI

  I stumbled down the dark corridor, toward the pool of wintry sunlight that was the lobby. Tried not to think about the blood dripping off my blistered hands, the sharp things stabbing my chest when I breathed, the dark place behind me where Damon was hunting a murderer, and I couldn’t help him.

  Bullet to the head ought to at least slow her down.

  I paused to lean against a wall for a moment, tucking the gun into my pocket so I could press my hand to my chest. Gently. Ow. Something is very wrong. Find Paris and get out of here.

  I reached the lobby, and my shamble became a painful trot. Paris was curled on the marble floor in a pool of blood.

  I fell to my knees next to him. “Paris? Paris, Paris, Paris!”

  No answer. He wasn’t dead couldn’t be dead or he’d be dust, wouldn’t he? But he didn’t wake up and I couldn’t seem to see him very clearly.

  Not good not good not good.

  The blood was coming from — well, everywhere, or close enough, Jewel had opened him up from collarbone down. God please please, what do I do, what do I do? I shook his shoulder.

  His eyes opened, just a slit. Opened and focused, very intently, on the blood still streaming down my wrist.

  I would have given it to him, but he didn’t know that. No one was home in that head to know.

  My skull rang against marble as Paris landed on my chest and sank his teeth into my neck.

  DAMON

  The somna wasn’t enough to incapacitate me, and it would wear off soon. But not soon enough. My balance was off, my reactions slowed — not very much. But too much.

  Jewel came around the desk, and I couldn’t dodge fast enough. Metal flashed, and my hand opened, bleeding, my knife falling to the floor. I leaped backward and grazed the edge of the desk, stumbled. She slammed me against the boarded-up window, knife driving toward my throat. I managed to throw up an arm, and with the knife caught in my flesh tried to yank it from Jewel’s grasp, but only managed to break off the tip. Before she could bring the broken knife to bear, I crashed my forehead into her face. She fell back with a cry, and I grabbed for the knife, but she clawed at my face with her other hand, and in the pain and surprise my balance failed me. She helped it along with a sweep kick under my feet, kicked again when I hit the floor, and dropped to her knees by my head, hooking a hand into my hair to snatch my head back, expose my throat.

  I saw the knife flash through a shaft of light on its way down.

  I tried to see Naomi instead, see the light in her face when I asked her to marry me, feel her arms around me and li
ps against mine.

  It was only fair. I killed one Lumi. It was only fair I die for the other.

  But the knife didn’t fall.

  Jewel shrieked as Westley grabbed her from behind. She twisted in his grasp, knife tearing at his shoulder, chest, neck, face. He didn’t let go.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, love, I’m so sorry.”

  There was a sick, muffled crunch, and Jewel went still.

  “I’m sorry,” Westley said again, over and over, and fell to his knees, Jewel’s body crumbling to ash in his hands.

  I sat up, dizzy and shaking, peripherally aware of the knife point in my arm, the blood running from a dozen nicks and slices. None of it important.

  Westley was blurring.

  NAOMI

  The somna was starting to clear. I could make sense of what Paris was saying.

  “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.”

  I wanted to tell him to stop taking the Lord’s name in vain, except I wasn’t too sure he was. And I couldn’t talk, anyway. Something wasn’t working when I tried to breathe. Like trying to breathe air from an empty balloon. Funny choking gasping airless noises. Stabbing pain in my chest.

  “I didn’t know, I didn’t you know were hurt — I couldn’t stop — oh, God, Naomi. I can’t shade you here, there’s no shade, we have to get you over to the wall, to the shadows — the vault door, that’s a good one — no, don’t try to move. Maybe I can just… pull you over there…” He took hold of my ankles and began to pull. The floor was smooth, but I was still about twice his body weight. I moved in jerks, and lost what air I had left in a shriek of pain.

  Numb and tingly all over. My heartbeat didn’t feel right.

  I want Damon. I want Mommy. I want my baby.

  “God, oh, God, what do I do?” Paris said.

  Seeing stars and dark waves now, like when I stood up too fast.

  “My blood won’t work,” Paris said, “only Damon’s. Damon!” he screamed.

  He’s busy, I wanted to say. Don’t worry. He can take her.

  It’s so cold in here.

  Footsteps on the marble, pattering away from me. Where are you going? I tried to ask, but it didn’t come out, and I couldn’t hear if he answered.

  DAMON

  “Westley, get up. Wes, come on, I’m getting you out of here.”

  He tried to lean against the wall and slid down it instead, onto the floor. His back left a wide streak of blood on the paint. Rivulets crept through the ash coating his clothes and skin, gone thin as his body reached its dregs.

  “Wes,” I said. “Westley.”

  “Blood oath,” he said, voice rough with effort. “I can’t seek death. And I didn’t.”

  “No. You can’t die.”

  He coughed something like a laugh. “God forgive me, I’m glad you still care. But the Formyndari would kill me anyway.”

  “I won’t let them.”

  “I want to be with Emily, Damon.” He closed his eyes. “Assuming I have a soul. And don’t go to hell.”

  “Jewel manipulated you.”

  “When it was… important enough… I fought back.” He coughed, and blood speckled his lips. “The others should have… been important enough. Tell Audrey I’m sorry… about Martin. And Galatea. Tell Teya I’m so, so sorry about everything.”

  I couldn’t think, couldn’t think of anything to say or do. Nothing that would keep him here. Don’t leave me.

  “Wes.” My voice was barely a croak, but enough that he opened his eyes again. I could see fear in them, and hope. He reached out and I caught his hand; he gripped mine with a strength I didn’t expect. “Wes. Brother. You kept me alive and sane the last thirteen years. I don’t care what else you’ve done. You are my blood brother forever.”

  Between the blur of his face and the blur in my eyes, it was hard to see his expression, but I thought he nodded. Then his grip weakened, softened, dissolved. My hand clenched around grey dust that ran between my fingers and drifted to the floor.

  .

  “Damon!”

  I almost didn’t recognize Paris’s terrified voice, almost lacked the ability to care when he came to a halt in the doorway before me. But I looked up, fear arcing along my nerves, at his next words.

  “Naomi’s dying.”

  NAOMI

  I opened my eyes when I felt Damon take my hand. It was hard to see and harder to breathe but I tried to smile at him. With him here, things would be all right.

  “Her ribs are smashed to pieces, I think both lungs punctured,” Paris said, in a high panicked voice that didn’t sound like him. “And I’m sure the hundred gallons of blood loss doesn’t help. I tried to move her but I’m too freaking small! I didn’t mean to hurt her, I didn’t mean to, I couldn’t stop—”

  Damon’s hand was trembling around mine. “Naomi? Can you hear me?”

  I squinted at his face. It was bleeding from what looked like claw marks on one side, and dirty with tears and… ash? I tried to ask if he was okay, but couldn’t get in enough air. Who was making those awful sucking gasping noises?

  “It’s okay,” he said in that high-pitched voice people use when it’s not okay. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”

  My heartbeat, which had been staggering about in an uneven gallop for some time now, seemed to be filling my head, my body, the world. Not a gallop now. Maybe a canter. A trot.

  A walk. A weary, weakening stumble.

  I tried to pray, but words didn’t come, only images. Tiny Charlie, asleep in my arms. My parents holding hands. Jonathan. And Damon. I held onto Damon as tight as I could, though I wasn’t sure if my muscles were working anymore.

  “Damon, now!” someone shouted. “What are you waiting for?”

  Something was tearing, inside me. Tearing Damon away. I had no breath to call him back, no strength to hold him tighter. He was the only thing I could feel now, and he was tearing away.

  He was gone.

  .

  I woke coughing, choking on something hot and salty that filled my mouth and throat, feeling a sickly rush through my body as my heart fluttered too fast, much too fast. I choked and swallowed, digging my nails into Damon’s arms.

  Now there were images again — my life — no, no, not my life — I was a boy, no, I was a girl but I remembered being a boy. I slept with Floppy Dog. I raced tricycles with Brother and fell off and skinned my knees, had to bite Daddy’s arm. Mommy read me a story about dragons. I made pancakes with Daddy. I learned A-B-C-D, elemenopee. Two plus two is four, four plus four is eight. Cowabunga! Can I have a skateboard?

  I cry and have nightmares after the space shuttle blows up on television. I try to moonwalk in front of the mirror. Let’s watch Bill Cosby. Theo did it. Are Care Bears only for girls? Can I have a Nintendo for Christmas? Do I have to read Tom Sawyer? He’s a brat.

  I jump on the bed with Brother until we break the springs. Maybe no one will notice. His sister is befasted now, he’s all alone; we nick our palms with Dad’s razor and clasp hands. Blood brothers forever.

  Will I covant soon? Brother’s name is Westley now. Will my name still be Gabriel?

  Oh, she’s beautiful. Oh, she’s so beautiful…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Romeo

  “Doug is coming over,” Claire said, “and I do not want to see, hear, feel or smell you until he leaves in the morning. Are we clear, Ro?” She pulled a dress over her head, the white-and-yellow sundress she’d had me steal for her last week. The weather was too cold for the thin material, but I didn’t imagine she’d be wearing it long anyway.

  “Have you eaten today, Claire?” I asked. She hadn’t fed me in days.

  “I don’t remember. Leave me alone. Latch this.” She turned her back to me and held up the ends of a necklace.

  She was pale and thin now — not interestingly or romantically so, just sickly. Her eyes were sunken and shadowed. But her hair was still beautiful, long and thick, red as a sunset. I didn’t touch it as I latched
the necklace; my fingers grazing her skin were self-torture enough. No matter how sick or thin or old she grew, I would never meet anyone more beautiful.

  The thought made me queasy.

  Claire turned toward the mirror and began dusting her cheeks with pink, trying to recapture the rose-petal complexion she’d had only a year ago, before vodka and cocaine became major pastimes.

  “Go into the next room,” she said. “Go wherever you want, just don’t come back until morning.”

  I thought of going down to the beach for the night. Sneaking into a movie. Going to see my parents.

  Not my parents. They didn’t need to know about all this. Let them think I was happy.

  I could have gone anywhere in the world. Paris. London. The Arctic Circle.

  I went into the next room and sat down with my back against the wall.

  You’re the one she really loves, I told myself, and the sickening thing was that it was true.

  “Romeo?”

  I opened my eyes; she was standing in the doorway, a slice of bread in her hand.

  “I didn’t give you dinner, did I? Here. This is all I found that didn’t need to be microwaved.”

  I took the bread from her hand without bothering to stand.

  She looked down at me a moment, and something like uncertainty or concern passed over her face. “We’ll go out somewhere, in the morning,” she said. “Somewhere fancy. That’ll be nice, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, don’t be angry.” She dropped to the floor and snuggled up next to me, and no amount of self-loathing could keep me from tightening an arm around her, pressing my face to her hair.

  “I’m not angry,” I said. I had no idea if it was true or not.