Ignite the Shadows

by Ingrid Seymour

  The hum of an air conditioner and the trickle of water echo with an eerie quality that sends my skin crawling. Stubbornly, I continue forward, throwing glances over my shoulder every few steps, trying to figure out if IgNiTe’s lair lies in one of the two buildings that make up this dead-end alley.

  The wall on the left is solid, while the one on the right has several windows accessible through a fire escape. They’re pitch-black, so climbing the staircase to peek inside would be no use. I doubt IgNiTe’s holding a meeting in the dark, although weirder things have happened. If they’re here, my guess they’ll be somewhere deep inside the bowels of one of the buildings.

  At the end of the alley, I spot a door. I approach and twist the knob. When it turns and the door swings open, a cold wave slides down my spine, raising goose bumps on my skin. A dank smell wafts from inside. I face nothing but blackness. I let my eyes adjust, hoping I can make something out. As I stand there, the distinct feeling that someone is watching me from the depths of the passage takes over me. I shudder. I have nothing to light my way, but even if I did, there’s no way I’m going in there. I don’t need to find Xave that badly. This can wait.

  I shut the door and head back slowly, keeping away from the cardboard boxes in case someone’s hiding behind them. My heart rate slows when I see my bike, waiting patiently on the street. I pick up my pace, then halt when I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. I freeze. A man’s standing past the Dumpster, back resting on the wall. He digs in his pockets and pulls out something that glints in the dark.

  He doesn’t see me. Slowly, I take a step back.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.

  My heart slams against my chest and adrenaline ripples through my body. Run or fight?

  A flame comes to life in front of the man’s face, illuminating his features. A pair of gray eyes shine for a quick second. James!

  James comes away from the wall. The lamppost casts a dim light on him. He lights a cigar and speaks with it hanging from his mouth. “Looking for someone, Marci?” He takes a deep drag and turns his head my way. His movements are controlled. He looks me dead in the eye, and I’ve no idea how he can see me wrapped in these shadows.

  To hide my fear, I walk forward, staying as close to the opposite building as possible. A low buzz starts in the back of my head.

  “Not very smart going into dark alleys like this, don’t you think? You might get yourself killed one day.” His voice is a deep rumble, like stones washing down a landslide. He wears a lopsided smile. If his comment is meant to be a joke, it isn’t funny. There’s enough edge to his tone that it feels more like a threat. I sidestep, keeping far from him, inching my way out while ignoring the insistent hum inside my cranium.

  Swathed in shadows, I feel vulnerable. I want to move into the light and erase the possibility of being forced into the back of the alleyway, never to be seen again.

  When I’m parallel with James, I look him up and down. He’s wearing jeans, square-toe boots, a black t-shirt and leather jacket. Something about him looks too clean-cut for his own clothes, like he doesn’t belong in them. I figure my chances of outrunning him are pretty good. I could get to my bike faster than he could get to his, which I now notice is parked on the corner. He looks to be in his mid-forties, probably too arthritic to catch up with me. At least that’s what I tell myself, because the vivacity in his gray gaze and the latent power in his lean, muscular build don’t give me much comfort.

  Before I run, though, there’s something I have to know. “How’d you do it? How’d you break into my computer?”

  James draws on his cigar, holding it between thumb and forefinger. Then, with a careless flick, he throws it on the ground, not even halfway spent. He runs a hand over his bald head.

  “Those things will kill you,” he says. “They’re nasty, but whatever helps keep the fog away, right? I’m sure you have your own tricks.” He stretches his lips in a smile that doesn’t travel to the rest of his face.

  The fog? Tricks? Maybe his strategy is to overwhelm me with snippets of information that’ll make my questions multiply like horny rabbits.

  “So, you got my attention,” I say. “I’m here, what the hell do you want?”

  James runs a lazy hand over his jaw and sighs, as if disappointed. He watches me through a squint, analyzing me, seeming to ponder a million question of his own. I hold my breath, waiting for the result of his appraisal, mad at myself for caring whether I pass or not.

  My patience dwindles. “Why did you want me to watch President Helms?”

  “You know why.”

  James’s certainty is disconcerting. Why is he so sure? What does he know?

  “You’re wondering how come I know what you are,” he says.

  Great, he’s a mind reader. He’s got to be, because how the hell could he know? James stretches his neck, tilting his head from side to side, just like President Helms, just like me.

  He takes a deep breath. “I know because … I’m like you. That buzzing in the back of your head, I feel it, too.”

  Surprised, I take a hand to the base of my skull, where a steady hum hasn’t let up since I got too close for comfort.

  He rubs his own head. “Annoying, isn’t it? But that’s how I know. I felt it last night as you drove away from here.” He points a finger toward the spot where I waited for Xave atop the idling motorcycle. “You were struggling with it, under attack. Weren’t you?”

  I nod once, speechless. Never in my wildest hypotheses did I imagine there were others who knew about the shadows.

  “Ever been shadowed?” he asks.

  “Huh?” It’s all I can manage.

  He waits, eyes locked on mine. Shadowed?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—”

  “You sure?” he presses. “I know you’ve seen the world through eyes that should have been yours. But have you ever lost total control? Have you been blind, mute, dumb? Have you been shadowed? Trapped within yourself?”

  My horrific discovery of just yesterday comes back to me, pouring its paralyzing shock into my limbs. My throat goes dry, my mouth bitter. The numb, life-without-parole certainty returns with a vengeance.

  James knows about the shadows. Truly.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, tilting his bushy eyebrows.

  My helpless expression has given him the answer he wants to hear.

  “Very few ever come back.” His voice is low and menacing. I feel as if I’ve dodged an eternity in hell. “Good, that means I can trust you. You’re strong.” James takes two steps toward me and looks me straight in the eye. “We have the answers you’ve been looking for. If you’re interested, follow me.”

  James doesn’t wait for me to agree. He straddles his Harley and rides off. It takes me a moment to come out of my trance. When I do, I hop on my bike and gun it. The voice of reason screams in my head. No sensible girl would follow a stranger like this. But what choice do I have? All I’ve ever wanted is to know what’s wrong with me.

  I would risk everything to find out.

  Chapter 9

  A bar?!

  He has brought me to a bar? Does he realize I’m only sixteen? I follow James, looking all around me, expecting someone to jump in front of the door demanding an ID. No one does. In truth, the whole area looks like a ghost town. There’s a gas station across the street. Its sign flickers. The gas prices flash with askew numbers. The large metal building on its right looks as if it sprouted out of the weeds that surround it.

  The bar itself is the nicest-looking building on the street, and that’s not saying much. A blue neon sign of a wolf howling at the moon shines on top of the door, illuminating the cracked sidewalk. James pulls the door open.

  “Welcome to Howls,” he says, showing me in with an extended hand.

  I hesitate, then step inside. The back of my skull—which hasn’t stopped humming since James appeared in the alley—vibrates a little harder. I wince and throw my head
back a few degrees.

  James watches me intently. I feel like he notices everything—reading me as if I was a simple “hello world” program—and filing everything he learns about me inside his bald, shiny head. I can’t blame him. I’m doing the same. I’m a lost sock that’s just found its match. He rolls his neck to indicate he knows my head feels like it’s being assaulted by a million frantic hummingbirds.

  “C’mon, Clark and Xave are here, if it makes you feel any better.”

  I’d already noticed Clark’s bike outside. And no, it doesn’t make me feel any better. Clark’s a punk, and with the way Xave’s been acting lately … well … let’s say I’d rather drink antifreeze than endure all that drama.

  The smell of cigarette smoke mixed with sweat and stale beer makes me wrinkle my nose. A few men sit at the bar, staring at their drinks or at empty space. They ignore us as we walk in. The patrons look like they belong on the bikes parked outside. Faded jeans, leather jackets, heavy boots, scraggly beards. I look back at James and get the impression that he belongs in this place about as much as I do.

  He stops at the bar. “Whiskey, on the rocks,” he tells the bartender.

  The guy doesn’t even give me a second glance. After James gets his drink, he heads to the back of the building. We walk through a narrow door and go down a flight of stairs. Posters of women in skimpy bathing suits line the walls.

  Before crossing a doorway with a bead curtain, James stops. “Not all in there are like us. I trust you won’t say anything about our earlier conversation,” he orders, then walks through the curtain.

  I bristle. I don’t like orders. In fact, I’m tempted not to obey just on principle. But who am I kidding? I’m not about to start telling anyone that shadowy specters live inside my head. I crack my neck and cross the threshold. Behind the curtain, I find myself in a dimly lit room and the center of attention to five distrustful pairs of eyes.

  “Crew, this is Marci,” James says, then takes a sip of whiskey and makes a face as if the drink isn’t good enough.

  No one says anything. They just stare. Xave sits on a shaggy sofa to my right, his expression unreadable. My body tightens in response to what feels like open hostility.

  A pale woman with jet-black, freaky hair stands up. “Another one?” she asks in an angry voice. “What are we now … babysitters?” She looks me up and down, as if I’m here to force her to give up hair-styling gel. Because really, how else could she have accomplished that Medusa-looking mess on her head? I narrow my eyes and return her gaze, unwavering. I swear she looks like she jumped out of a Resident Evil video game, all tight black leather pants and knee-high boots with more straps than an electric chair. A see-through black top rests over a red camisole that stops midriff. She even wears studded arm warmers and it’s not even Halloween.

  James introduces her. “This is Blare. Spelled B-L-A-R-E, mind you.”

  She gives James a nasty look. He ignores her.

  “Relax, Blare. Marci has skills,” James offers.

  “You mean unlike this dimwit, here?” She gives Xave a patronizing look.

  Somehow Xave manages to limit his anger to a glare and a jaw twitch. No Dumpsters to kick in here, huh? Not in front of his big brother, anyway. He’s always had anger management issues that might stem from being the middle child. I keep hoping he will grow out of them, but maybe I should give up.

  “What kind of skills?” a guy as pale as Blare and with hair just as black asks.

  He’s wearing dark slacks and a blue button-up shirt. His tone is forced as if he really doesn’t want to know. A tie hangs around his neck, the knot loose. James seems out of place, but this guy clearly is. He’d do better behind a cash register at the local bank. He makes my head hum. We exchange knowing glances and both nod imperceptibly, the way two lions might nod at each other in a den full of tigers. I take a quick look around. He’s the only other one making my head feel like a bee hive.

  I turn my attention back to James, wondering what skills he’s talking about. He opens his mouth to answer, but Blare interrupts him.

  “Do they include wiping her own butt and feeding herself?” She barks out a laugh.

  I don’t know what her deal is. Maybe she feels threatened by other girls. Either way, I’m not putting up with it. “Hey Medusa, herself is standing right here.”

  If you don’t stand up to bullies from the start, you’re doomed to become somebody’s punching bag. I learned that in the first grade when Will Hooper thought it was funny my dad had died and figured pushing me around was a nice way to remind me I was fatherless. Sick little bastard. I brought his bullying days to a halt before he could do any real damage to someone vulnerable.

  “What did you call me?” Blare says, her pale face growing noticeably red.

  “Ooooh, catfight,” Clark says, pushing himself to the edge of his chair and rubbing his hands together.

  “You heard me,” I tell her in a steady tone.

  James sits back, the twinge of a smile resting on his lips, as if he knows something no one else does. I get the feeling that’s often the case for him.

  Blare marches toward me. When she’s two steps away, her hand comes up, ready to shove me. Lightning quick, I step aside, grab her wrist, and pull it behind her back, then wrap my free arm around her neck. She yelps in surprise. I hold her in a lock for a fast beat, then push her away from me.

  Xave’s eyes twinkle with something like pleasure. When he sees I’ve noticed his reaction, he looks away. It appears Medusa’s been busting his chops, too. But he needs to do his own shoving if he expects to gain her respect. Besides, I would hardly do any shoving for his benefit, not after he told this bunch of misfits where to find me on the net.

  He’s supposed to be my friend. Some friend.

  “Look, I didn’t come here to fight,” I say.

  Blare is fuming, rubbing her wrist and neck and trying to hide her embarrassment.

  “I don’t even know why I’m here.” I turn and step backward to be able to see everyone at the same time. “So unless you’ve got something to say, I think I’ll leave.”

  “We have something to say, all right.” A muscular man sitting next to Bank Teller guy stands up and extends a hand my way. He’s of average height, but his torso looks like it belongs on a much taller man. He cracks a wide grin, as friendly as I’ve ever seen. Our handshake is a firm, brisk squeeze. “I’m Walter, but everyone calls me Oso.”

  The simple sound of his nickname fills me with a strange sadness. From somewhere in the depths of my brain I conjure the meaning of the word “oso.” Amazing how ten years of disuse haven’t erased the knowledge that Dad so zealously tried to ingrain in me. Oso is Spanish for bear and, given this man’s bulk and hairy forearms, it’s easy to understand why they call him that.

  “You’ll have to excuse Blare,” Oso continues. “She can be a bit … feisty sometimes.”

  Clark rolls his eyes. “To say the least.”

  “That one is Clark,” Oso says, “and that’s his little brother Xave.”

  I try not to laugh. Xave hates being referred to as Clark’s little brother.

  “We’re neighbors, you oaf,” Clark says.

  Oso frowns, then hits his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Oh, she’s that Marci. I get it now. Anyhow …” Oso turns and points at Bank Teller guy. “This white-collar dude over here is Aydan.” The comment makes Aydan self-conscious, and he loosens his tie further and gives me an indifferent nod. This time I notice his casually mussed hair and the purple half-moons under his dark eyes. He looks like he needs some serious sleep, and probably a transfusion or some sun. He’s way too pale.

  James points at the chair next to him. “Sit, Marci.”

  I pull the chair away and sit. My muscles are taut, ready to spring. They may be trying to make me feel comfortable, but psycho Medusa’s still staring a hole into my forehead, even as she reclines against the wall, looking nonchalant. Maybe she’s trying to turn me to stone.

 
; “Apparently you have more skills than I gave you credit for,” James says, eyes darting a quick, mocking glance toward Blare. She crosses her arms and shifts her weight from one foot to another.

  “She’s been doing karate since she was four,” Xave says, sounding proud and amused at the same time. I give Xave a don’t-do-me-any-favors look. He rolls his eyes and shifts position in his seat.

  “Has she?” James asks.

  “My dad wanted me to know how to defend myself.” I don’t know why I feel the need to explain. So this is how it feels being the center of attention? No wonder I’ve always avoided it.

  James appraises me with a knowing expression. “I’m sure it’s taught you much more than that.”

  I nod and more passes between us than those in the room can understand. The focus karate gives me has been essential in keeping the shadows at bay.

  Slapping his palms on his jeans, James shifts his attention to Aydan. “Marci wants to know how you hacked into her computer.”

  I blink, surprised. Bank Teller was the one who hacked me?!

  Aydan shrugs. “You mean she’s Warrior? I’ll send you the code,” he says. “It’ll speak for itself.”

  I wait to hear more, but it seems he’s a man of few words.

  James fills in the blanks. “Aydan is a programmer. He works for Sylica Rush.” James says the name as if it explains everything. And well … it does. Getting into Sylica Rush is almost as exclusive as becoming an astronaut for NASA. I’m mildly impressed. Okay, I’m very impressed. Now I don’t feel so bad about being hacked.

  “He was impressed by how tight your system was. And if he’s impressed, then we should all be,” James says, giving Blare a pointed look.

  Aydan and I exchange a glance. We see eye to eye, even if we’re not saying much. He and I share a unique wavelength. Computer bits and bytes could be our language. His code will tell me much more about him than his words could. He nods. I nod back.

  “So undoubtedly,” James continues, “he agrees our team could use someone with your skills. You see, he has to work for a living and doesn’t have as much time to take care of the technical side of our operation. He could use a hand.”