Shadow's Edge

by Maureen Lipinski

  My mouth grew dry and my hands began to shake—not just from seeing her again, but due to the fact that she was the first Light being to appear to me. If anyone was going to deliver bad news, it would be her.

  She opened her mouth and spoke. Her Other Realm language sounded foreign at first, but I was able to translate it: “Fiona is dead.”

  “Leah?” Alex’s voice cut through the light.

  I slowly turned my head toward Alex, toward his halo of blond curls, toward his perfect forearms laced with ropelike veins underneath caramel skin. Sulevia instantly teleported, disappearing and reappearing next to Alex’s head, her skin casting a blue glow across his face.

  “Leah, are you okay? Just forget about it. I meant what I said last night,” he said quietly. His bloodshot eyes were wide, his voice soft. “You know that, right?” He searched my face for confirmation, but I was frozen, my veins turned to ice.

  She can’t be dead. She … can’t be. I would’ve sensed it; I would’ve known.

  Alex reached out his hand and I placed mine into it. He turned my hand over and studied my palm before lifting his eyes to mine. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and pressed my necklace into my palm. My fingers closed around the cool metal, my ears buzzing.

  How … what … why …

  “We’re still good, right?” he asked. His eyes softened as he squeezed my hand.

  “Help us. Help us find out what happened to her. Will you take back the title of Shaman?” Sulevia asked.

  I looked down at the necklace in the palm of my hand, which rested inside Alex’s caramel palm.

  Fiona. My best friend.

  I closed my eyes and inhaled the scent of the nectarine tree in my neighbor’s yard. I slowly opened my hand, allowing the necklace to fall down onto the dewy grass below me.

  My best friend is dead. And I wasn’t there.

  I opened my eyes as a sob began to build in my throat.

  “Yes,” I said, in answer to both questions.

  Eight

  After Alex left, I ran inside, tears burning my eyes. But

  there was no time to cry or mourn; I had to contact

  Melissa before I lost my nerve. I went straight to my computer and opened messenger. I typed in MelissaGrrl and wrote, Fiona is dead?? Just typing those words made me want to scream. She can’t be, part of my brain still whispered.

  I sat back and slowly ran my palms across my jeans while I felt my heart nearly rip out of my chest.

  Yeah. I’m sorry, was the reply from Melissa. I just found out, too. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to upset you.

  I balled up my fists and pushed them into my eye sockets for a moment. What happened?

  My computer pinged and I read her response. Don’t know a whole lot yet since everyone is still too upset to talk about the details.

  Was it natural causes? Could someone have hurt her? The Dark? I knew I was frantically searching, my brain trying to make sense of what happened to my old friend.

  No clue. Doubt it. Most likely natural causes. Like I said, I don’t know anything yet. The computer pinged again.

  Needless to say, Melissa’s responses didn’t exactly instill a mountain of confidence that she was on top of things. Something inside me said that Fiona’s death wasn’t natural, as much as I didn’t want to believe that. I just couldn’t let my friend’s death become an afterthought, something to consider in between lattes at Buzz coffee shop. Fiona was my friend. I had to be the one to investigate.

  I slowly pecked at my keyboard, focusing on the individual keys. I will do it. I am taking back the title.

  There was a long pause and I felt my injured foot begin to ache. No need. I’m on top of it, Melissa typed back.

  I took a long, deep breath. I am taking back the title, at least until I find out what happened to Fiona.

  Another long pause before two words appeared:

  Good luck.

  And then, underneath, she wrote, You’re going to

  need it.

  “The Grimoire of Annwn,” I whispered as I traced the letters on the brown cover. “It’s been a while.” I opened the worn, cracked book, gingerly turning the delicate sheets of paper. Melissa had reluctantly surrendered it to me when I’d gone to her house after our conversation. At first she’d insisted that she could handle the job of Shaman, and that, besides, whatever Fiona had died from was probably natural. As tempting as her offer was, to investigate and keep me in the loop, the guilt bubbling up in my stomach made me say no.

  My birthmark ached as I turned pages and flipped to the Light and Dark Créatúir descriptions. I scanned the bullet points:

  Light Créatúir: Strong preference for beauty, organization, and glamour. Irritated easily by humans and Dark beings. Strict bloodlines. Admired. Prefer sunlight. Live in Tara, the Land of the Dawn.

  Dark Créatúir: Sometimes deformed due to

  non-pure bloodlines and non-selective in breeding. Inferiority complex. Malevolent. Prefer the dark. Live on the island of Inis Mor, the Land of

  the Shade.

  I shivered a little at the mention of Inis Mor, a land I had yet to visit. Fiona and I had stayed in Tara during my visit to the Other Realm, since the spooky island of the Dark wasn’t a place either of us wanted to brave.

  What neither description mentioned was the predilection of both Light and Dark Créatúir toward cruel jokes and a sick sense of humor. That seemed to be universal among them.

  I rolled my eyes at the Créatúir Shaman Vision and Mission Statement, formulated long ago by the anal retentive Shaman Bridget Cleary, who apparently thought it was necessary to spell out things like Love the Créatúir and recognize their importance to the land. Bridget had written the first Grimoire of Annwn, centuries ago, and each Shaman after her had added to it. It was like an ever-growing scrapbook.

  I skipped past all of the duties outlined (like penalties and rules for territory disputes, and prayers for funerals and births) and also the guideline for training Shamans, and turned to the section on Créatúir history. It recounted how in the earliest days, when the Light and Dark were united, they battled a demon race—the Fomoriians—and defeated them. After the appearance of humans, the Créatúir retreated to the Other Realm and split into Light and Dark, the dawn and the shade. And all that was left in our world was a few fairy tales, legends, and ancient drawings.

  My eyes stayed focused on one word on the page: Fomoriians. As always, I shivered when I read the description of the demons. A woodcut portrayed a grotesque Fomoriian, with huge teeth, slashing the throat of a Light sorceress and collecting her blood with his fingernails.

  I started to write Fomoriians? on my English notebook, but scratched it out. I knew it was best not to get ahead of myself … I resolved to find out what the heck happened to Fiona before jumping to random conclusions.

  I flipped through the rest of the grimoire and stopped at my profile, written by Fiona. My throat began to close and my eyes brim as I read,

  One of the most gifted and kind Shamans. A wonderful friend to the Créatúir and a natural-born intuitive. Her contributions to both the human and Other Realm will be eternal.

  My throat burned with a sob that threatened to escape, but I pushed it down into my stomach. I closed the book and moved it to the corner of my bed. I knew I needed to talk to some of Fiona’s sisters and find out exactly what had happened. I stood up, to head outside and summon them, but a precarious stack of five textbooks caught my eye.

  Oh, right. School.

  I had three papers due the next day, and on one of them I didn’t even understand the assignment. My shoulders slumped forward as I slowly sat back down on my bed. “I’m sorry, Fiona. I swear, I’m still on it,” I whispered as I picked up my history book. As much as I wanted to investigate, I didn’t think my teacher wou
ld accept the excuse, “Sorry I couldn’t finish that paper. I had to get all CSI on a murder in the Other Realm.”

  Nine

  Leah, don’t leave! I need you!” Brooke called out as I

  crossed the street outside of school. After three days of anxiety, I’d finally made a plan for finding out what happened to Fiona. Small Créatúir had been appearing to me in school, but mainly just to annoy me, including one incident of near homework-shredding in English class.

  A lot of … things need me right now, was my internal reply to Brooke.

  “Are you mad?” she asked as she trotted over.

  I softened my face. It wasn’t her fault that I was being torn in half, pulled back into the world that I’d sworn

  I’d never acknowledge again. “No, sorry. Just tired.

  What’s up?”

  She hopped from foot to foot. “Listen, I have to head to cheerleading practice in a minute, but I … I wanted to tell you something. Ask you something … I … ” She stopped and shook her head.

  “Go ahead,” I said quickly, as I glanced down the street toward my house.

  “So, you remember Gregg, my stepdad?” I nodded. “Well, I’ve always suspected him of cheating on my mom. No big surprise when I saw him with another woman last night. But—never mind, it’s too weird. You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

  You have no idea the crazy I’ve seen, I thought. “Tell me,” I said, lightly touching her arm.

  She bit her lip before continuing. “Well, I saw him in his car with this girl, who had, like, Crayola-red hair extensions and purple glitter makeup.”

  “And?”

  “I think it was your old friend. The one from the sidewalk in Central Springs.”

  Those flips from cheerleading must’ve really scrambled her brain. “I really doubt it, Brooke,” I said.

  She sighed loudly and nodded. “You’re totally right. I just wanted to hear you say it. I think I’m just exhausted from cheerleading or something.” She smiled. “I could probably blow off practice and we could hang out or something, if you want.”

  I shook my head. “I have a ton of homework to do, but next time for sure.” I walked away from school, toward my house, ready to don my other hat: Shaman Leah.

  Normal Leah and Shaman Leah cannot cross paths. They have to remain in two separate worlds—like Jekyll and Hyde, or Superman and Clark Kent.

  “Like someone with multiple personality disorder?” Rhea suggested when I told my family that yes, I’d taken back the duties but no, it would not affect my ability to do the whole teenager/high school thing. I wasn’t about to let anything mess up all of the seeds I’d planted—especially not my new relationship with Alex.

  Naturally, my mom was thrilled and my dad was disturbed. But the blow was softened when I told my dad about Alex. He seemed to think that being with Alex would keep me grounded and prevent me from being tempted to travel back to the Other Realm.

  I calmly told him that if he thought I was going to travel to the mystical realm anytime soon, he must be doing a huge amount of drugs. I think he got the point.

  Beneath the arch of the oak, ash, and thorn trees in my backyard, chrysanthemums brushed against my bare shoulder as I settled down into a leafy patch at the end of the garden. The bright purple flowers tickled my arm with their light, feathery touch, then shrunk back. I rubbed my left shoulder and took a deep breath. The sunflowers seemed to be giving me a dirty look, and the asters turned their brilliant white faces away when I stared directly at them. The garden seemed to be losing some of its

  brilliance as I sat among the flowers.

  Such gardens of flowers had once been the bumper for my playpen, the background for my bouncy seat. Calling for the Light Créatúir in a garden was always my pick over joining a game of tag or a four-square competition. Gardens were what I had sought so often as a child, my braids flying behind me as I ran faster and faster toward the safe embrace of flowers.

  I remembered how flowers used to wave in the wind as I approached, their thick vines and upright stamens leaning toward me as I sat down, as though all of nature was waiting; waiting for my presence, my counsel. But now, nothing.

  I was just another living being disturbing the flowers’ life cycle. I had given it all up, and they, in turn, had given up on me.

  “Oh, relax. I’m back. I’ll fix everything. No need to be jerks about it,” I said out loud, half expecting one of the peony bushes to come to life and begin pinching and admonishing me for not respecting nature or something.

  I sighed and closed my eyes. I took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of the summersweet bushes that surrounded the garden. I allowed their powerful fragrance to enter into every cell, every nucleus, every electron in my body. I held the fragrance inside until I expelled it with one giant exhale. In my mind’s eye, I allowed myself to be brought down the Path of Light, to the gates made of peonies and mulberry branches.

  I stood in front of the gates and said, “Créatúir fair and Créatúir bright, come to me and in my sight. Moon shine bright, water run clear, come to me, my Créatúir dear.” As I whispered the summons in my mind, I felt an instant calm, which surprised me.

  I opened my eyes. The chrysanthemums had lifted their faces slightly, cocked upward, as though listening suspiciously. But the asters were still turned away. Figures. They always were the crankiest.

  I fixed my gaze on the makeshift platform in the center of the garden. A foot wide and an inch tall, the platform was bounded by a delicate woven archway made of peat moss. Tiny gold sculptures were mounted on either side of the platform, as though announcing the arrival of their kin with golden trumpets. My mom had thought to pack it away when we left our old house; she unpacked it here, hoping I would need it once again.

  God, I hate it when she’s right.

  The wind blew again, and a tiny light began to appear on the platform. The flowers all stretched, as though waiting for its arrival. The light grew brighter and brighter until an outline began to appear. The Light Créatúir’s figure became more and more distinct as she materialized, first in miniature upon the tiny platform, then of equal size to me, standing in front of me.

  She was compact and well-muscled, and her leopard-spotted skin shone like a wet seal’s, like smooth patterned glass. Her almond yellow eyes, their diamond black pupils dilated, were fixed on me as the whiskers on her face twitched. Her ears rotated independently, like satellites, on her head, listening for danger.

  Queen Anya.

  She stretched out her arms to greet me, taking my hands in her paws and pulling me to stand in front of her. Once we were eye level with one another, her mouth opened and her white fangs glinted as she smiled.

  “Good to see you,” she said in Créatúir language.

  “Er, right,” I said back to her, nodding. My translating skills were still a little rusty, so it was like she’d said, “Ood. C. SomeotherrandomwordthatIcouldn’tmakeout.”

  “Speak slowly,” I said. “It’s coming back to me in bits and pieces.”

  Anya nodded as her eyes darted around the lawn, on guard for every blowing leaf and wind-whisper, much like Morgana’s cat Doppler. But she was ten times Doppler’s size and smarter than all my sisters combined.

  “Thank you, Most Gifted Leah, for coming back to us. We’ve missed you so,” Anya said as she licked her paw. “We … ” She stopped and cocked her wide, spotted head to the side as though listening. She unsheathed a claw and pointed to my still-injured foot, which was gingerly tucked into the grass. “You are hurt,” she said.

  I nodded my head. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll be fine.”

  “Let me help,” she said, and moved her paws toward my foot. Immediately, a cloud of light moved from her paws to my foot before I could protest. My foot glowed and burned, and then a warm, tingly feeling settled into my bones.
<
br />   “Thanks,” I said. “So, what can you tell me about Fiona?” I dug my fingernails into my palms as I braced myself for her response.

  “Fiona was a noble soul, such a gifted Shaman. A benevolent and kind princess. She is missed.” Anya lowered her head and a tear of light fell to the grass, instantly killing four blades and turning them to a dusty brown.

  “I can’t believe she’s gone. She was … ” I searched for the right words as I pushed my hair out of my face. “A great friend.”

  Anya lifted her head and steadied her gaze upon me. Her black pupils changed shape, from diamonds to circles to stars.

  Squirming under her powerful gaze, I asked, “How can I help?”

  Thankfully, Anya turned toward a squirrel scampering up a tree. “I implore your help in discovering what happened to Fiona. We must find out who is responsible for her death.” Her head snapped to the left and she lowered her body a bit, staring intensely at my house.

  I turned around and saw Doppler sitting in the windowsill, paralyzed with fear. “Don’t mind her. She stays inside,” I said quickly. I remembered how much Anya hated housecats, and the last thing I wanted was a cat versus cat woman cage match in my backyard.

  Anya hissed loudly at Doppler before turning back to me. “She died a horrible death, poisoned by water hemlock root. She was found paralyzed—speechless in the fields. She died soon after.”

  I tightened my fists, digging my nails into my palms until I felt warm, wet blood dripping down my hands. My chest felt like it was going to explode with a scream. My friend. “Who do you think did it?” I whispered at last.

  “It is the work of the Dark Créatúir,” Anya said. “A red shirt was left by Fiona’s body when we found her ailing. She was already too far gone to tell us what happened, or who had wished ill upon her. She just pointed to the red shirt before she fell asleep. And soon after, she left us.” Anya paused. “King Oran of the Dark Créatúir denies any involvement, but many Light don’t believe him. He’s deceived us before. Some of us are calling for a full-scale war.” She leaned forward, her hot breath misting across my face as her whiskers quivered. “Not since the war with the Fomoriians at the beginning of time have we experienced such turmoil.”