lungs. “We make mistakes,” he said when he finally caught his
breath. “What sets us apart are those of us who learn from them.”
Sun only nodded; he was afraid that if he spoke it might crack
his already damaged calm. He would miss Pierre’s croissant-
flavored fortune cookie wisdom. But Pierre was not gone yet. It
was just stupid of Sun to miss him while he was still here. He
blinked a few times and bit his tongue so that the pain would
distract him from his sorrow. It was nothing close to the painful
lesson he was about to learn.
Pierre’s energy did not last long—it was only an hour past
[ADVANCE READER COPY]
89
Edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt
full dark before they gave up on the garden and came inside for
simpler pleasures. Sun made sure Pierre was all set up in his
workshop, wings deep in crystals and gauges and gears, before
he called it an early night. Pierre, deep into his tinkering, merely
waved him away.
It didn’t take Sun long to find the Stoners. He slipped into the
shadows and slank the outskirts of the labyrinthine sewer system.
Traveling as a shadow was faster than going on foot, but Sun
couldn’t shadowshift unless he fully stepped into darkness. He
exited the sewers by the library and saw the gang a block away,
“accepting donations” outside the library. More to the point,
Hatch’s Day-Glo orange head shone like a beacon beneath the
streetlights.
Sun winced. Oh, yeah. This was going to be fun. He slipped
from shadow to shadow between the chain link fence and the
broken sidewalk, making sure they didn’t see him until he was
good and ready. He only had one shot; he had to make it count.
“Damn, Ginger, you are looking hot.” Sun drew the word out
and attached a sizzle and a hoot for good measure.
The first punch aimed at Sun’s face swung through as his
body, with one foot still in shadow, turned to mist.
“Grab him!” Hatch yelled through gritted teeth.
Spoiler, with his bear body and demon face, bumped Sun out
of the shadows. Hinge, a hairless cat with batwings, slashed at
him with his claws. Fender, a pitbull with wings, clamped his
jaws around Sun’s shoulder and held him down in the circle of
light cast by the streetlight. There were no shadows to escape to
and—even if he could break free of Fender’s grip—nowhere to
run.
They beat the crap out of him.
Sun’s brain reminded him that if he didn’t fight it, if he tried
to relax and didn’t tense his muscles, it would hurt less. Sun’s
muscles, seeing Hatch’s fists and feet flying at him like stone
barbells, told his brain to go screw itself and braced for impact.
He squirmed and shifted and attempted to dodge when he
could, but Fender’s jaws held tight. Sun also tried to get a word
in between thrashings, before he lost to many teeth to be
understood.
“I—” Bash to the head. Stupid head.
“—need—” Ribs cracking. One, maybe two.
“—your—” Hot lines dug with razor blade claws down his
90
[ADVANCE READER COPY]
Decision Points
back. Fire.
“—help—” Pretty sure that last crack was his left arm bone.
“—please.”
That was the word that stopped them. Sun didn’t know why.
He was sure some of their devoted fans had yelled the same thing
while having their stuffing extracted. Perhaps it was his tone.
Spoiler’s split tongue darted out. “Did he jusssst ssssay …?”
“Mm—I fink sho,” Fender said before spitting out Sun’s
shoulder in a shower of drool. Sun’s limp body tumbled to the
ground. His ruined shirt caught on one of Fender’s jutting fangs
and ripped to shreds. He didn’t have the strength to care.
“Wow,” barked Fender.
“What the hell is that?” said Hinge.
“He’ssss a freak,” said Spoiler.
Leave it to Hatch to be the only Stoner without ADD. “What
kind of freak moron asks for help from the one kicking his ass?”
Sun hadn’t really thought this far ahead in the conversation.
Honestly, he’d pretty much counted on dying right there in the
street, or at least losing consciousness before they could have a
meaningful conversation. If one could have a meaningful
conversation with a gang of ugly, blockheaded statues named
after car parts. There was so much to explain. However, the
Stoners had brains the size of walnuts, and Sun only had enough
energy to get to the point.
“Pierre’s … dying.”
“That don’t make no damn sense.” Sun didn’t try to open his
eyes; even if he could, he’d be staring at blood-soaked pavement.
But he could hear Hatch laughing at him. “Pierre’s only from …”
he snapped his fingers.
“Devil’sssss Island,” offered Spoiler.
“See? There are real French gargoyles way older than him.
He should live forever.”
“Nobody lives forever.” Fender’s voice was deep and
gravelly.
“Shut up, Fender,” said Hatch. “You know, I bet it’s all that
water. All water eats away stone eventually. No getting around
that.”
That was possibly the most intelligent thing Hatch had said
in his whole life.
“But there are other beings on this street who live forever.”
Hinge would know, he had nine or so lives himself.
[ADVANCE READER COPY]
91
Edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt
“How—” Sun coughed and spat the blood out of his mouth
to make room for his tongue. He tried to lift himself up and failed
completely. That’s right. Broken arm. Broken ribs. “How do you
make stone live forever?” he asked into the sidewalk when he
caught his breath again.
“What else lives forever?” asked Fender.
“Vampiresssss,” said Spoiler.
“Too bad gargoyles have no blood,” said Hatch.
Yeah, too bad, thought Sun. He’d happily donate some of the
stuff he was currently leaking.
“Zombies,” Hinge added with a yowl. “Or werewolves.
Though you probably wouldn’t want Pierre to survive like that.”
“Gargoyles don’t catch plagues,” said Hatch.
“Ghosts!” barked Fender.
“That would defeat the purpose, muttface,” said Hatch.
“Ssssshadow thievesssss,” Spoiler said finally. Sun would
have laughed if it didn’t feel like knives. He managed to lean on
his right arm enough to flip himself over. The intention was to
use the streetlight post for back support, but all he managed to
do was touch it with the top of his gargantuan head.
“Why do you look like somebody dropped you through
stained glass when you was a baby?” asked Hatch.
“Or coughed up a crayon box,” said Hinge.
The Stoners were able to see his skin now, the deformity that
usually hid beneath his long-sleeved shirts. The birthmarks
covered the length of his pale body—except for his head, hands
and feet—patches of discoloration every color of the rainbow. It
wasn’t even a cool design, either; he looked more like a retarded
Tiffany lamp.
“My mother … is … was”—wow, Sun had seriously taken
for granted his previous ability to breathe—“not … shadow.”
“That don’t make no damn sense neither!” It was a good
thing Sun couldn’t laugh, because Hatch looked freaking
hilarious with that Bozo orange eyebrows. And if Sun had
laughed, he would’ve had to add himself to the list of things on
this street that definitely didn’t live forever.
“You’re either a shadow or you ain’t,” said Hinge.
“Ssssso what are you, Poissssson Eyesssss?”
He was about five minutes away from becoming another
stain on the sidewalk. “I’m a freak,” he said. “Just kill me already
and be done with it.”
92
[ADVANCE READER COPY]
Decision Points
Hatch nudged Sun’s body with a stone toe. “Don’t feel like
it anymore.”
“Yeah,” Fender woofed. “It’s no fun when they can’t fight
back.”
Sun felt their shadows pass over him as they walked away.
One, two, three …
“Hey,” the last shadow said. “Freak.”
Sun cracked one eye open and saw Spoiler looming above
him. He felt pieces of himself dissolve into the devil’s blessed
shadow.
“Asssssk your dad.”
“Ask him what?” There were at least a hundred questions.
How he gave birth to a freak? Why he abandoned him? What he
had to do with his life that was more important than having a
son?
“Asssssk him how to live forever,” said Spoiler. “Pierre’ssss
a good guy.”
One of the Stoners hollered for Spoiler and all too soon his
shadow was gone, leaving Sun in a pool of light and blood and
pain.
Sun peeked through his lids up into the bulb of the streetlight
that beamed down upon him, merciless as the noonday sun.
Soon, Pierre would see a beam like this, and his soul would use
it to walk from this dark world into a place of beauty and peace.
There would only be a statue left in this world where Pierre had
been: a statue, a few dents in the door of the street sweeper, and
a hole in Sun’s heart.
Sun tried to sob but his broken ribs would not let him gasp
for breath. A few hot tears silently leaked out the corners of his
eyes anyway, making trails in the dirt and blood on his giant
head. It hurt to move. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to live.
Maybe if he stared at it long enough, Sun could make it to
that place on the other side of the light first. Wouldn’t Pierre be
surprised when he arrived.
And then the light went out.
Sun hear the pop of the bulb in enough time to close his eyes
before the tiny shards of glass and filament fell on his chest. Fuzz
was the next thing to fall on his chest. Sun braced himself.
The aye-aye fell right through him and landed on the
sidewalk.
Sun yelped in relief and gratitude as he slowly became one
[ADVANCE READER COPY]
93
Edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt
with the shadows and the pain melted away. Oh, he’d still have
to heal, but at least he could do it in the privacy of his own bed
instead of bleeding to death on the sidewalk.
Sun took a few gloriously deep breaths. Fuzz chittered at
him.
“All right,” said Sun. “Thank you already.”
“You’re welcome.”
A match sprang to life before him and lit a cigarette. It took
a moment for Sun’s eyes to adjust. Before him stood a shadow
thief. He was taller than Sun, skinnier, and paler. His head was
just as big. But his eyes … Instead of milky white, they were
completely black—blacker than shadow—the empty black of
nothingness and despair. But this guy wasn’t blind. He could see
just fine.
This was one of the elder shadow thieves, the original
inhabitants of this street. The thief took a long drag from the
cigarette and exhaled. The foul gray smoke mixed with his own
insubstantial shape. “Hello, Lightwalker.”
“Do I know you?” Sun didn’t, but he asked the question
anyway. Deep down, he had a really good idea.
“No.” Another drag. The cigarette’s glow mirrored in those
black eyes. “If you’re lucky it’ll stay that way.”
“Why?” asked Sun. He wasn’t sure which of the hundred
questions he was looking to answer, but this word covered most
of them.
“I’m no good, kid. I’m a monster. I’m The Bad Guy. Bumps
in the night are for pussies. I suck souls and leave the carcasses
for the street sweepers. It’s what I do. It’s who I am.” Ash fell
onto the sidewalk. Smoke curled up toward heaven. “Shadows
don’t have children.”
“Then what am I?”
“You’re a mistake, kid. A lapse in judgment. Darkness
actually found a soul so bright he couldn’t bear to take her.” He
tossed the cigarette into the gutter.
I’ll be sweeping that up later, thought Sun.
“But I took her anyway,” said the thief. “In the end, I ate her
soul. Because that’s what I do. It’s who I am. Do you understand
me?”
Sun shrugged. “Yeah.”
“See, I don’t think you do. I think you’re still contemplating
the possibility of getting the Captain here”—he indicated Fuzz—
94
[ADVANCE READER COPY]
Decision Points
”or one of the other bats to suck Pierre’s soul so that you can
babysit a shell for the rest of your life.”
It had crossed Sun’s mind, even before Spoiler had
mentioned it.
“I’m telling you right now, it’s a bad idea. It’s what Bad Guys
do. You have never been a Bad Guy.”
Sun shrugged again. How would he know?
“Don’t take after me, you hear me? You let that soul find
peace like it’s supposed to. Just because you’re not okay with the
idea doesn’t give you the right to change the way of the world.”
The wind picked up, blowing a cold eddy of street trash through
the both of them. Dirt and straw wrappers stuck in the blood left
on the sidewalk. “Trust me. I know.” The thief’s voice fell,
fading. “If you love him, let him go.”
Sun could not think of more perfect parting words from a
father he had never known, and would likely never meet again.
“Be seeing you, then.”
“No, you won’t.” That cold metallic wind picked up again; it
smelled like fresh graves and sorrow. “Keep an eye on him,
Captain.”
Fuzz gave a few clicks and a snort, but the thief was already
gone.
With nothing left for him here, Sun slunk through the
shadows behind Fuzz and the rats, all the way back to the ratty
apartment. He slipped right in through the front door—he wasn’t
sure what to tell Pierre about this particular outing, but he didn’t
was on Sun’s mind. He deserved to be part of the conversation.
Unfortunately, it was a conversation they would never have.
Sun left Pierre’s empty bedroom and walked out back to the
courtyard. He tried not to think about how hard it must have been
for Pierre to make it all the way out here unaided. But there he
was in the center of the garden, wings unfurled, arms
outstretched, head thrown back in a passionate cry, basking in
the glory of the full moon. From his mouth trickled a small
fountain that fed the flowers at his feet, and in each of his hands
he held a crystal prism. And as the moonlight hit those prisms—
Sun imagined it would be even more magnificent at dawn and
sunset—the already colorful garden was blanketed in a scattering
of rainbows.
Light and shadow and color. Pierre had spent his last days on
[ADVANCE READER COPY]
95
Edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt
this earth tinkering in his workshop, making a tribute to him, the
only son he ever knew. It was a true gift of love for which Sun
would never be able to thank him.
Despite Fuzz’s scolding chirps, Sun stepped out of the
shadow and into the moonlight. His broken bones began to ache
again and his cuts started to bleed, but he needed to feel
something, even if it was pain. He had so very little that mattered
to him, and in his very short life he’d gone and lost it all. What
did he have to look forward to? A future of long days sweeping
a street clean of death so the shadows could muck it all up again?
It may have been Pierre’s legacy, but it didn’t seem like much of
a life.
A movement in Pierre’s great shadow interrupted his
thoughts. It wasn’t a thief—didn’t look like one or stink like one
or slink like one. It moved more like smoke curls from a
cigarette, like a clumsy butterfly flitting from one spot of
rainbow to the next. Sun didn’t smell a soul on it. A ghost
maybe? But not substantial enough. Ah … a wraith. Wraiths
were sometimes left after a shadow thief feasted, if the soul was
strong enough.
Sun decided not to frighten the wraith; it wasn’t causing any
trouble. Besides, Sun was enjoying his level of pain too much to
move and make it worse. And then the moonlight caught the
silhouette of the wraith’s arm as it stretched out to touch a flower.
Decision Point (ARC) Page 13