Secondhand Shadow

CHAPTER 1-3

He laughed. “How would you know? Being in another state and all.”

“I know you, little brother. You’re good at everything.” And I couldn’t even hate him for it. He got better grades than me, without trying. Made friends at the drop of a hat. Never said the wrong thing, never embarrassed his parents. Played sports like a tiger and charmed the girls like a prince. And did it all with such warmth and cheer that I couldn’t even be jealous. Well, maybe a helpless, hopeless sort of jealousy, but not the angry, soul-destroying kind. I could never stay angry at Jonathan.

“Not everything,” he muttered, in such a wistful tone that I almost asked him what was wrong, but he was already talking again. “Naomi, I know we’ve had this conversation before, but I really think you ought to tell Mom and Dad about the baby. They’d change their minds, I know it. They’d help you. This is their grandchild, after all. And it’s not like you even got it out of wedlock.”

“No, just in eloped wedlock with a boy they forbade me to see. I think you may be giving them too much credit.”

“Hey, I never said they’d forgive you, just that they’d help you.”

“I don’t need their help. Or their forgiveness.”

He sighed. “Suit yourself. I hear Mom coming through the front door. Talk to you later?”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “Thanks for the warning about the cell phone. And take care of yourself, okay?”

“When you do,” he snorted, and hung up.

DAMON

I stepped out of the shadow of the refrigerator to the sound of breaking glass. g*****a stood at the kitchen counter, a champagne flute smashed beneath her hand.

“Three,” she said, then turned to the sink, snatched up a damp dishcloth, and tore it down the middle. “Four.”

“g*****a?” I said cautiously.

No response. She spun away from me, long black braids flying, plucked a section of newspaper from the opposite counter and tore it into ragged halves. “Five.” One palm, presumably victim of the shattered champagne flute, left a scarlet print on everything it touched.

It wasn’t the only blood in the room. Jewel perched on the counter, knees drawn up to her chest, and clutched a mug of our refrigerated O-positive, watching g*****a with wide eyes. She looked terrified, but part of that was just Jewel; tiny and waifish, with white-blonde curls and sunken eyes, she always seemed to need protection. We were all broken dolls, here, but Jewel looked the part more than most. I shifted to stand between her and g*****a, just in case.

When g*****a opened a cabinet and reached for a stack of plates, I caught her hands and pulled her away. “Teya, talk to me. Come on, I’m here, it’s all right.”

“Two more. I need two more.”

“We’re working on this, remember? Just breathe deep—”

“Two more.”

I sighed and pulled a pair of white candles from the top of the fridge. Strong brown fingers curled around one candle, then the other.

Snap. “Six.” Snap. “Seven.” She closed her eyes and let out a long, ragged breath, tension melting from her shoulders. On the inhale, she straightened her spine, and opened her eyes to meet mine. She had broken seven things, and was able to be g*****a again. Spitting mad, but g*****a.

“You okay now?” I asked, putting a steadying grip on her shoulders.

“Peachy.”

“What happened? Where’s Westley?”

“Westley’s on the roof,” g*****a said, voice hard. “With a bottle of Dom Perignon.”

I closed my eyes. Emily’s birthday. I can’t believe I forgot. “You left him up there alone?”

“At his insistence.” Her anger was a thin, if scorching, mask for the worry I could feel creeping up my own spine.

“He wouldn’t let either of us stay,” Jewel said, sulkily.

Well, it was no surprise for Westley to exclude Jewel; she’d been at the Orphanage only a year. But he always leaned on me and g*****a during his annual breakdown. Always.

“Where have you been all day?” g*****a demanded. “How could you possibly forget?”

I did not want to discuss what had driven Emily’s birthday out of my mind. Don’t worry, Teya. No one could possibly regret it more than I do. If I hadn’t gone out today… I stepped back into the shadow of the fridge.

“He needs to hunt,” g*****a said. “Make him hunt.”

“I will,” I said, and shaded up to the roof.

Westley’s profile was dark against a scarlet sunset, the almost-empty wine bottle dangling from his hand. The same vintage of Dom Perignon he had shared with Emily on her last day. She had fought tooth and nail for that last month, he told me once, determined to make it to her birthday. She died just before midnight, on her first and only day at the age of twenty-one.

Would it be easier for Westley if Emily had died some other day? Would he grieve half as much, twice a year, or would it simply devastate him twice as often?

Twice as often, I decided. I was certainly acutely aware of both dates carved on Claire’s headstone, even if I never mentioned them. Westley was lucky to have only one date to dread.

The panic I thought I had finally worn through at the cemetery threatened to pour through me again, numbing as ice. The important dates in my life had just doubled. Or would, if I let them. If I fell to the riptide pulling me toward her, the desperate need to be near her, know what she was doing and if she was all right…

Westley drained the bottle, then got to his feet and stood at the edge of the roof. A human would probably be stumbling drunk at that point; Westley only moved a touch more slowly. I watched him hold the empty bottle out, over the edge, and let go. There was a crack as it hit the ground. He c****d his head, looking down at the broken bottle in an expressionless way I did not like at all.

He wouldn’t jump. He couldn’t jump. He had promised Emily, and for a Shadow, that wasn’t just a matter of honor.

I must have made some sound; he glanced over his shoulder at me. His face never changed, but after a moment he stepped back from the edge and sat down again.

Light flickered against his face, and I realized he was lighting a cigarette.

“Since when do you smoke?” I asked, stepping across the shingles toward him.

He didn’t look up. “What’s it going to do, kill me?”

His voice was a dead monotone, even his British accent flattened nearly out of existence. Unease tightened in my throat, but today of all days, Wes had the right to be crazy.

“Why did you send Teya away?” I asked. “She had to break things.”

Instead of answering, he blew smoke toward the sunset, the dead, dusty smell of tobacco mingling with the overblown sweetness of the azalea bushes below. “Where have you been?” he asked, still dead-voiced. When I didn’t answer, he glanced up at me, and an emotion—concern—flickered in his face for the first time.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. I wondered if I looked as hollowed-out and frightening to him as he did to me.

This was a bad, bad time to tell him, but it would be worse to hide it from him. Besides, if I put it off, I might just go fade somewhere without ever telling him, and that would be unforgivable. “Wes, have you ever heard of…” I swallowed. “Of a Shadow… covanting again?”

For a moment he looked at me blankly, as if he’d never heard the term before, as if he’d never been a child who ached to grow up and covant, bind his soul to the person who would be the center of his life forever after.

“What do you mean again?” he said at last. “You mean an orphan… bonding to someone else? That’s obscene.”

“Yes.” Oh, yes. “But have you ever heard of it happening?”

“Of course not.” He stared at me, then took a shaky drag on the cigarette. “Why?”

I didn’t speak. A couple, the boy holding a terrier’s leash, walked down the street in front of us, arm in arm. The girl held her cellphone in front of her, a blue gleam in the darkening red light, and the boy laughed at something on the screen. She huffed and punched his arm before laughing along. A picture of casual, comfortable intimacy. My skin felt like it was trying to crawl off me. Where is she? Is she okay? Wantneedwantneedwantneed—

The couple disappeared around a bend in the road, without ever glancing at us.

Westley spoke again, his voice warier. Afraid. “Why are you asking, Damon?”

I tried to think of a way to say it. A way that didn’t involve screaming or vomiting. Westley leaned more heavily against the shingles at his back. “Brother. Tell me.”

“She doesn’t even look like Claire.” Those were not the words I had decided to say. “Except for the red hair, she doesn’t look like her at all.”

He closed his eyes and crossed himself.

“Are you sure?” he whispered after a moment. “Just because we’re Shadows doesn’t mean we can’t feel something other than, than… I mean, humans are always getting these sudden attachments to each other, it doesn’t mean…”

“If it was garden-variety love at first sight, I don’t think I’d be wanting to die right now.”

A new fear rose in his eyes. “You promised your father—”

“I know what I promised my father.” You hypocrite. Aren’t we a pair.

Suicide wasn’t much more of an option for me than for Westley; my father would keep me alive, whatever the cost—to me, to him, to anyone. My mother, on the other hand, would understand. Sometimes I thought she might even approve.

“What… What does it feel like?” Westley asked.

“Just like the first time,” I said after a long pause. “Only with a nice helping of terror, hatred and self-loathing thrown in.”

“I can imagine,” he muttered, rubbing hands through his blond hair.

No you can’t. Not as good as Emily was to you.

“What are you going to do?” Westley asked.

I shrugged. “I survived one breach. I can do it again.”

He laughed—a bitter, broken sound.

We were both sitting on the roof, now; I didn’t remember when my knees had given out. Westley’s cigarette lay at our feet, a tiny, angry glow in the deepening dusk.

“If I’m wrong,” I said, “you’ll need to take over.”

“I can’t.” There was no protest or surprise in his voice, only a gentle statement of fact. “You know I can’t do it.”

“Who else, then?”

“Nobody,” he said, voice tightening. “So it would really be best for you not to die.”

“I’ll try, Wes. No promises.”

He crushed the cigarette against the shingles. Full dark had fallen.

Time to hunt.