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Ignite the Shadows
Ingrid Seymour


Sixteen-year-old Marci Guerrero is one of the best teen hackers in Seattle. However, she’d give up all her talents to know she isn’t crazy.Marci feels possessed by shadowy spectres that take control of her body and make her do crazy things. While spying on the clandestine group known as IgNiTe, she is confronted by their mysterious leader, James McCray. His presence stirs the spectres inside her brain into a maddening frenzy. Her symptoms and ability to control them don’t go unnoticed by James, who soon recruits her.As IgNiTe reveals its secrets, Marci starts to realise that half the world’s population is infected with sentient parasites, which are attacking and eventually supplanting the human brain.Now Marci wishes she was crazy, because this truth is far worse . . .









Ignite the Shadows


INGRID SEYMOUR







HarperVoyager an imprint of

HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk (http://www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2015

Jacket layout design В© HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover images В© Shutterstock.com

Ingrid Seymour asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008113667

Ebook Edition В© April 2015 ISBN: 9780008113667

Version: 2015-03-12


Para mi madre Por todo lo que me ha dado y aГєn me da


Table of Contents

Cover (#u447042cb-e61b-50a0-b696-e5938423b0da)

Title Page (#ud65c4663-5cd6-5e0f-a07c-3b18d2a9d518)

Copyright (#u45738492-4b7e-55bd-abbe-c88069743178)

Dedication (#uc043b25d-5e60-52c2-9069-ff3a0dc33b55)

Chapter 1 (#ub90c40c2-2cd9-5e39-890a-623e07c31690)

Chapter 2 (#u06936bfd-57cf-5a21-b480-1a02f3194c72)

Chapter 3 (#ub5697404-0870-5607-8daa-aea16b9168f6)

Chapter 4 (#u858cadeb-7248-57b3-bb35-978a2096670a)

Chapter 5 (#ub9d80efa-57d1-56f0-9619-785aca258241)

Chapter 6 (#uded0a7dc-5071-5618-809b-f00d86d1fecf)



Chapter 7 (#u1e0eb39f-c8a7-57e0-ab39-d602844d026f)



Chapter 8 (#u7bc1163e-80e3-5c69-99fb-a6a7c10077a6)



Chapter 9 (#u75d19994-fb8c-58a0-993e-af02bb4033b3)



Chapter 10 (#u4fd9ba72-45bc-51dd-b46c-171be00abd7f)



Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)



Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)



Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter 1 (#ub8f86cfd-0b23-54f9-9ece-27e638a67bcb)


I try not to look inside the alley. It’s dark. Creepy dark.

Really, I don’t know what I was thinking when I let Xave slink in there to spy on his brother. He walked between the two buildings until shadows devoured him.

Shadows …

Crap, Marci. You know better. Don’t think of shadows.

Sunny days. Think of sunny days.

So I think of my dad and me at the beach all those years ago—his broad hands under my arms as he threw me toward the sky and caught me on the way down. A sad smile spreads across my lips. I push thoughts of Dad aside. I don’t want to get depressed remembering him, so I concentrate only on the sand, the ocean, the palm trees. As hard as that is to do in the middle of February in freakin’ Seattle, I force the images to stay inside my head. Without Dad, the beach colors come out lackluster, but it’s the best I can do.

My hands sweat inside rubbery gloves. The black cloak that fell over Xave’s figure as he disappeared inside the alley is imprinted in my mind and fights the sandy haven I’m trying to recreate. He’s been gone too long. What if something happened? Clark can only be up to no good on this side of town, and he won’t like it a bit if he catches his little brother spying on him.

I wait in the empty street under the cover of night. It’s cold. The motorcycle purrs against my thighs, ready for Xave. My rapid heartbeats feel like a drum roll. I don’t need this kind of stress. It will trigger me.

No, it won’t. Stop thinking about that.

Bright things. Pretty things. Think of that.

The alley looks like a tomb of indefinite depth. I’m trying to tear my eyes away from it when my hands begin to shake. Crap. Not now. There’s never a good time for an attack, but right now has got to be the worst. Fear floods my chest, paralyzing my racing heart.

My eyelids grow heavy with that familiar force that always threatens to banish the light. I fight it, biting the inside of my cheek, clinging to the image of that beach. I take a deep breath, trying to stay in control. My best friend’s in the dark alley. He’s counting on me. I have to—

The attack comes at once.

Shadows form inside my mind, scurrying like teeming spiders. In an instant, they climb one another, forming massive black giants that obscure everything. As they swarm, my very thoughts are scattered like bricks in the path of a wrecking ball. Quickly, the giants break apart and flock to each broken thought, ready to destroy them, like hungry locusts.

I fight to form a new thought, a simple one.

Breathe, Marci.

I inhale. A new specter rises inside my mind. It’s amorphous, but my fear gives it a jagged mouth and empty sockets for eyes. It devours my thought to breathe, killing the impulse to fill my lungs, spreading over my consciousness like a whirling oil spill. In the next second or minute—I don’t know which—I’m gasping for air, trying to remember why I’m not breathing. Then it comes back to me. I’m under attack!

Breathe,I think once more. I need to let the thought bounce and morph. If it stays in the same place or shape, the shadows will destroy it. Breathing is important. Random thoughts are important.

Air. In and out.

My gloved left hand squeezes the clutch without my permission. I struggle to release it, while trying to hold on to the thread of my precious thoughts.

Stay calm. Don’t lose it. Steady. Controlled. Breathe!

With unblinking eyes, I see my hand shaking, torn between gripping the handle and letting it go. The two conflicting commands clash inside my brain, neither of them winning or losing. My hand is in the limbo between the shadowsand my will to fight them off. My eyes burn like hell. Tears spill down my cheeks, but I don’t blink. I need the light. I need to stay grounded or I’ll be lost in the shadows and their ravenous gloom.

I hear slapping footsteps. They echo against the alley’s walls, splashing in shallow puddles. I want to turn toward the sound, but the idea is swallowed by a black shroud. Xave’s coming, and I’m paralyzed by my demons.

Get a hold of yourself.

“Go, Marci, go, go, go,” Xave says as he sprints out of the alley.

More steps echo behind him, heavy and menacing. “Hey, you. Get back here!” a booming voice cries out.

Xave jumps on behind me. The motorcycle lowers a few inches with the added weight. Now that I need to work the clutch, my hand fights back. It stiffens, fingers forming a rigid claw. The shadows mock me, trying to show me they’re stronger than me. They want to undo me, but I won’t let them. I snap my head to one side, exhale and squint at the alley. Two large figures advance at a fast clip.

“What are you waiting for? Go, go!” Xave urges, thrusting his hips back and forth, as if that will make the bike go.

The pursuers, two men, are almost out of the alley. Xave curses, puts his hands around my waist and shakes me. My bones rattle. Tense and trembling, my limbs respond in slow motion. My foot slowly shifts to first gear. I release the clutch, one finger at a time. My right hand twists the gas, barely making the red needle jump on the rpm gauge. Every one of my movements is painful. God, the men are only a few paces away.

Furious, Xave curses at me.

“Stop right there!” The men are close to the lonely lamppost on the corner. I can almost see their faces. A faint buzz starts in the back of my head.

“Marciiiii.” Xave’s earsplitting shriek melds with that of the revved-up engine.

Finally, we lurch ahead. The front tire leaves the blacktop. Too much, too fast. Xave and I lean forward and stay that way even after the wheelie dies. Half of my mind fears the men will shoot at us, while the other fights to keep the bike moving away from danger. We swerve from side to side, barely under control.

“Get yourself together, Marci,” Xave screams.

I’m fighting the attack as hard as I’ve ever fought, but it feels like I’m losing, and I’m scared. I speed through a red light. It’s late and there’s no traffic. We’re getting away. No one’s chasing us, but we’re not alone.

I’m not alone.

My muscles ache from being so tense, from fighting. Xave’s body moves with the twists and turns of the road. He’s the one keeping us upright. I’m nothing but an unyielding body, fighting not to be possessed by a sinister, alien force.

“Let me drive,” he yells when it seems we’re out of danger. “Stop the bike and let me drive.”

I want to let him, but my body is still caught in limbo, my mind still cloaked in shadows. Suddenly, we speed up and it’s not my doing. My hand twists the accelerator of its own accord. Window displays, stop signs and parked cars are a blur to each side. Downtown Seattle falls behind as we head north. A humid breeze from Puget Sound presses against me like an invisible force field.

“Damn it. Stop, Marci.” He kicks my foot off the brake. The tip of my boot scrapes the pavement.

Good,I think, except in the next second my limbs fight him, even though I want to stop. Xave applies pressure on the brake and the back tire wobbles. I give it more gas and we speed onward. My foot kicks back to regain control of the pedal.

Xave gives up, knows we’ll splat if he doesn’t. “Please, stop.” He sounds scared now.

I want to tell him I’m trying, but it’s taking all I’ve got to keep this thing from fully taking over. Then something totally shifts inside my head, and I speed even more. Complete recklessness. As we whiz by a dark street, a blue light flashes, followed by the whine of a siren.

“You really messed up this time,” Xave says and his words are carried away by the wind.

The needle in the speedometer pushes above eighty and keeps on. I’m going faster than I’ve ever dared in the city. If there wasn’t something maniacal possessing me, I might even enjoy the ride, the chill in the air and the speed. But I’m terrified.

We speed for a few blocks and I dare hope we’ve left the cop behind, but I’m fooling myself. He can go from zero to screwing-up-our-lives faster than I can. He’ll catch up soon. He’s got his radio.

Suddenly, we take a sharp turn. We barely slow down and still we make it around the corner, missing a parked car by a few inches and eliciting a cry from a bystander. This goes beyond my skills. I haven’t been riding bikes that long. I learn fast, always have, but this feels like something else.

Something else entirely.

I crisscross through alleys and streets I don’t recognize. Some fancy part of town. We’ve lost the cop. As my panic dies down a bit, I try to regain control of my body. I can do it. I’ve done it before. I just need to concentrate.

Concentrate!

As I struggle to find myself, everything goes blank. Suddenly, I can’t see, hear or feel anything. Panic gains a new level. I try to focus, reaching out for my self-awareness. Nothing happens. Everything feels different, far away and utterly desolate. I can’t find myself. I’m right here and I can’t find myself. Desperation sets in. I whirl in an empty space, trying to claim my body and my very mind. But everything is gone.

All my senses are gone. Yet somehow, I know I’m here, pushed to a corner where I’m tiny and inconsequential. I’m weightless. A plundered body, a consciousness without gray matter, nerve endings or synapses. A wisp of nothing.

What is this?

Then I understand. The shadows have won. I’ve lost total control like never before. My brain, my body are gone. I have been … replaced, as if the code that makes me who I am has been erased by a flawless hack. Something else fuels me, and I realize that my lifelong fears are far worse than I’ve imagined. I’m still alive. This thing didn’t kill me. It made me a prisoner, and it’s worse than a thousand deaths at the blade-end of a thousand knives.

No, no, no!

Rage boils fire-red in my secluded corner. This can’t be happening. Not to me. I’m strong. I’m Brian Scott Guerrero’s daughter. I don’t give up. He was a fighter, a decorated officer, a doctor in combat. Brave as a mountain against a blizzard. I’m like him. I’m like him.

With what little I’ve become, I picture a strong body. It has claws instead of hands. I imagine myself tearing through this quiet bubble. I punch and punch until my claws pierce through something. With all my strength, I drag down, ripping, tearing my prison.

Shadows flow into my space and swarm, attacking my imagined claws. But I’m ready for them, ready to let what’s left of me morph, fluid like water. My claws turn to knives that stab, guns that shoot, beams of light that cut through the darkness. Shapeless, changing thoughts. That’s the key. I learned this a long time ago, before I had enough reason to know what I was doing. The specters shriek as I burst into the light. They grasp for my thoughts, but I force them to morph, concentrating on nothing specific.

Multi-core motherboards … Roaring engines.

Wile E. Coyote … Speed.

Cinnamon gum … Xave.

Ideas fall and rise, turn and twirl. Never the same.

Creaking leather. A dark alley.

A cop!

I break out into the open, gasping and shaking. A million needles prick my limbs. The world seems brighter and every sound louder.

Release the gas. Release it!

I do, but I can’t manage much else. Inside, the shadowsstill threaten to strike, hunkering like thieves in an alleyway. I can taste their gloom, a bitter mouthful of loss and imprisonment.

We’re on a curvy road which I recognize immediately. The bike wobbles. I compensate to the left, but so does Xave. We lose balance, the bike tips over and we hit the pavement hard. The weight of the motorcycle clamps my leg and its momentum carries us forward, slipping, scraping, burning. Heat reaches my thigh through my leathers. The side of my helmet scrapes the road. A horrible screech fills my head.

The bike skids ahead of us. I’m relieved to have its weight off me, but we keep sliding after it. We roll off the road into the supple earth that is more forgiving. Branches and bushes scrape and snap, harmless against my body armor. I hear a loud crash. As I roll and tumble amid the brush, I catch a glimpse of the bike smashed against a tree.

I travel downward on my stomach, every rock and bump knocking a little more air out of me. I claw gloved fingers into the dirt. Pebbles hit my visor, but I feel my descent slowing. Finally, I come to a stop. I lay there for a moment, assessing my aching body. Nothing feels broken.

Head spinning, I wobble to my knees and look around. I can’t see anything. Horror grips me, then I realize it’s too dark to see through the helmet’s visor. The bike’s headlight must have shattered against the tree. I stand up on shaky legs, take off my helmet and look around under the dim moonlight that seeps through the trees.

“Xave,” I whisper.

My eyes search the darkness, and I can’t find him.




Chapter 2 (#ub8f86cfd-0b23-54f9-9ece-27e638a67bcb)


Panic sets in. I’m about to scream Xave’s name when I’m pitched forward, shoved from behind. My helmet flies off and hits the ground as my arms flail in an attempt to keep my balance. I take two staggering steps to avoid a fall, then whirl and strike a fighting pose, ready for anything. Xave is behind me, apparently furious enough to shove me. His own helmet is on the ground next to him, his shaggy, brown hair matted to his forehead.

“What the hell! You trying to get us killed?” Xave shouts.

My instinct is to jump and karate-kick his ass for pushing me, but I manage to control myself. I need to come up with an explanation for my screw-up and fast. I haven’t had one of these episodes in over a year and never in front of Xave. Even Mom thinks I’m over my “epileptic” attacks, as she chooses to call them—even though the doctors never gave that diagnosis.

I take a deep breath and relax my arms. Sensei would be proud of me. Hell, I’m proud of me. I may only be five-foot-five, but I don’t let anyone push me around. Never have. Xave’s a year older than me and considerably taller, but I can give him a run for his money, if it comes to that.

“What kind of stupid stunt was that, Marci?” Xave sounds as if he’s about to pop. “The cops, the freaking cops, were after us.”

“Not for long,” I say, sounding smug, just the tone I need for the explanation he unknowingly provided me: a “stupid stunt.” I abandon my defensive stance and make a big show of dusting myself.

Xave limps in my direction. Uh-oh, did he break something? I’ll feel really bad if he did. His black leathers creak with every step. He stops and looks down at me with a kind of anger I didn’t know him capable of. I watch him, wary of sudden moves. It would suck if this ended up in a nasty fight.

Moonlight cuts through the trees above and bathes Xave’s face. His hazel eyes look nearly black, his high cheekbones sunken.

“I’m tired of your cocky, I-can-do-it-all bull-crap,” he says. “If you want to go all Evel Knievel, do it on your own time. Leave me out of it, okay?”

“Hey, you were the one who wanted to spy on Clark.” I take a step back, trying to put some distance between us.

“All you had to do was be ready to drive off. But you couldn’t even do that.” Xave’s tone grates on my nerves. “Now Clark knows we were there and on his Yamaha.”

At the last word, his face goes all Hulk-green or maybe it’s putty-gray, I can’t really tell in the dim moonlight. He points at the wrecked bike, hand shaking.

“Look, I’ll get the bike fixed,” I say, using a conciliatory tone—though it’s a lame offer, considering that Xave already spent hours working on this bike. He’s good at fixing things. I think he got it from his mom. She likes crafts, doing detailed things with her hands. He says he’ll be a mechanic after school. “I’ll talk to Clark and tell him it was my—”

“Screw you, Marci.”

I flinch at the harshness in his voice. What’s wrong with him lately? I know I screwed up, but where is all this anger coming from? We’ve been in bigger trouble than this before.

“Everything’s always so easy for you.” His tone is mocking. “Oh, I’ll tell him it was my idea,” he mimics me in a whiny voice, which sounds nothing like mine. “We’ll lie, steal and cheat. It’ll be okay. Just chill out, Xave. You worry too much.”

“Hey, you’re pushing it,” I tell him, feeling a bit injured.

“Am I? And what are you gonna do? Land me in jail when I least expect it?”

I take a deep breath to control my rising temper. I can’t get angry right now. Not after what I just went through. “Let’s just go home and talk about it later before we regret it. Okay?”

“I already regret it. I don’t know why I bother with you anymore.” His words hold a venom I can almost taste. “You’re selfish and immature. You never stop to think of anyone but yourself.”

“You … don’t understand,” I say.

“Understand what?” he demands.

I feel like my only choice is to wait for his fury to die down. I can’t tell him about the mess inside my head. I’ve been hiding it from everyone for too long to start sharing now. He’ll think I’m crazy, and I’d rather continue lying than face his disappointment. I get enough of that from Mom.

A part of me tells me I’m wrong, that I should trust him, that he’ll understand. Dare I listen to it?

I clear my throat and begin in a weak voice, “I … lost control—”

“You’re damn right you lost control.” His anger runs unchecked, killing what little courage I’d mustered. “My dad’s gonna have my hide and so is Clark. Did you stop to think about that?”

There isn’t a good response, so I start toward the bike to avoid answering. When I walk past, Xave grabs my shoulder and makes me face him.

“You didn’t answer my question. Did you stop to think about it?” His eyes look darker than a starless universe would.

“No,” I say, because a “yes” would mean I did it intentionally. “I just thought we’d have a little fun, that’s all.”

“Like I said, selfish!” The word echoes through the quiet patch of trees.

“Is that what you think?”

“Yes, that’s what I think!”

Rage seethes inside me. He has no idea what he’s talking about. He thinks he knows me, has me all figured out. Well, he doesn’t know the half of it. No one does. Dad was the only one who ever tried to understand, but he’s gone and now I have only myself.

Through another deep breath, I manage to stay in control. “Whatever,” I say, trying to sound like the brat he figures me for. I look for my helmet on the ground. I can get home on foot from here. We’re only a mile away. When I spot it, I pick it up and start walking away.

“Oh, so now you’re leaving?” he says sarcastically.

“That’s what selfish people do.”

“It must be nice to live never having to face the consequences of anything you do.”

I whirl. “Shut up, Xave. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The anger rolls through me in waves. Automatically, my breathing slows and my thoughts shift at a million gigahertz a second. My defenses are second nature most of the time. They have to be. Anger is bad. Anything that can make me lose my concentration can bring the shadows back. That’s why my entire life I’ve felt as if I’m walking on eggshells, always afraid of cracking and spilling out my insides.

“’Course I do. No one ever tells you anything or cramps your style with chores and speeches about responsibility. No one cares—” He abruptly stops.

“Finish, Xave.” I dare him.

He exhales, knowing he’s gone too far. A car drives by on the road, its headlights flooding our space for a quick couple of seconds. I see no hint of remorse in Xave’s face, but he doesn’t dare finish his sentence.

“But no one cares about me? Is that what you were going to say? Huh?” I wait for a response. I can feel him teetering. He still wants to get to me, hurt me somehow. But he must know that if he goes there, whatever friendship we’ve shared will die. We’ve been through too much together to ruin everything over something like this. I can tell he’s thinking the same thing, but maybe his anger will beat his common sense.

Sensing we’re at the brink of making a huge mistake, I walk away without saying a word and head north toward our neighborhood. I don’t look back. Xave can limp home for all I care, even if this is my fault. Maybe I am selfish, after all.

Keeping to the shoulder, I move at a steady pace. I’m fuming, wondering if I could have handled this better. The air is crisp with winter’s bite. It makes every deep breath count. There are no street lamps on this side road, but the moon is full, the sky cloudless—a rarity in this damn city.

I haven’t been to this small wooded area in years, but I can see why Xave and I used to like playing here. It’s quiet and hidden from prying neighbors and their objections to BB guns, baseballs and fireworks. God, that all seems so long ago. We were inseparable then and now it seems some huge wedge is making its way between us. He’s become so moody and sullen with me. I don’t get it. I fear things won’t ever be like they used to. The thought hurts.

The smell of crushed pine needles wafts in the breeze, bringing back memories of happier times with my friend—many of them in these woods. I huff, thinking of the time he dared me to kiss him. He must have been ten and I, nine.

“Now there’s a scary dare,” I said. “I’d rather kiss a slug.”

“Not so brave, are you?” he said.

“Oh, I’m brave, just not that brave.”

He smiled wickedly. “All right, here’s another dare. Climb that tree.” He pointed at the tallest tree in the patch of woods.

I was afraid of heights, afraid of anything that could trigger an attack, for that matter, but I wasn’t about to let him show me up, so I climbed the tree. The problem was, once I found myself fifteen feet off the ground, I panicked and lost all my courage. I started crying and fearing my mind would go blank. In seconds, Xave was by my side, perched on a thick branch.

“Don’t worry. Don’t cry. I’ll help you get down,” he said.

He tried to tell me where to place my feet and hands, but I was too scared to follow his instructions. When he realized it wasn’t going to work, he had me wrap myself around him, a little monkey on his back, and painstakingly climbed down. A few feet off the ground, his arms gave out and we plummeted to the ground. His weight knocked the air out of me.

He hovered above, as I lay there inert. “Are you okay? Are you okay? I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

When I opened my eyes, his nose was inches from mine, worry etched on his face. He was making sure I was still breathing.

“You’re alive!” he exclaimed. “Thank God, you’re alive.”

“You silly goose,” I said, using the endearment Dad often used with me. “Of course I’m alive.” Then I kissed him on the cheek.

His eyes widened in surprise and after that we both rolled on the pine needles, laughing like idiots. I guess things have to change. We’re not kids anymore. I just wish we could still laugh about our misadventures. Instead, we’re yelling at each other.

After a few minutes walking, I hear gravel crunching behind me. I try to ignore it and pick up my pace. The crunching is followed by a shuffle.

Crunch, crunch, shuffle.

Reluctantly, I look back and see Xave, pushing the bike forward a couple of feet, then dragging his right leg. He repeats the process, looking as pathetic as one of those dogs with wheels for legs.

Damn it.

I stop and hope Xave doesn’t make me regret doing so. I wait for interminable minutes for him to catch up. Surely, he’s taking his sweet time on purpose. When he reaches me, we say nothing and just stand there looking at anything but each other.

“I’ll push the bike,” I tell him.

He nods. We walk without exchanging any more words. Enough has been said already.




Chapter 3 (#ub8f86cfd-0b23-54f9-9ece-27e638a67bcb)


Awkward. Awk-ward.

All the way home, Xave and I stare at the ground, mouths zipped. I should apologize, but after he dragged my family into the argument, I’m too mad.

His limping is worse.

He deserves it!

I’m not sorry for him, not when he assumes the worst about me, like everyone else. I expect more from him. I don’t care if he has no way of knowing I’m possessed, crazy or whatever it is, he should treat me better than this. He’s known me for nine years. “He feels my pain,” like he often says. Maybe he doesn’t.

Our street comes into view. A few lampposts cast weak light on the cracked sidewalk, but it’s mostly dark in spite of the clear, moonlit sky. Too many large trees line the street and few people keep their floodlights on once they turn in for the night. It helps keep the electric bill low, Mom says. I don’t argue; it helps me sneak out when I need to.

I slow down as we approach Xave’s house. The split-level looks gloomy, spotted with shadows from the nearby trees. A shudder goes down my back, making me wary. I’ve seen his house in this light before. Why is it spooking me all of a sudden?

I’m contemplating the question when a male figure steps from behind the largest tree in the front yard. His face is obscured, but the silhouette and swagger let me know it’s Xave’s brother. I stop and exchange a quick glance with Xave. There’ll be no lying our way out of this one. We never got our story straight. Besides, Clark’s not blind. He saw us from the alley. Why else would he be waiting for us?

Still wary, even though it’s just Clark, I look around. A faint buzz begins in the back of my head for the second time tonight. I frown.

Clark plants his intimidating six-three, muscular frame a few paces from us, arms crossed. I can see his face better, and it isn’t pretty. Well, it is pretty, but in a Dirty Harry kind of way. Intense eyes, tight lips, strong jaw.

“Hello there, X-avier.” Clark says the name as if he’s referring to pond scum. He pauses at the “X” and says the rest with a sarcastic British accent.

Xave’s eyes shift from one crack of the sidewalk to another. He hates being called by that name, has heard enough jokes about gay mutants in tights and will pretty much beat up anybody who dares call him by the full name his comic-book-obsessed father gave him. Clark’s the only one I know who still dares call him that. If you ask me, he’s just lucky his dad didn’t name him Louise instead of Clark.

“You’ve got some explaining to do, bro,” Clark says.

“It was my fault,” I say.

Xave gives me a dirty look. I match it. So he’s gonna be ungrateful like that? Well, in that case, I hope his brother kicks his ass. Clark turns toward me, very slowly. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, stamping his biker boot down. The heavy heel taps. He takes in the full length of my body.

“So what are you saying?” he asks. “That my sissy brother has no more sense than a wet-’round-the-ears gal?”

What did he just call me? Not like he’s all mature and experienced with only four years on me and three on his brother.

“Told you to stay out of it, Marci,” Xave mumbles through the corner of his mouth.

Very slowly, I inhale, closing my eyes until my lungs are full. I let go of the bike and give it a shove toward Xave. It catches him off guard and he scrambles to keep it from falling on him, favoring his injured leg. I’m about to turn and head home when that strange buzzing in the back of my skull gets worse, recognizable. It stops me in my tracks.

This sensation has nothing to do with being spooked, like I thought at first. I’ve felt this before, except this time it’s so intense it sends strong shudders down my spine, totally freaking me out. My eyes dance around the yard, but there’s no one else here. It makes no sense. I only get this creepy feeling in crowded places, like the mall or the movies. That’s the reason why I hate crowds. But I’ve never felt it at home, at school with my friends, and certainly not with Xave’s family.

I stare at Clark. He’s watching me with sudden distrust.

“You should go home, Marci,” he says. “My little brother and I have some serious talking to do.”

It is then that I sense, more than see, a dark shape moving behind Clark. I take a step back, eyes darting, adrenaline pumping.

Xave spooks at my behavior. “What?!” he asks, looking at me like I’m crazy.

He hasn’t noticed the dark shape behind his brother. The shadow advances without making a sound, hidden by Clark’s bulky frame, who shows no sign of suspecting something lurks behind him.

I’ve finally gone crazy.

The shadows don’t only live inside my head. They’ve figured out a way to break free and stalk me in the night. My heart beats in my clenched fists as I dissolve into fear.

Something stretches out of the darkness, reaching for Clark’s shoulder. Words of warning rise in my throat, but they die down when a thin ray of moonlight falls upon the shadow, revealing a flesh and blood man. He steps next to Clark and pats him on the shoulder. I’ve never seen him before. I would remember, because he makes my head drone with a thousand bees. I want to run, but I’m glued to the sidewalk.

“Wow,” Xave says, startled by the sudden appearance of the stranger.

“Clark, is this your brother?” the man asks in a deep purr that makes me think of an idling motorcycle engine. His bald head reflects what little moonlight there is. He’s several inches shorter than Clark and Xave, maybe five-eleven. He’s also leaner, but I have the feeling he could beat up both of them if he wanted. Something in his confident and powerful stance makes me suspect that. I wish I could see his eyes. I’ve got a feeling they’d tell me a lot, but they’re hidden under the shade of his strong brow.

Clark nods, never taking his eyes off me. “Yep, that’s him.”

The man removes his hand from Clark’s shoulder and extends it toward Xave. “Nice to meet you, Xavier. My name is James McCray.”

Xave stares at his hand. James’s mouth twists into a crooked grin, as he waits for Xave to make up his mind. In the end, he shakes it, encouraged by a nod from Clark. James hasn’t looked directly at me, but I feel watched, evaluated like an open book.

“So you were … spying?” James’s speech is calm and reassuring, but I don’t trust him at all. “I take it you’d like to know what your brother’s up to?” James asks. He smiles, but his voice sounds like a dare, hinting at something dangerous.

Xave puffs up like a bullfrog. “Yeah. Yeah, I would.”

Clark called him a sissy. I guess he thinks this proves he’s not. It doesn’t. The panic that flashes in his eyes gives him away. I don’t blame him. Something’s going on here. Maybe Clark got himself in a real mess this time. I don’t think I want any part in it. Xave shouldn’t either.

As if James could read my thoughts, his eyes settle on me. “What about you, Marci Guerrero?”

He knows my name?! Why would freakin’ Clark tell him my name?!

“No, thank you,” I blurt out. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying it.” I take two steps back, look straight at my friend. “Xave, you should stay out of it, too.”

“Who says he’s got a choice?” Clark puts in. “Not after wrecking my bike like that. No, he’s got a debt to pay. Besides, he has a right to know what’s going on in our neighborhood, our country. Hell, our fucking world!”

What is Clark talking about? And why is James looking at me like I’m to blame for world hunger? There’s no way Xave doesn’t see through this weirdness. Besides, I’m not a joiner and this sounds too cult-ish for my taste.

“Xave.” I pull on his sleeve. He pulls his arm back.

I jerk my head to one side. “Come talk to me for a minute.”

“Get lost, Marci,” he says.

“Don’t be stupid. This—”

“I said get lost.” His eyes bore into me with anger. He can’t stand to be challenged, much less in front of the “guys” and by a girl, no less. God, he so needs to grow up.

I resist the urge to scream and let him go get brainwashed if that’s what he wants. Instead, I give it another try. “Please, Xave.” I give him big, pleading eyes. His expression softens, but he quickly tries to hide the shift.

He motions with his head for me to follow and walks out of earshot. “Why don’t you just go home?”

“Look,” I start, but my head drones so loudly I’m having trouble thinking straight.

“What is it you want to say?” he asks.

I focus on his hazel eyes. “Look Xave, I don’t think you should go with them.”

“And why is that?”

“Do you have to ask?”

“What do you care what I do?” he asks, thick brows pinched in that way that always gives him two creases above his nose.

“I … I don’t want you to get in trouble,” I say.

“Right, that’s why you wrecked Clark’s bike and got the cops on our tail.”

“Please.” I take his hand. “Don’t go.”

He looks deep into my eyes. “Why?” His tone suggests that if I find the right words, he’ll stay.

I struggle to figure out what he wants to hear. “Because … I think Clark is up to no good, and you’re, um, my friend. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Xave drops my hand. Clearly, I’ve said the wrong thing. Our almost-kiss of three weeks ago flashes through my memory. I pulled away from him that day, surprised and confused. The sudden closeness between us had been an accident. We’d both turned at the same time and ended up nose to nose without meaning to. But accident or not, there’d been something there, hadn’t there? And I,not Xave, pulled away. Since then he’s been getting mad at me for no reason at all. He’s always been too tough, too proud to say what really bothers him. In spite of that I was fluent in Xave, up to a few weeks ago, but after the non-kiss, the Tower of Babel has nothing on us.

“Go home, Marci. Go hide in your dungeon. I’ll see you later.” He walks to James and Clark. I stand there feeling vulnerable and lost. Maybe our friendship won’t survive our teens, after all. Red wagons and skateboards may be the only type of rides that’ll ever bring good memories back. Frustration floods me.

Fine! He can go get brainwashed for all I care. I spin on my heels and speed-walk home. The droning in my head dies down as I put distance between me and them. I cast glances over my shoulder every few steps.

The first time I look back, all three are staring at me. For an instant, James’s eyes reflect the light, putting the image of a wild cheetah inside my head. Ice crawls slowly up my neck, then I realize I’m just imagining things. The second time I look back, James has an arm around Xave and seems to be talking him up. I’ve got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, but what can I do about it? Xave’s a big boy. He can take care of himself. I’ve got my own problems to worry about.

I trudge up my front steps and look back one last time. Xave is walking up the road toward two parked bikes. They look like big Harleys. He climbs on the back with Clark as James straddles the second bike. The engines roar to life in unison. The poor, wrecked Yamaha is left behind by the sidewalk, all battered and broken.

It seems Xave has finally graduated to the big boy club, like he’s always wanted. By tomorrow, our friendship may be a thing of the past.




Chapter 4 (#ub8f86cfd-0b23-54f9-9ece-27e638a67bcb)


Inside the house, everything is dark. Shapes dance on the living room wall visible from the foyer, where I stand watching them shift. Blue, white, gray … the changing frames from the TV screen reflected on the white paint.

I stand there, hypnotized by them, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and Mom’s rhythmic breathing. I sigh, weighted down by all the sadness that hangs like a haze inside this house, a haze that obscures everything, even ourselves. Out there, I hide from the world and put on a tough exterior. In here, I hide from Mom and wish for so much more than I’m given.

The only place where I don’t have to hide is my bedroom. My sanctuary, where I can listen to heavy metal, read poetry, hack computers and cry my eyes out all in the same hour, without anyone thinking I’m a basket case. I want to run in there, lock the door and, for a short time, just be who I really am, but Mom’s been waiting for me. I should at least let her know I’m home.

After a moment, I walk into the living room and watch her sleep on the sofa in front of the muted television. She looks sad, even in her sleep. Her hands are sandwiched between her face and a cushion. Her sandy blond hair spills over the sofa’s dark fabric, and her pale skin serves as witness to how little time she spends outside. Her job at a small fashion magazine keeps her tied to a desk. She’s still wearing her fashionable clothes and, for some reason, that brings a knot to my throat. She used to model and desperately clings to that prettier, younger version of herself. She takes a deep breath and her face turns my way a little, as if some part of her knows I’m watching. Her long lashes flutter, then her eyes open.

She looks unsurprised by my presence. She sits up, arches her back and rubs her eyes. Aided by the coffee table, she stands and walks toward me.

“You’re home,” she says. Her tone suggests she wishes I wasn’t. Her blue eyes are cold and expressionless, but I can still see the disappointment in them. Why does she wait for me? So I can see in her gaze how much I let her down? She leans in and gives the mandatory kiss. I close my eyes as her lips touch my cheek and wish for so much more than this formality. Mom turns toward the hall, pats my shoulder and heads off to bed.

So much pain, so little to say to each other. She used to yell at me when I was late. It still didn’t mean she cared, though. She was only worried the neighbors would gossip. These days she doesn’t even care about that.

In my bedroom, I click the light on. The bed is unmade, inviting. It’s past 1 A.M. I should crash and get some sleep, so I can make it to school on time. But I want to check my probes, see if they found any unprotected servers when they scoured the web looking for vulnerable targets.

I kick an old motherboard out of the way as I make my way to the computer, shedding my jacket. I sit and rejoice in front of my rig. Three wide-screen HD monitors, the best gaming keyboard money can buy, a laser sensor mouse—all hooked to a blazing-fast, custom-made CPU. I smile, tap the keyboard and enter my password. The monitor in the middle displays a black screen with a few IP addresses written in white. I started the probe this morning, and it’s already found some vulnerable servers. I smile to myself. The algorithm is working. Of course. I’ll let it run a full twenty-four hours, and tomorrow I’ll peruse through those systems.

On the left hand side monitor, I start my heavy metal playlist. On the right, I log into the H-Loop and take a quick look around to see who’s online tonight. As I wait for it to load, I slip out of my leather pants and look them over. Several holes run from my thigh to my knee. Great, looks like I’m going to need a new pair. I’m reminded of Xave, so I throw the pants on the floor and push thoughts of my friend out of my head. I can’t worry about him. I won’t.

After I change into a pair of pajama shorts, I examine my leg. There are a few spots where it looks as if someone attacked me with a sheet of coarse sandpaper. In four different spots the skin’s split open, and there’s dark, dry blood caked on the wounds. Not too bad. Nothing some soap and ointment can’t take care of.

SMASH and Hazard-Us are logged into the H-Loop. Those two never seem to have anything better to do, which is sad because, for some reason, I imagine them as middle-aged men without real jobs. I bet they never take a bath.

SMASH> Late night, Warrior?

I crack my fingers and begin to type.

Warrior> Yep, just got in.

SMASH> Ur outta luck, I’m off. Sleepy. L8r

Hazard-Us> Night, sissy!

Hazard-Us> What u been up to, Warrior?

Warrior> Testing some new probes, u?

Hazard-Us> Unleashing a few viruses here n there, fun stuff!

Hazard-Us and his viruses. Doesn’t he get sick of doing the same thing all the time? I play along, though, tell him he should send me the code. He promises he will, but I know he won’t. He’s a script-kiddie. We chat for a bit before he hops off the loop. The cursor blinks next to my handle name. I need to quit staring at the computer screen and go to bed.

I’m about to log out when Mom screams. My heart slams against my chest. When the burst of panic passes, I sigh. I should have known she’d have one of those nights tonight.

In her room, I find her sitting up in bed.

“You okay?” I ask from the threshold. Light from the hall spills on her, revealing a pale face with strands of sandy blond hair matted to her cheeks. Sweat stains the front of her gray tank top in a V-shape.

She shakes her head in response.

“I’ll get you some tea.” I head to the kitchen.

I pour two cups of water in the electric kettle, open the tea drawer and select the Sleepytime variety for the both of us. Four spoonfuls of sugar later, I walk into Mom’s bedroom. Her bedside lamp is now on. Her room is tidy. She sleeps on one side of the bed, as if she expects Dad to come back one day. I wish she’d just use the whole stupid bed and stop reminding me of his absence. He’d be here if he could, but the dead can hardly make someone’s bed warm.

She cradles the mug between both hands and I sit by her side, holding mine the same way. We both sip quietly.

“Sorry to wake you,” she says, though her eyes are unapologetic, and still seem lost in the folds of her nightmare.

“I wasn’t sleeping. Just double checking my math homework.”

Her eyebrow lifts, an indication that she knows I’m lying. Homework has never kept me up at night. School’s too easy for my overactive brain. Besides, I learned long ago that marginally good grades keep you out of the spotlight, both ways.

My eyes gravitate to the picture on her nightstand. In it, Mom looks radiant with Dad’s arm around her and the ocean sparkling in the background. I stand in the middle, a toothless grin on my face, my chubby body stuffed into a pink bathing suit. Hard to believe I ever liked that horrendous color, harder yet to recall ever being that happy.

Dad’s wide smile gleams on his tan face. He was tall, handsome and strong, with deep brown eyes that inspired trust. I’m glad I look like him and love those rare occasions when I catch a glimpse of him in the mirror.

Back in those days, my brother’s kidnapping never weighed so heavily on Mom’s mind. Since Dad died though, it’s like she lost her grief compass and went off the deep end. While Dad was alive, she never lit an extra set of candles on my birthday cake and wept as I blew them out. Or told near-strangers she had two kids just to have them ask later why one of them was never around. Or kept a box under the bed full of baby outfits Max never had a chance to wear.

No, when Dad was alive, she was normal.

“We were happy then, weren’t we?” Mom asks, as if she’s read my thoughts.

The question makes me recoil. She knows I hate talking about it, yet she insists. Maybe to torture me.

“Yeah.” I slurp my tea and shift my body toward the door.

“I dreamed about Max,” she says.

I clear my throat. Let’s not go there, please.

“A memory, really,” she adds. “His tiny body whisked away, prodding needles, doctors. He was so small. Only three pounds. He never made a peep. You, on the other hand, came out ten minutes after Max, kicking and wailing.” She makes it sound as if I came out with two heads. I can’t help but wonder … if I’d been the one taken away, would she hurt Max the same way she hurts me by saying stuff like this?

She must notice something in my expression because she adds, “You had a head full of black hair already, spiky and shiny.” This is one of the things Dad used to say when he fondly talked about the day I was born. The words sound empty on Mom’s lips.

“It still sticks out if I cut it too short. That’s why I keep it long,” I say, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. I don’t like where this is going.

Mom puts her tea down on the night table. Her hands fall to her lap, where she worries at a hangnail. Her eyes lose their focus and her expression grows pained.

Oh, no.

“When I saw Dr. Dunn at the hospital and then that horrible alarm shrieked, I knew what had happened. I told everyone, but they didn’t believe me. Not even your father. That man took your brother, Marcela.”

“I know, Mom.” She’s told me this story a million times, as if talking about it will make the outcome different.

My teeth grind, as her memories swim in my brain. They’re lodged in there like a splinter, as vivid as any movie I’ve seen on the big screen, as vivid as if they were my own. This is why I hate these conversations. They awaken these images, which have no business being in my head. I already have enough in there that doesn’t belong. They make me understand Mom’s pain all too well and, even if I never knew Max, his loss hurts. Every time Mom brings this up, the splinter digs deeper—so deep that I think it will split me in two one day.

I imagine Dr. Dunn as a balding, short man with small hands and Vienna sausages for fingers. He wears a spotless white coat over an equally white button-up shirt and dark blue tie. He smiles with thick, fleshy lips. He winks at me and my heart skips a beat.

Damn, my overactive brain. I shake my head. “Mom, uh, I think I should …”

“Why would he take him? Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Because he was a sick man, I want to say. Why else would he have tracked Mom’s pregnancy after doing the fertility treatments? Why else would he have stolen a newborn baby in need of neonatal care?

Mom clings to this hope that Max is alive somewhere. I know because one night she woke up screaming that she had failed Baby Max and now that he was a teenager, we both failed him every day by not bringing him to his real home.

Does she really want him growing up with that bastard? I want to shake her, ask her if she’s crazy. I pray to God my little twin brother didn’t survive after he was taken from his incubator. I pray he’s an innocent little angel with wings and a halo, floating on fluffy white clouds.

And like always, as I pray for his redemption, I think: it could have been me, that monster could have taken me.




Chapter 5 (#ub8f86cfd-0b23-54f9-9ece-27e638a67bcb)


Back in my bed, I toss and turn. I keep seeing weird shapes and I can’t sleep. Tonight only the H-Loop can keep me sane. I wrap my quilt around me and tread back to the computer desk.

I tap on the keyboard and notice I never logged out. Not smart. The customized console program I wrote to connect to the loop creates a daisy-chain through different servers, so I’m never detected. But still, you can never be too safe.

As I start scanning the list of people logged in, I noticed a new chat window is open. One single line stares at me.

IgNiTe> I know what you are.

The timestamp of the message is now. The cursor blinks. My heart keeps the same beat. I tell myself the words mean nothing. It’s just some idiot playing games. I’ve no idea who this IgNiTe guy is, but I’ve ran into his kind before. He needs a taste of Warrior’s cyber wrath. Just what I need to keep my head free of the ghosts weighing me down.

I rub my hands together, load my tracing program, and type a message to keep the jerk online.

Warrior> Do you, skiddie?

He calls himself a hacker when he’s nothing but a cracker. I hit enter and just as I’m doing it, a belated sixth sense warns me to stop, but it’s too late. All three monitors go blue and white text starts raining down the screen, repeating the same thing over and over again.

I know what you are. I know what you are.

I know what you are. I know what you are.

I know what you are. I know what you are.

Cursing, I drop to my knees and fight to untangle myself from the stupid quilt. I slip and slide in an effort to get traction on the parquet flooring. Under the desk, I’m faced with three CPUs and a tangle of cables swathed in dust bunnies.

Furiously, I push everything out of the way until I find the power strip. I press the button and the LED light goes out, indicating the flow of electricity has been cut off. In the same instant, the uninterruptible power supply kicks in and starts to beep. I scramble to unhook all the cables to the battery backup. Damn, why do I have to be such a meticulous freak?

Finally the hum of the CPUs dies down. I lay under the desk seething, wanting to strangle something. He better pray I don’t find him, because I’ll kill him, very slowly. No one messes with my equipment, my sanctuary. My ears are hot, and if I was a cartoon character, there’d be steam coming out of them.

When the rage subsides, my mind hits fifth gear. How did he do it? How did this IgNiTe jerk get through my intricate security measures? Everyone in the H-Loop knows I’m the hacker to beat, so it’s obvious why he’d want to mess with me. But how did he do it? My system is tight. The hardware, my code … I don’t ever leave any trails. I rack my brain trying to figure it out and come up empty. I’ve been outsmarted, and I don’t even know how.

Suddenly, I feel like crying. I can’t even hide in my room anymore. I shake my head. Self-pity isn’t something I allow myself. Slowly, I crawl out from under the desk. The clock reads 5:29 A.M. I groan. When the display changes to 5:30 A.M., I walk over to the alarm and turn it off. Time to leave for the dojo. I ponder whether I should go or sleep for an hour before school. The bed looks tempting, but after what just happened my brain won’t quiet long enough to let me sleep. Only punching something can help me now. That is … if I can even stay upright long enough to do it.

I start jogging on the spot, letting my arms hang like a dummy’s. They swing from side to side as I turn my head around and bounce on my toes. My body feels supple enough in spite of the lack of sleep. Okay, I guess I’ll go. I try to never skip practice. The emotional focus that martial arts give me is critical. It keeps the shadows and the fear away.

Looking back at my desk, I’m tempted to stay to assess the damage to my computers. Tension bites the back of my neck at the simple thought of what that good-for-nothing cracker just did to me. Anger flares again, but I get it under control after a few deep breaths. It looks like I really need to go to the dojo to clear my head. I can’t let emotions control me.

This is how my life goes. Every day is a struggle. An endless array of do’s and don’ts designed to keep the shadows at bay. And after what happened last night, after discovering the torture I would endure if I let my defenses down, I can’t afford to make any mistakes.

If only my worries amounted to no more than what outfit to wear today.

After almost two hours of grueling practice at the dojo, I enter the locker room and throw my sweaty karategi in a plastic bag. I fold the belt and drop it on top. The contrast between the white canvas pants and the black belt isn’t as startling as it should be. The uniform has been washed too many times and it’s now starting to look more yellow than white.

New leather pants. New karategi. New helmet. New computers? I sigh.

I don’t have enough money to pay for all those things. Not after having spent my savings on the Kawasaki. Clearly, it’s time for a hacking gig, except for the minor inconvenience of my system being infected by some punk’s virus.

I sling my sports bag over my shoulder and wince. I hit the heavy bag too hard while I was drilling and hurt my wrist. Sensei took a look at it, bending it this way and that. It hurt like hell. He said I should ice it and then bandage it at least. I told him it would be fine. It already feels better.

“You’re a lucky sucker, Guerrero,” he said.

“It has nothing to do with luck,” I told him. “It’s all about toughness.”

He laughed and frowned at the same time. “It’s gotta be. I don’t know how you always bounce back so quickly.”

I walk through the dojo, sports bag bouncing against my side. The short, forceful battle cries of the 7 A.M. students fill the air, as well as the flat sound of their uniforms snapping with each of their kicks. I wrinkle my nose at the gym-sock smell and wave Sensei goodbye.

“Nice workout, Guerrero,” he says with a quick grin, before turning back to instruct the class. “Check out the tournament website, will ya?”

Steve Yakamoto, your ass is crazy if you think I’m joining that tournament.

“Sure deal, Sensei ’Moto.” I wonder when he’s gonna give up. He thinks I should care about winning trophies and medals. I don’t.

As I walk down the sidewalk toward my bike, I relish the calm left behind after the hard workout. Kicking and punching the bag and pads make my limbs sore and heavy. The physical exertion grounds me, roots me to the pavement, makes me worry about my body. Not my mind.

Sensei ’Moto doesn’t understand that this is all I need from karate. He always asks me why I don’t want to learn Kata or try meditation again. He says it would improve my technique even more. But Kata, with their repetitious, choreographed moves, require me to concentrate on one thing for too long, while meditation demands that I think of nothing at all. Yeah, like I want that kind of trouble.

I strap the gym bag to the back of the bike, on top of my book bag. Running gloved fingers along the curve of my helmet, I cringe at the scratches from last night. I’d just bought the stupid thing and now it’s less than perfect. Man, I’m so glad we took Clark’s Yamaha and not my new Kawasaki. Lovingly, I pat the bike’s leather seat. My new toy was worth every hard-earned penny, every line of glorious code.

I check my phone. No answer from Xave to my earlier text. I hope the idiot can still think for himself this morning. After putting on my helmet, I straddle the bike and start the engine. It roars to life, putting a smile on my face.

I tear down the street, slipping between two SUVs. The driver of the Blazer screams at me through his open window. I flip him the bird and punch the bike for more gas. Within minutes I’m at school.

Oh joy!

Dragging my feet, I join the throng of equally enthusiastic students. I wish I could skip ahead to trying to find out who hacked me, but I’ve pretty much maxed-out my absences. For now, I’ll hold on to the few I have left, just in case. The way things are with Xave and the virus attack, I have a feeling I may need them soon.




Chapter 6 (#ub8f86cfd-0b23-54f9-9ece-27e638a67bcb)


Classes are a blur. I make sure to sign in and, after that, I pretty much nap. I don’t perk up until five minutes before the last bell goes off. Then I head to the gym, where chess club, my only mildly entertaining school activity, meets every Friday.

I enter the chatter-filled gym and scan the floor. Tables are set up in the middle, topped with chessboards and timers. The teacher, Mr. Gallager, walks around, handing out papers to the students.

Small cliques stick together. A few Asians here. Two Hispanics there. Whites elsewhere. I belong to none. I keep scanning, but I don’t see the person who makes this activity challenging enough for me to stick around. I start to turn when Mr. Gallager moves a few steps, revealing the table behind him.

“So you are here,” I mumble to myself when I spot Luke.

My shoulders square off as I take a deep breath and walk toward him, boots clicking on the polished wood.

A few heads turn my way, including Mr. Gallager. “Boots, Marci, boots. I’ve told you, they scratch the floor,” he says, pointing at my shoes with disapproval. He really doesn’t care about the floor. He’s just supposed to say that.

“There are no jocks here today, Mr. Gallager. They can’t stop me,” I say with a smirk.

He shrugs and keeps handing out sheets.

“Unless we count you. You’re a jock, right?” I say, as I sit in front of Luke, who looks up from the chessboard and lifts a perfect, blond eyebrow.

He reclines back on the chair and bends his head to one side, appraising me. “Didn’t think you were gonna show up after your sad defeat last week, and the week before and the week before that one, and the week … should I go on?” His tall frame looks almost too big for the chair. His sandy blond hair slides to the left and brushes his temple.

Luke Smith, the conundrum. Jock by day. Lady’s man by night. Straight-A student and chess player extraordinaire. I’ve known him since kindergarten and he always manages to surprise me some way or another. Like the day he asked me out on a date. Yeah, that was different and totally unsettling for some reason. He’s good looking as all get-out, and many a girl would give a lung to go out with him. Me? I got sick to my stomach. Violently. Like never before in my life—not even after that time I ate the street tacos that nearly landed Xave in the hospital and barely made me feel queasy. But, judging by the way I reacted with Luke, you would have thought my own dad was making a move on me. He played it cool, though. Even when I made a beeline for the girls’ bathroom, ready to puke. To this day, I still don’t know what came over me and I can’t stomach the idea of being romantically involved with him. In all, it’s a surprise he still talks to me.

I narrow my eyes into small slits and give him a fake grin. I would promise him an ass-whipping, but if I knew I could beat him, I probably wouldn’t be here today. No. I’m sure I wouldn’t be. I wonder if he would? I wonder if, like me, he comes for the challenge. It’s true he has won every game we’ve ever played, but I make him sweat for it. And I know that pretty soon I’ll finally beat him.

As I lean to put my book bag down, he asks, “Had a rough night last night?”

My eyes flash back to him, suspicion rising in me. What does he know about last night? Could Luke be the IgNiTe dude? My mind examines this possibility, weighing in all the variables.

He’s certainly smart enough. The way he plays chess and beats me every time serves as proof. There’s even a small chance he’s smarter than me. Okay, not really, but still. His IQ has to be pretty up there. I wonder if he’s into computers. I know he’s into football and girls and … parties, but what else? I frown. The truth is I have no idea. We’ve been classmates on and off all these years, but, for all I know, every night he turns into a flesh-eating transvestite. Like me, he might have this other life that no one suspects.

“Your eyes are red,” he adds when I don’t answer. He smiles, crosses freckled arms over the logo of his black Under Armour t-shirt. He sounds innocent. Clearly, I’m just being paranoid.

“No, they’re brown,” I say.

He leans into the table. “Brown and big and pretty,” he whispers, his own blue eyes sparkling. My mouth sours and my stomach flips. I swear he relishes the way his flirtatious tone twists me up into knots.

“Screw you,” I say.

Luke chuckles. “Does your bed have two bad sides?”

“What?”

“It’s just you’re always so … ill-tempered. I figured you wake up on the wrong side of the bed every day.”

“Yeah, I’m sure your bed is perfect.” As soon as I say this, I cringe.

“Sweetheart, you have no idea. All I can say is you would always get up on the right side of my bed.” His grin is wide. He looks so pleased at his own wit I could punch him. If it wasn’t for the crippling nausea his comment unleashes in my gut, I would do it.

I regain my cool in time to say, “Your foul, slut-ready lair, you mean.” I can’t hold the acid from my words. Great, I’ve answered his wit with an insult. I guess he is smarter than me.

He puts a hand to his heart. “I refuse to pay back your insult with another. This should serve as proof that I’m a gentleman and innocent of the accusation you lay before me.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Luke,” I snap.

He laughs and laughs, pleasure brimming in his gold-flecked, blue eyes. My mind churns with nothing but more insults. I squeeze my eyes shut and let it go. The game started the moment I sat in front of him. The pieces haven’t even moved and I’ve already lost.

Checkmate.

After Luke outsmarts me in chess as well as other areas, I ride my bike to Millennium Arcade to look for Xave. Cigarette smoke wafts past me as I open the door. Randy, the owner, ignores the public smoking ordinances. His patrons don’t complain.

I find Xave at one of the pool tables, playing with Cameron. He breaks the balls with a quick flick of his wrist and watches as four of them find homes. The way he plays pool should grant him a PhD in physics, if only this ability translated into good grades at school.

“What’s up, Xave?”

The smug smile disappears from his face when he looks up and sees me there.

“Had fun last night?” I ask, walking over to get a cue. “Hey,” I say to Cameron, who, used to the pool rivalry between Xave and me, gives me a quick nod and finds someone else to play with.

“You could say that.” Xave scans the balls, planning his next move.

A fast-paced song plays in the Dance Dance machine, trying to entice someone to bust a move. We all have two left feet here. Randy will realize that soon and get rid of the abomination. He’ll replace it with a good shoot-’em-up game, if he knows what’s good for business.

“So, are you gonna tell me how it went? Or is it some … national secret?” I examine the balls on the table, calculating possible shots. As I glance back at Xave, I wish assessing his mood was as easy as assessing this game.

He returns his cue to the rack, wipes chalky hands on his black jeans and walks away.

“All rightie,” I say, “I guess that means you don’t wanna play … or talk.”

Xave looks over his shoulder. “Let’s go out back.”

I don’t understand what’s up with him lately. God, I wish he’d quit acting like an idiot. It’s as if all that testosterone coursing through his veins has a negative impact on his IQ. I don’t think I can put up with his moody butt much longer. But for now, curiosity gets the best of me, so I play along.

We go into the back alley through the emergency exit. Xave leans against the wall right next to the door, pops a stick of cinnamon gum in his mouth and crosses his arms. I walk out, stand in the middle of the alley, my back turned, and wait for him to say something before making eye contact. He says nothing. I exhale and bite my tongue, trying to control the urge to scream. Maybe he’s still mad at me for crashing the motorcycle. If so, he needs to get over it.

My favorite alley cat shows up, purring at my feet. I squat and pet her, relieved for the distraction.

“Hey there.” I scratch the backs of her ears. Her round, green eyes squint, a clear sign of pleasure. I smile, almost forgetting Xave stands brooding nearby.

“Come here,” I say, picking Alley Cat up and sitting down on an upturned recycling bin. I place the cat on my lap, where she stays content.

Finally, I look up. Xave’s staring at me, frowning. I stare back, and for the first time take a good look at him. His light brown hair, usually styled to look casual/shaggy, lies limp like wet noodles. There are dark half-moons under his eyes and stubble accentuates his jaw. He looks tired, but above all, angry.

“So what, you’re still mad at me?” I ask.

His eyes are dark, hiding everything but his ill temper. He huffs, a quick exhale through his nose that makes his head go up and down.

You big bobblehead!

“What’s the deal, Xave? The cult got your tongue?” I chuckle.

Practically growling, he stomps toward the Dumpster like a lumbering bear and proceeds to kick it with the tip of his boot. Alley Cat spooks and jumps two feet in the air, but not before digging sharp claws through my jeans and peppering my face with black fur.

“Ow.” I jump up, rub my thighs and glower at Xave. He stands breathing heavily and slouching as if he just ran a race and is trying to recover.

“Look,” I say, “if you don’t want to tell me anything about your new friends,that’s okay. But you don’t have to act like a Neanderthal.”

I understand guys sometimes don’t like to talk about feelings and stuff. Hell, I don’t like it either. But if he’s still mad at me, he needs to spit it out, so we can get past this.

Do I have to be the one who brings reason into this mess? I sigh. “Okay, I apologize about Clark’s bike.” The words feel like spiked ninja Makibishi going down my throat. I swallow my pride and continue. “I promise to fix it and to never pull a stunt like that again.”

He looks at me as if I’m speaking Japanese. I guess Clark’s bike is not what’s on his mind. I put my hands up in a give-me-something gesture. He gives me nothing but a darker shade of those hazel eyes. Well, I guess we have nothing to talk about. With resolve, I walk past him and head toward the street.

“You know where to find me if you wanna talk.” I’ve taken five steps when he finally decides to speak.

“They call themselves IgNiTe,” he says.

I freeze. My eyes grow wide and my hands go as cold as dead fish. I whirl around, a tornado vibrating with the force of nature.

“What?!”

Inhale.

Keep cool.

Don’t choke him.

Xave stares at the ground. I wait for him to make eye contact, fingernails digging into my palms. His eyes flicker toward mine for a split second, then fall back down, this time to a broken crate. His anger is gone. He just looks embarrassed now.

With measured steps, I approach him until he’s at arm’s length. “You told them about me?” As I ask the question, my upper lip twitches, enough that I’m sure he can see my clenched teeth.

Xave sniffs once and flicks his nose with a quick thumb, a nonchalant gesture that he pulls off all too well.

“Did they catch you by surprise, Warrior?” he says.

What happened to being embarrassed? I never knew him to feel such … discontent toward me, never knew him to flip emotions so quickly.

“Why the hell would you do something like that?” I ask in complete disbelief.

I don’t get it. I know lately things have been squirrely between us, but we’ve been friends for a long time, ever since he showed up in front of my house wearing red rubber boots and started splashing in a puddle, asking me to join him. We laughed and held hands while we jumped.

Since that day, we’ve done countless things together and know everything about each other. I sat with him when he got his first tattoo and the first time a girl dumped him—even if I never said a word, he still let me hold his hand. I’ve even memorized the exact shade of his hazel eyes for his every mood. I wish I knew why lately I’ve seen plenty of that dark, threatening hue when in the past, I’ve only seen it directed at others, especially those who mess with me.

“Why would you let them infect my rig like that? All my hard work’s probably messed up for good. Why?” I really want to understand.

“Oh, it was a harmless message, Marci. They said it wouldn’t hurt anything.” Uncertainty crosses his eyes for a second, then he asks, “Everything still works, right?” But it’s not a caring question. It’s a challenge. He doesn’t want to believe they would play him.

I could tell him that I don’t know, that I didn’t have a chance to check, but I choose to let doubt settle on him. I hope it’s heavy. His eyes waver. Good.

“Well Xave, I’d say we’re even now. So maybe now you can stop being so mad at me.”

If anything, my comment only makes him angrier. Ha! And they say women don’t make any sense.

“What do they want with me, anyway? I already told them. I. Do. Not. Join,” I say.

At the question, he looks as puzzled as I feel. Then it hits me: he doesn’t know what’s going on any more than I do. They didn’t tell him jack. I chuckle at the irony. The newest member of IgNiTe knows nothing. It’s probably part of their cult philosophy.

“It beats me,” Xave admits. And there’s bitterness in his tone and something else, too. Jealousy?

Oh, man. That’s it! He’s jealous. I should have seen it before. For months, all he’s talked about is discovering what his brother’s up to. Ever since they were little, Xave has looked up to Clark, emulating him in every respect. And now that he’s finally within his brother’s circle, he hates to see the attention shift to me.

The question remains. Why are they interested in me?

I know what you are.

IgNiTe’s message flashes in front of my eyes. I try to pretend the words mean nothing, that it was only a stupid prank, meant to get my attention. I hate to admit it worked.

“What do these people do, Xave? What did they tell you? Why are they interested in recruiting … high school kids?”

“If you’re so interested in the details, I guess you’ll have to join, won’t ya?” he says, then walks away rubbing his chin, making a raspy sound.

“Cut the bull-crap. It’s obvious they didn’t tell you anything. Don’t act as if you’re with the in crowd, now. Tell James and IgNiTe or whoever that I’m not interested.”

He lays a hand on the door knob, ready to get back inside. “Whatever you say, Marci.” He speaks over his shoulder.

“Oh, and don’t worry, I’ll stay out of your way, so you can play Bad Boys with your brother without me cramping your style.”

Something like regret takes shape in Xave’s eyes. He looks as if he wants to say something. His lips part, but as I see he’s at the verge of letting the words out, I spin on my heels and walk away.

I’m too mad to even look at him anymore. If I stay, there’ll be no hope of ever keeping this friendship or controlling the shadows. It’s the latter that scares me the most.




Chapter 7 (#ulink_5b15ec63-b453-5cf6-9240-9cf3671a8fa6)


When I get home, the house is quiet. Mom’s not back from work yet. I go straight to my room, fall on my knees under the desk and pull out one of the CPUs. I unplug all the cables and carry the metal box to the opposite end of the room, where there’s another electric plug. I go back and forth, snatching a monitor, mouse, keyboard, and cables out of my stockpile.

I boot the machine by itself, isolated from the other computers to avoid cross-contamination. When it comes up with no problems, I still don’t trust it. With quick keystrokes and mouse clicks, I fly from one scanning routine to another. After one hour of scouring, using programs written by me and others, I come up empty. There is no trace of any malicious code.

Exhausted, I sit cross-legged on the floor in the deep silence, my back curved, my chin touching my chest. I feel beaten and vulnerable. My eyes lock on an old Cheerio that lies on the floor. For a hair’s breadth, my mind goes blank.

Sensing the wasteland of my thoughtless mind, shadows lurk, stalk—like lions crouched amid tall, golden grass. I’ve become a sitting duck. As a trained response, adrenaline explodes inside me and gets my heart hammering. I smell the threat, sense the hunger, and my own fear threatening to paralyze me.

Stand up.

Breathe.

Bugs Bunny.

Get to work.

I become a moving target—my instincts razor sharp, the product of a lifetime fending off countless assaults. In a frenzy, I check the rest of the computers in the same fashion. When I finish, my frustration is even greater than before. I still have no idea how IgNiTe managed to bombard me with those messages.

I know what you are. I know what you are.

The words resonate with me and I get hung up on a particular one. “What.” Not “who you are” but “what you are.”

What did they mean? Is it possible that I’m not …? No! I shake my head, unwilling to take any guesses, desperate to find out what exactly IgNiTe is talking about. Could they be aware of the secret I’ve so carefully guarded all these years? Or is this just some big coincidence? Because it seems unthinkable that they would have an answer to the one question that has obscured my entire life.

But what if they do? Am I foolish enough to hope they can expel the shadows living inside my brain? What if there’s a cure? There’s nothing I want more than to be free of them, than to live without fear.

My head hangs low again, aware that these conjectures are all part of my madness. Because what else could I be but barking mad? The puzzle never ends. How much of my life is real? How much is a product of insanity? Because the truth is: demons don’t exist and possession and exorcism only happen in the movies.

Psychosis on the other hand … they have medication for that.

Not caring anymore whether my system blows up or gets hijacked again, I connect everything the way it’s supposed to be and get back online. I don’t dare go on the H-Loop today. I’m not in the mood, anyhow, so I decide to check my email instead. I open the inbox. A solitary message awaits.

My heart freezes.

From: IgNiTe

Subject: You are NOT the only one

The mouse pointer hovers over the message. There are no attachments that could contain dangerous files, so I open it. In the body of the message, one simple sentence stares at me in bold and italic letters.

Watch the State of the Union Address.

9:21, 25:58, 43:07…

What the … ?

This game isn’t funny. If Xave is behind this new messed-up prank, I’ll kick him so hard he won’t live to spread his seed. My fingers pound the search words into the web browser. When I hit enter, the first listing is a video of the most recent State of the Union Address by President J.P. Helms.

I click on it. It’s one hour and fifteen minutes long.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I haven’t slept in thirty-five hours. If I play along with this ridiculous game, I’ll be drooling over my keyboard in two minutes flat. Forget it. If I’m gonna sleep, I’ll do it in the comfort of my bed. I’ll get lost in my dreams, where the shadows can’t reach me.

The fact that I’m safe when the sandman whisks me away is proof that I am, indeed, off my rocker, because if there was something living in my brain, wouldn’t nap time be the perfect time for it to attack me? But what do I know? Maybe dreams are too fluid for the shadows to get a hold of them. Besides, I’ve trained myself to fall asleep in five seconds flat with music playing in the background to help my mind maintain a base level of activity.

With one longing, backward glance at my fluffy pillow, I abandon the idea. As much as I’d like to forget about IgNiTe and Xave and their games, they’ve trapped me in their web. I’m a helpless fly.

You are NOT the only one.

I need to know what this is about. And if, maybe, there are others who feel invaded, like a house occupied by a squatter.

I click play.

The president stands in the foreground. The Speaker of the House and vice-president sit behind him, looking as bored as I feel. President Helms talks about the economy, his stately face powdered to perfection, his salt-and-pepper hair as pristine as always.

Yawn.

Blink.

“Nope, don’t care about joining your workforce, Mr. Helms.” My words slur. “Unless you’re hiring hackers who get hacked.”

I prop my chin on my hands. The president’s words stop making sense. They don’t really register.

“Our country … deficit … committee …”

My eyelids close for a few seconds. Then they open.

“Congress …”

Eyes close again for long, long, long seconds.

Semi-blink.

“Approve …”

Dreams.

Something shatters. I jump to my feet, look around. I’ve fallen asleep in front of the computer. The screensaver flashes pictures of road bikes. Slobber shines on the desk. Gross. I’m looking around for something to clean it when I remember the sound that woke me.

Maybe Mom’s home. I step out of my bedroom and shuffle through the hall. I peek in her room. She’s not there. Rubbing my eyes, I head for the living room. Mom likes to watch the evening news after a quick dinner.

I find her sitting at the edge of the sofa, broken glass at her feet and a large wine splotch on the floor. Her eyes are locked on the TV. She’s shaking all over. I follow her gaze. The headline at the bottom of the screen reads: “Doctor found murdered in his home.” The frame is frozen. I look back at Mom. She holds the remote in her hand. Why did she pause it? My eyes bounce back to the TV. Above the headline, the picture of a familiar-looking man stares at me.

Puzzled, I step into the living room, trying to figure out where I’ve seen him. A vague recollection flashes through my memory.

“Oh, my God! I think that’s Luke’s dad,” I say.

I don’t recall Mom ever meeting him, but maybe she did. She attended a few PTO meetings during my early school years. Even if she knew him, though, why does she look so stricken?

“Mom?”

Her head turns my way, but she continues to stare at the screen. Then she blinks very slowly, and when her eyes open, she’s looking at me, lips trembling. A single tear spills and runs down her cheek.

“It’s him.” Her voice is a shaky murmur, barely audible.

“Who?” What is she talking about?

“That’s the man that took Max,” she says. Tears fall freely now, making her cheeks shine.

“Wait.” I look back at the TV. The word “Doctor” seems to blink at me. My eyes drift to the small print under the main headline: “Dr. Peter Smith, Seattle top OB/GYN and fertility doctor, brutally murdered.” Smith … Luke’s last name.

Mom leaves the couch and walks in my direction. “It’s him. It’s Ernest Dunn.”

I stare at the TV, a slight tremor starting in my knees. “No, Mom.” I shake my head. “It says Dr. Peter Smith. I think you’re confused.”

She’s standing right in front of me, her blue eyes huge and fierce. “I would recognize his face in the pits of hell. It is him!” she says, the words hissing through her clenched teeth.

My heart pounds like an angry fist against a locked door. “Mom, it’s been sixteen years. Maybe you—”

“NO!” she yells—startling me—then points a finger at the TV, even as her eyes drill into mine like I’m the enemy, like I’m the one standing in the way of something monumental. “That man is Dr. Dunn. That man took Max from me.”

She can’t be right. She can’t! There’s nothing distinctive about this man’s face. Nothing. He looks like any overweight, balding man out there: round and soft and doughy. He’s forgettable … so unlike Luke. I bite my tongue and taste deceit.

Mom’s hands drift upward and grip my shoulders. “Marcela, who’s Luke?” Her bottom lip trembles and her voice breaks at the name, heavy with something that sounds very much like hope, like a creature I’d thought extinct in her world.

“H-he’s nobody.”

“Marcela!” Mom’s nails dig into my shoulders as she begins to shake me. “Who. Is. Luke?” Her tone is desperate, maniacal.

He’s nobody.

He’s nobody.

He’s nobody.

“What does he look like?” she demands.

A current of frigid air travels from Mom’s stiff fingers down my back. My spine freezes, shatters into a million pieces, and I feel I could crumble.

Some part of me has always known this. Luke’s blond hair, gold-specked blue eyes, angular nose … so much like Mom. He looks just like her and I’ve always pushed the knowledge away. It’s the reason his flirtatious advances have always bothered me, the reason my stomach churned when he asked me out.

Luke is Max.

Luke is my brother!

I stagger backward, head spinning.

“Who’s Luke?” Mom asks again, her nails like claws. I knock her arms away in one swift motion and take another step back.

“It’s Max. It has to be Max,” she says. Life floods her gaze. Suddenly, her eyes don’t look empty and distant the way they have all these years, the way they greet me every time I walk in the room. They have fire in them now.

The burst of light, this flash of immeasurable hope, hurts me deep inside. I’ve been here all along. Was I not worth a little bit of this radiance?

My chest feels like a too-large cage for my shriveling heart.

Pain.

“Marcela, it’s Max, isn’t it?”

Yes, your son.

My ears ring and I take another step back.

My brother.

“Where are you going? Wait!” Mom’s loud command makes me realize I’m running, headed for the door. I burst outside into an afternoon that has started to blend with the night colors.

Gray. Dark. Blue.

The wind blows in my face. The motorbike hums as I speed away from home. How did I get here?

Stop. Get off the bike.

I make it as far as the wooded area where Xave and I crashed last night. Almost out of control, I drive off the shoulder, between two bushes and into a small clearing. The bike wobbles. I kill the engine and jump off, letting it drop to the ground. Tottering forward for a few steps, my legs give out and I fall to my knees.

My chest pumps furiously. Shadows lurk and it takes all my strength not to succumb to their attack. My brother is alive. I stare at my hands. They’re shaking with the effort of keeping this upheaval from triggering another attack.

Luke is my brother and the knowledge threatens to unravel me, like a wool sweater without the final stitch.

He’s been here all along, slipping in and out of our notice, grazing the fringe of our somber existence but never quite touching it. Why? It makes no sense. I always imagined him dead or miles and miles away. Instead that man, that sadist, was raising him right under our noses, taunting us. The sick bastard! To get away with such a monstrous crime. How?!

I slam my fists against the ground, trying to channel the tsunami of emotions that is washing over me. I feel cheated, fooled … replaced. Just like that.

Anger against Mom takes center stage in my private storm. I can only imagine what’s going through her mind now, how new, exhilarated thoughts are quickly erasing any trace of me. Clenching my jaw, I let my anger bulldoze the pain that threatens to grip me by the throat. My teeth audibly grind and I feel as if my skull will split in two.

Darkness descends over me, obscuring the world.

Get up! Do something!

I spring to my feet, my eyes darting in all directions.

Rocks. Ants. Wild flowers.

My thoughts shift, hop, morph. They become everything and anything that makes me forget why I’m trying to hide. I take a deep breath. The shadows retreat, like fog being sucked into a giant vacuum cleaner. My jaw relaxes and control slowly returns.

I straddle my bike and ride out of the patch of wood. I drive slowly, reading the street signs and spelling their names. All thoughts of Mom and Luke fade into the background. I’m good at ignoring monsters that I’d rather slip under the rug. As their images grow fainter, Mom seems to become nothing but a vague specter. She feels more absent than ever. Lost.

My heart seizes. I was never meant to have a family anyway.




Chapter 8 (#ulink_bffe2018-e0b9-5628-9c01-27d811f894e4)


After driving aimlessly, spelling street signs until I feel I might have a stroke, I stop the bike and look around. Dr. Smith’s face flashes in front of my eyes, fleshy lips mumbling something. His resemblance to the man I’d imagined after so many of Mom’s stories is uncanny. My stomach churns as the emotions I’ve been trying to hold back threaten to rise.

I need to focus my attention on something else. Anything else.

The State of the Union Address!

Straddling my bike, one foot on the blacktop, I take my phone out and browse until I find President Helms’s video. As I start watching, groaning at the thought of sitting through a full hour of babbling, I remember the numbers at the bottom of the message. My brain was too foggy with sleep to understand before, but they must indicate minutes and seconds. Impatient, I fast-forward to minute nine and let it play.

Helms is talking about the economy. His words offer zero explanation as to why I’m supposed to be watching this. The president pauses, takes a big breath and widens his eyes, then transitions to a new topic. I skip to minute twenty-five and listen closely. Helms is now addressing foreign policy issues. He might as well be speaking Chinese. I’ve never cared for politics. Once more he switches topics, pausing, breathing deeply. His eyes do a weird little roll, as if he’s tracing a circle with his gaze. It strikes me as odd, but I can’t put a finger on why.

On minute forty-three, it’s the same thing. Another boring subject, the delay from one idea to the other, the shift of his eyes, the deep breaths.

Then it hits me, like light bursting in front of my eyes. I know why he’s not blinking, why he takes deep breaths and looks as if the load on his shoulders goes beyond the responsibility of being the president of the United States of America. I know the weight of this burden. I carry it with me every day.

President Helms also fights the shadows.

Pushing, shoving, ramming any thoughts of Luke to the back of my mind, hoping the shadows eat them for good, I rush into Millennium Arcade. I need to find Xave so he can take me to this James guy.

“Cameron, have you seen Xave?” The noise and lights in the arcade disorient me further. I rode like a lunatic to get here, my mind a fluid continuum of disjointed ideas.

He ignores me as he slides the cue over his thumb. After making the shot, he pushes his layered bangs to the side. “Nope, he hasn’t been here today.”

I turn on my heels and head out.

“You’re welcome,” Cameron shouts behind me. I ignore him.

Dialing Xave’s cell phone, I step outside, where the sky is now a deep shade of navy blue with heavy clouds starting to roll in. After several rings, the call goes to voicemail. Obviously, he’s ignoring me. At home, Selina, Xave’s twelve-year-old sister, says he just went out.

Where is he when I need him? I have to tell him about Luke. He’s the only one who can understand how I feel right now.

Damn, don’t think about Luke! James, concentrate on James.

Deep breath.

Logic returns. Maybe Xave is with James and that’s why he’s not answering his phone. One other place comes to mind where I can look for him. I turn the key in the ignition, put on my helmet and drive toward downtown. I’m not sure going back to that alley is a good idea. My head is too jumbled right now to know which way is up, but I drive there—at war with the shadows. After a million thoughts about trees, siblings, candy bars, jealousy, hamsters, loss … I arrive.

The dark alley lies before me. Shadows loom inside as a light drizzle begins to fall. I shiver. The solitary street lamp barely illuminates the entrance, the huge mouth that may grow teeth to chew me up once I step in. I shake my head, take a deep breath and walk tentatively into the darkness. My eyes readjust, the shadows against the walls become less threatening as I identify the objects that cast them. I pass a Dumpster and a few barrels. A large stack of compacted cardboard boxes lie to my right. Maybe there’s a recycling center in the building.

The thought of a legitimate business operating in this place is reassuring, even if gangsters sometimes use garbage-related schemes to hide their illegal operations. Or is that only in the movies?

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 (#ulink_cbad814a-ea55-5306-a05d-759a0f0852a2)


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 SylicaRush.” 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.”

Wait a minute, what is this? I look at James and shake my head, trying to show him this is not why I came here for. I followed him thinking he’d have answers to my questions, but it seems he’s just trying to drag me into whatever activities they’re up to—which no doubt are criminal as all get-out.

“A hand doing what?” I demand.

“All in due time, Marci.”

My expression tightens. “Listen, I’m flattered that you’re impressed, but I don’t get the feeling I’m going to like what you guys are up to.”

Medusa chuckles, “derisive” written all over her black painted lips. “That’s an understatement.”

I stand, making the chair screech across the floor.

“Settle down, Marci. This is not the sort of thing you’re imagining.” James points at the chair with an extended hand.

“Just tell me.” I will count till ten. If I don’t get a straight answer, I’m out of here. I’m not going to get involved in anything that will land me in jail.

One.

“Good luck with that,” Xave huffs, sarcasm wrapped around all four words. They haven’t told him anything either. Cult tactics vary, and I wonder if the lure of something enigmatic and dangerous is what they use to entrap thrill-seeking idiots like Xave and me.

Four.

Blare exhales with frustration. “This isn’t child’s play. And the sooner you two get that into your heads, the better. Besides, it’s not the sort of thing that can be told. You have to see it to be able to believe messed-up shit like this.”

“Oh c’mon, Blare,” Oso says. “You’re gonna spook them.”

Seven.

“Good! ’Cause this is spooky crap.” Blare’s eyes swivel my way. A pierced eyebrow goes up and her lips tighten for a second before she says, “Crap that’ll make you run crying to Mama. Make sure you understand that before you go joining.”

Ten.

I’m outta here. The only scary thing here is Medusa’s hair-do.

“Ooh, I’m shaking in my boots.” I snigger. “I don’t know about you, Xave, but I need more than just empty talk and secret meetings,” I draw quotes in the air, “to buy into bogus crap.”

That said, I head for the door and invite Xave to follow me with a quick nod toward the door. I’m still mad at him, but I can’t leave him at the mercy of this bunch. I can’t believe Clark has dragged his little brother into this.

Oso lets out a hearty chuckle. “The girl has spunk. I’ll give her that.”

Xave’s attention shifts from side to side, apparently considering the option of leaving with me. If he’s still the smart boy I know, and testosterone and jealousy haven’t skewered his brain, he’ll come with me. I doubt Clark even knows what’s really going on here. “Marci.” James stands and takes a deep, deliberate breath, a clear reminder of our earlier conversation in the alley. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”

He knows he has answers I’d kill to have and he’s using them as bargaining chips. The question is: are the shadows somehow linked to what they’re doing here? Or are they just bait to suck me into their cult? I’m afraid accepting a deal with James might be too high a price to pay for learning what I need to know. Anger seethes behind my breastbone. This isn’t fair. I was so stupid to think I could get something for nothing.

I hesitate and look at Xave. His brow furrows, as his eyes dance from James to me and back again. Everyone watches with interest, even aloof Aydan, who I’m sure understands why James’s offer is so tempting to me.

Decisively, I exit the room without an answer or backward glance. I didn’t say no. That should let James know I’ll at least consider it. No harm in that, I suppose.

Outside, I crank the bike and slide on my helmet.

“Marci, wait!”

Xave runs up to me. I lift the visor to look at him, but he avoids eye contact and looks toward the road instead.

“Um.” He bites his lower lip, blinks in slow motion as if his long lashes weigh a ton. Finally, he meets my gaze. His Adam’s apple goes up and down. “I …” His pause stretches for a full minute.

I sigh and roll my eyes at his fantastic eloquence. “Want a ride home?”

“Y-yeah, that’d be great.”

“Hop on.”

Xave gets behind me, wraps large hands around my hips then leans forward until I can feel the length of his torso against my back. My throat locks, keeping my breath captive. My eyes close and I find myself leaning back, pressing closer to him. My body’s reaction shocks me.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers in my ear, then he pulls away slowly. Cold air slides up my back, making the distance between us feel as wrong as a sixteen-year-old in a bikers’ bar. His warm breath quickly turns frigid at my earlobe. I shiver and snap the visor shut. My fingers feel numb. It’s too cold to be out tonight.




Chapter 10 (#ulink_79ea6dae-0b8a-5984-9baa-4de72da1dc7c)


Meeting James and the rest of his crew was nothing but a poor distraction. As soon as we drove away from the bar, the brunt of my pent-up emotions hit me like a hook punch. I got us home, fighting the urge to drive in the opposite direction and never look back.

Now, we sit on Xave’s front steps. I don’t want to go home and face whatever is waiting there. A suddenly joyful mother? A brand-spanking-new brother? A second fiddle? I hate feeling this way, but I can’t help it. I was there for her all along, why wasn’t I ever as important as the absent son she never really knew?

Crickets chirp and the moon hangs huge and watchful, unobstructed by clouds, even when light drizzle falls from a gray sky. I stare at a water stream making its way toward a drain at the far end of the street.

“What do you think about those fools?” Xave asks.

“Mmm?” My eyes are transfixed by the glittering moonlight as it skims the surface of the little stream.

“What’s wrong? You want me to apologize again?” he says a bit grudgingly. “I know I was an ass, and I—”

I tear my eyes from the drainage and the water traveling to its doom. “Luke’s dad was murdered.” Xave is a grade ahead of us, but everyone in school knows blond, popular, perfect Luke.

“What?!”

I let it sink in.

“You mean Luke Smith?”

I nod.

“Really? Wow, that sucks. Why? What happened?”

I bite on my thumbnail and taste bitterness.

“I gotta go.” I stand and take a few steps.

“Why? It’s still early. We could … hang out.”

I look over my shoulder. “I should go see Mom.”

“C’mon. She’s probably asleep already.”

“Not tonight.”

Xave stands and puts a hand on my shoulder. I look at his fingers.

Tears. Are prisoners. In my eyes.

Breathe and go home.

He pulls gently, makes me face him. He knows me so well, reads my face and finds there’s something I’m trying to drown. There’s no one else in the world who can do that.

“Luke’s my brother,” I blurt out.

Xave’s hand falls off my shoulder. A million expressions decorate his face, surprise, wonder, understanding, shock.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” A whisper full of regret, anger, uncertainty. “All this time he was right there, and I … I think I knew, somehow.”

Xave shakes his head. “There’s no way you could’ve …” His words run out, like sand through a tightening fist. There’s nothing to say. Nothing to ever make up for the lost time.

I feel numb and slow like the passing of millennia. I blink and when I open my eyes, I’m in Xave’s embrace. His arms passed me by, drew me in, and I let it happen. Now his chest warms my cheek.

I pull away. No words cross between us, only the brush of his lips on my forehead. I dare hope we can go back to normal. I have a feeling my life’s about to redefine the meaning of rough, so I could really use Xave’s support right now.

Without him, I don’t know if I can make it.

“Marcela!” Mom crosses the living room with clipped steps and stops at arm’s length. “Where were you? How could you leave at a time like this?”

She takes my hand. Her touch is feverish, intense. I stare at her alabaster fingers pressed against my olive skin, my dad’s skin. I wonder if she hates me because I remind her of him, of what she can’t have. Or maybe expecting her to compare me to Dad is too much to expect. I’ve never been enough like him to make her happy. Never been at all like her to make her proud.

I always wondered what my brother would look like—if he would be like Dad, like me. I never thought we could be so different. In every imaginable way.

“Sorry,” I say, pulling my hand away. “I …”

Lie.

Relax.

“I was … I needed to think.”

She exhales and beams in a way I haven’t seen her beam in years. She lights up the room and I’m eclipsed, obscured by new reasons.

“I contacted the police. It was him, Marci. It was him. That awful man is dead. And Max … your friend has to be Max. They’ll begin an investigation.” Her voice cracks with joy, her cheeks glitter with tears made of hope.

Me? I feel myself go pale. I’m a ghost.

“Tell me about him.” Mom grabs me by the elbows, pushes me into the living room and stuffs me in the sofa. It’s kindergarten all over again, where eager kids pestered me until I share all my secrets.

“No,” I say.

Her lips make a small circle, her eyebrows a crease above her nose. “No? You know him, right?”

“I … don’t think so.”

“You’ve had classes together, I would guess. Is he … tall? Smart? Kind?”

My eyes find a speck on the far wall. “He looks like you,” I say and after a pause, “can I go? I didn’t sleep good last night. I’d like to rest.”

Mom stands, frustration painting her face red.

“I don’t understand you. Aren’t you glad we’ve found him?”

“I am, Mom.” I nod, my voice monotone. “It’s good to see you happy. I think you’ll like him.”

Mom, I don’t have to be strong for you now, don’t have to pretend I’m okay. You got your heart’s desire. And maybe when you’ve traveled that road you’ve craved, your regrets will be for me.

Closed casket.

I look away from it, fidget and ignore Mom’s restless energy. Her eyes are glued on the blond boy in the black suit. The boy who sits very still staring at the carpet, blue eyes void of the cocky liveliness I’m used to seeing in them.

Mom is dying to talk to him, to spill years of longing onto his lap. But she sits there, smiling and frowning all in the same second, containing her desire to tell it all.

A few brave classmates approach Luke and offer their condolences. He barely acknowledges them. I wonder what I should do; what he will think of my silence once he learns the truth?

Deep breath.

I decide to be brave like the others. I’m about to walk his way, when Luke stands, stuffs his hands into his pockets and walks away. Mom watches his every move.

“Where are you going?” she asks when I stand.

“Restroom,” I lie. “Be right back.”

As I pretend to go toward the bathroom, my gaze follows Luke. He goes through a set of French doors that lead outside. Unnoticed by Mom, I sneak into a corridor. The funeral home is an intricate maze of dreary halls, parlors and visiting rooms. I find another door that leads outside and step into the quiet evening.

Luke is reclining against a tree, chin on his chest, shadows splitting his face in odd angles. The sharpness of his features, the gloom around him make me shiver.

Be brave.

I don’t want to catch him by surprise, so I walk with meaningful steps. He looks up, an annoyed expression on his face, which disappears when he realizes it’s me.

Why?

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says back.

“I—I hope I’m not bothering you.”

Luke shakes his head and shows me a tiny smile.

“Um …”

Meaningful words.

Don’t exist.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Luke tells me in a quiet whisper.

“I’m sorry,” is all I can think to say.

Your father was a thief, but I’m sorry you have to go through this. I’m sorry you’ll have to go through so much more.

Luke blinks several times, then looks up at the branches above. A tear spills over, and he slaps it away, quick and proud.

Something beyond my control takes my hand to his arm. He startles a bit, looks at my fingers, then into my eyes. I hold his gaze, sense the iron bars that cage his pain. Too much to bear by himself when he doesn’t have to.

More tears streak his cheeks and when he looks away, my arms find their way into a tight embrace I didn’t know I had in me to give. In the first instant, his limbs become stone, but they melt quickly, like pieces of ice next to kindling flame. He rests his cheek on my head, but leaves limp arms hanging at his sides.

It’s not his fault Mom preferred the idea of him to the reality of me. It won’t be his fault if he hates me when he finds out the truth. The truth that will make his life up to this point a lie.




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