Shade 01 - Shade Read online

  Shade 01 - Shade

  Jeri Smith-Ready

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my lo­ving fa­mily, who ha­ve al­ways let me be myself and ma­ke my own mis­ta­kes. Not that they had much cho­ice.

  To my “first re­aders”: La­uren Bec­ker, Pat­ri­ce Mic­hel­le, Jana Oli­ver, Ce­ci­lia Re­ady, Tri­cia Schwa­ab, Jim­my Smith, Rob Sta­eger, Mar­cia Tan­ni­an, and Eli­za­beth We­in. Es­pe­ci­al­ly Jana and Pat­ri­ce, who bra­ved that he­ino­us first draft and we­eks of in­sa­ne bab­bling-I me­an, bra­ins­tor­ming.

  To my de­arest aut­hor fri­ends: Ad­ri­an Pho­enix, who held my vir­tu­al hand thro­ugh that na­il-bi­ting day; Step­ha­nie Ku­eh­nert, who ins­pi­res me to dig de­ep even if it hurts; Ann Agu­ir­re, who ins­pi­res me to shut up and wri­te; and Vic­to­ria Dahl, who just pla­in cracks me up. Spe­ci­al thanks to P. C. Cast, for every XO­XO, OMG, and exc­la­ma­ti­on po­int-in e-ma­ils and in per­son.

  To the ama­zing folks at Si­mon Pul­se-Bet­hany Buck, Ma­ra Anas­tas, Lu­cil­le Ret­ti­no, Pa­ul Crich­ton, Bess Bras­well, An­na McKe­an, Ca­ra Pet­rus, Kat­he­ri­ne De­ven­dorf, Jen­ni­fer Klonsky, Va­le­rie Shea-for tur­ning the dre­am of Sha­de in­to a re­ality. I’m still pinc­hing myself. Ow.

  To my in­desc­ri­bably awe­so­me agent, Gin­ger Clark, for her fa­ith that I co­uld do this, and for fin­ding Sha­de a per­fect ho­me. Her hu­mor and ent­hu­si­asm ke­ep my cra­zi­es at bay. To my phe­no­me­nal edi­tor, An­net­te Pol­lert, who che­ered me on at every step and ma­de me jus­tify every word. I’m a bet­ter wri­ter be­ca­use of her.

  Thanks most of all to my hus­band, Chris­ti­an, for his lo­ve and pa­ti­en­ce and for gi­ving me fo­re­ver.

  The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague.

  Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

  -Edgar Allan Poe, “The Premature Burial”

  Chapter One

  You can he­ar me, can’t you?”

  I punc­hed the gre­en print but­ton on the co­pi­er to drown out the di­sem­bo­di­ed vo­ice. So­me­ti­mes if I ig­no­red them long eno­ugh, they went away-con­fu­sed, dis­co­ura­ged, and lo­ne­li­er than ever. So­me­ti­mes.

  Okay, al­most ne­ver. Usu­al­ly they got lo­uder.

  No ti­me to de­al with it that day. Only one mo­re set of le­gal bri­efs to uns­tap­le, copy, and res­tap­le, and then I co­uld go ho­me, tra­de this stra­itj­ac­ket and stoc­kings for a T-shirt and je­ans, and ma­ke it to Lo­gan’s be­fo­re prac­ti­ce. To tell him I’m sorry, that I’ve chan­ged my mind, and this ti­me I me­an it. Re­al­ly.

  “I know you can he­ar me.” The old wo­man’s vo­ice strengt­he­ned as it ca­me clo­ser. “You’re one of them.”

  I didn’t flinch as I grab­bed the top bri­ef from the stack on the con­fe­ren­ce ro­om tab­le. I co­uldn’t see her un­der the of­fi­ce’s bright flu­ores­cent lights, which ma­de it abo­ut one per­cent easi­er to pre­tend she wasn’t the­re.

  So­me­day, if I had my way, no­ne of them wo­uld be the­re.

  “What an in­to­le­rably ru­de child,” she sa­id.

  I yan­ked the stap­le out of the last bri­ef and let it zing off in an unk­nown di­rec­ti­on, trying to hurry wit­ho­ut lo­oking li­ke I was hur­rying. If the ghost knew I was get­ting re­ady to le­ave, she’d spit out her story, no in­vi­ta­ti­on. I ca­re­ful­ly la­id the pa­ges in the she­et fe­eder and hit print aga­in.

  “You can’t be mo­re than six­te­en.” The lady’s vo­ice was clo­se, al­most at my el­bow. “So you we­re born he­aring us.”

  I didn’t ne­ed her to re­mind me how ghosts’ ramb­lings had drow­ned out my mot­her’s New Agey lul­la­bi­es. (Accor­ding to Aunt Gi­na, Mom tho­ught the old-fas­hi­oned ones we­re too dis­tur­bing-“down will co­me baby, crad­le and all.” But when de­ad pe­op­le are bitc­hing and mo­aning aro­und yo­ur crib at all ho­urs, the tho­ught of fal­ling out of a tree is so not a so­ur­ce of angst.)

  Worst part was, tho­se lul­la­bi­es we­re all I re­mem­be­red of her.

  “Co­me on,” I nag­ged the co­pi­er un­der my bre­ath, re­sis­ting the ur­ge to kick it.

  The pi­ece of crap pic­ked that mo­ment to jam.

  “Shit.” I clenc­hed my fist, dri­ving the stap­le re­mo­ver to­oth in­to the pad of my thumb. “Ow! Damn it.” I suc­ked the pin­po­int of blo­od.

  “Lan­gu­age.” The ghost snif­fed. “When I was yo­ur age, yo­ung la­di­es wo­uldn’t ha­ve he­ard such words, much less mur­de­red the mot­her ton­gue with…” Blah blah… kids the­se days… blah blah… pa­rents’ fa­ult… blah.

  I jer­ked open the front of the co­pi­er and se­arc­hed for the stuck pa­per, hum­ming a Ke­eley Brot­hers song to co­ver the ghost’s yak­king.

  “They cut me,” she sa­id qu­i­etly.

  I stop­ped hum­ming, then blew out a sigh that flut­te­red my dark bangs. So­me­ti­mes the­re’s no ig­no­ring the­se pe­op­le.

  I sto­od, slam­ming the co­pi­er do­or. “One con­di­ti­on. I get to see you.”

  “Abso­lu­tely not,” she huf­fed.

  “Wrong ans­wer.” I ro­un­ded the tab­le and he­aded for the switc­hes by the con­fe­ren­ce ro­om do­or.

  “Ple­ase, you don’t want to do that. The way they left me-”

  I flip­ped off the light and tur­ned on the Black­Box.

  “No!” The ghost stre­aked to­ward me in a bla­ze of vi­olet. She stop­ped two inc­hes from my fa­ce and let out a shri­ek that scra­ped aga­inst all the lit­tle bo­nes in my ears.

  Crin­ging? Not an op­ti­on. I cros­sed my arms, then calmly and slowly ex­ten­ded my mid­dle fin­ger.

  “This is yo­ur last war­ning.” Her vo­ice crack­led aro­und the ed­ges as she tri­ed to frigh­ten me. “Turn on the light.”

  “You wan­ted to talk. I don’t talk to ghosts I can’t see.” I to­uc­hed the Black­Box switch. “Sucks to be trap­ped, huh? That’s how I fe­el, lis­te­ning to you pe­op­le all day.”

  “How da­re you?” The wo­man slap­ped my fa­ce, her fin­gers cur­led in­to claws. Her hand pas­sed thro­ugh my he­ad wit­ho­ut so much as a bre­eze. “After all I’ve be­en thro­ugh. Lo­ok at me.”

  I tri­ed to check her out, but she was tremb­ling so hard with an­ger, her vi­olet li­nes kept shif­ting in­to one anot­her. It was li­ke trying to watch TV wit­ho­ut my con­tacts.

  “Tho­se sho­es are be­yond last ye­ar,” I sa­id, “but ot­her than that, you lo­ok fi­ne.”

  The ghost glan­ced down at her­self and fro­ze in as­to­nish­ment. Her pa­le ha­ir-gray in li­fe, I as­su­med-was ti­ed in a bun, and she wo­re what lo­oked li­ke a ruf­fle-la­pel­led su­it and low-he­eled pumps. Yo­ur ba­sic co­untry-club qu­e­en. Pro­bably fo­und her own de­ath po­si­ti­vely scan­da­lo­us.

  “I ha­ven’t se­en myself in the dark.” She spo­ke with awe. “I as­su­med I wo­uld be…” Her hand pas­sed over her sto­mach.

  “What, fat?”

  “Di­sem­bo­we­led.”

  I felt my eyes sof­ten. “You we­re mur­de­red?” With old pe­op­le it was usu­al­ly a he­art at­tack or stro­ke. But it exp­la­ined her ra­ge.

  She scow­led at me. “Well, it cer­ta­inly wasn’t su­ici­de.”

  “I know.” My vo­ice tur­ned gent­le as I re­mem­be­red to be pa­ti­ent. So­me­ti­mes the­se po­or so­uls didn’t know what to ex­pect, des­pi­te all the pub­lic awa­re­ness cam­pa­igns sin­ce the Shift. The le­ast I co­uld do was cla­rify. “If you’d kil­l
ed yo­ur­self, you wo­uldn’t be a ghost, be­ca­use you wo­uld’ve be­en pre­pa­red to die. And you’re not all car­ved up be­ca­use you get fro­zen in the hap­pi­est mo­ment of yo­ur li­fe.”

  She exa­mi­ned her clot­hes with so­met­hing clo­se to a smi­le, may­be re­mem­be­ring the day she wo­re them, then lo­oked up at me with a sud­den fe­ro­city. “But why?”

  I ditc­hed the pa­ti­en­ce. “How the hell sho­uld I know?” I flap­ped my arms. “I don’t know why we see you at all. No one knows, okay?”

  “Lis­ten to me, yo­ung lady.” She po­in­ted her vi­olet fin­ger in my fa­ce. “When I was yo­ur age-”

  “When you we­re my age, the Shift hadn’t hap­pe­ned yet. Everyt­hing’s dif­fe­rent now. You sho­uld be gra­te­ful so­me­one can he­ar you.”

  “I sho­uldn’t be-this way-at all.” She cle­arly co­uldn’t say the word “de­ad.” “I ne­ed so­me­one to ma­ke it right.”

  “So you want to sue.” One of my aunt Gi­na’s spe­ci­al­ti­es: wrong­ful de­ath li­ti­ga­ti­on. Gi­na be­li­eves in “pe­ace thro­ugh jus­ti­ce.” She thinks it helps pe­op­le mo­ve past ghost­ho­od to wha­te­ver’s be­yond. He­aven, I gu­ess, or at le­ast so­mep­la­ce bet­ter than Bal­ti­mo­re.

  We­ird thing is, it usu­al­ly works, tho­ugh no one knows exactly why. But un­for­tu­na­tely, Gi­na-my aunt, gu­ar­di­an, and god­mot­her-can’t he­ar or see ghosts. Ne­it­her can an­yo­ne el­se born be­fo­re the Shift, which hap­pe­ned six­te­en and three-qu­ar­ters ye­ars ago. So when Gi­na’s firm gets one of the­se ca­ses, gu­ess who gets to trans­la­te? All for a fi­le clerk’s payc­heck.

  “My na­me is Ha­zel Ca­ven­dish,” the lady sa­id. “I was one of this firm’s most lo­yal cli­ents.”

  Ah, that exp­la­ined how she got he­re. Ghosts can only ap­pe­ar in the pla­ces they went du­ring the­ir li­ves. No one knows why that is, eit­her, but it ma­kes things a lot easi­er on pe­op­le li­ke me.

  She con­ti­nu­ed wit­ho­ut promp­ting. “I was sla­ugh­te­red this mor­ning out­si­de my ho­me in-”

  “Can you co­me back Mon­day?” I chec­ked my watch in ex-Ha­zel’s vi­olet glow. “I ha­ve to be so­mew­he­re.”

  “But it’s only Thurs­day. I ne­ed to spe­ak to so­me­one now.” Her fin­gers flit­ted over the string of pe­arls aro­und her neck. “Aura, ple­ase.”

  I step­ped back. “How do you know my na­me?”

  “Yo­ur aunt tal­ked abo­ut you all the ti­me, sho­wed me yo­ur pic­tu­re. Yo­ur na­me is hard to for­get.” She mo­ved to­ward me, her fo­ots­teps si­lent. “So be­a­uti­ful.”

  My he­ad star­ted to swim. Uh-oh.

  Ver­ti­go in a post-Shif­ter li­ke me usu­al­ly me­ans a ghost is tur­ning sha­de. They go down that one-way path when they let bit­ter­ness warp the­ir so­uls. It has its ad­van­ta­ges-sha­des are dark, po­wer­ful spi­rits who can hi­de in the sha­dows and go anyw­he­re they want.

  Anywhe­re, that is, but out of this world. Un­li­ke ghosts, sha­des can’t pass on or find pe­ace, as far as we know. And sin­ce they can sing­le-han­dedly de­bi­li­ta­te any ne­arby post-Shif­ters, “de­ta­in­ment” is the only op­ti­on.

  “I re­al­ly ha­ve to go,” I whis­pe­red, li­ke I’d hurt ex-Ha­zel less if I lo­we­red the vo­lu­me. “A few days won’t mat­ter.”

  “Ti­me al­ways mat­ters.”

  “Not for you.” I kept my vo­ice firm but kind. “Not any­mo­re.”

  She mo­ved so clo­se, I co­uld see every wrink­le on her vi­olet fa­ce.

  “Yo­ur eyes are old,” she his­sed. “You think you’ve se­en everyt­hing, but you don’t know what it’s li­ke.” She to­uc­hed my he­art with a hand I co­uldn’t fe­el. “One day you’ll lo­se so­met­hing im­por­tant, and then you’ll know.”

  I ran for the car, my work sho­es clun­king aga­inst the si­de­walk and rub­bing blis­ters on my ank­les. No ti­me to stop ho­me to chan­ge be­fo­re go­ing to Lo­gan’s. Sho­uld’ve bro­ught my clot­hes with me, but how co­uld I ha­ve known the­re’d be a new ca­se?

  I’d wus­sed out, of co­ur­se, and let the old wo­man tell my aunt her nasty de­ath story. The ghost was angry eno­ugh that I wor­ri­ed abo­ut what she’d do wit­ho­ut im­me­di­ate at­ten­ti­on. “Sha­ding” was still pretty ra­re, es­pe­ci­al­ly for a new ghost li­ke ex-Ha­zel, but it wasn’t worth the risk.

  The le­afy tre­es li­ning the stre­et ma­de it dark eno­ugh to see ghosts even an ho­ur be­fo­re sun­set. Half a do­zen we­re lo­ite­ring out­si­de the day ca­re cen­ter in the man­si­on ac­ross the stre­et. Li­ke most of the bu­il­dings in the Ro­land Park area, Lit­tle Cre­atu­res Kid­die Ca­re was comp­le­tely Black­Bo­xed-its walls li­ned with the sa­me thin la­yer of char­ged ob­si­di­an that kept ghosts out of sen­si­ti­ve are­as. Bath­ro­oms, mi­li­tary ba­se bu­il­dings, that sort of thing. I wish Gi­na and I co­uld af­ford to li­ve the­re-Ro­land Park, I me­an, not a mi­li­tary ba­se.

  I stop­ped for a gi­ant Co­ke Slur­pee and guz­zled it on my way to­ward I-83, win­cing at the bra­in fre­eze. I usu­al­ly pre­fer to use the spo­on end of the straw, but af­ter ex-Ha­zel’s in­ta­ke ses­si­on, I des­pe­ra­tely ne­eded the mas­si­ve caf­fe­ine-su­gar in­fu­si­on that only pu­re, bot­tom-of-the-cup Slur­pee syrup co­uld pro­vi­de.

  The long sha­dows of tre­es cut ac­ross the ro­ad, and I kept my eyes for­ward so I wo­uldn’t see the ghosts on the si­de­walks.

  Lot of go­od it did. At the last stop­light be­fo­re the exp­res­sway, a lit­tle vi­olet kid wa­ved from the back­se­at of the car in front of me. His lips we­re mo­ving, for­ming words I co­uldn’t de­cip­her. An ol­der girl next to him clap­ped her hands over her ears, her blond pig­ta­ils wag­ging back and forth as she sho­ok her he­ad. The pa­rents in the front se­ats kept tal­king, ob­li­vi­o­us or may­be just unab­le to de­al. They sho­uld tra­de in that car, I tho­ught, whi­le that po­or girl still has her sa­nity.

  The on-ramp slo­ped up­hill in­to the suns­hi­ne, and I let out a gro­an of re­li­ef, gna­wing the end of my straw.

  After al­most se­ven­te­en ye­ars of he­aring abo­ut grisly mur­ders and gru­eso­me ac­ci­dents, you’d think I’d be to­ugh, jaded. You’d think that ghosts’ ten­dency to over-sha­re wo­uld even­tu­al­ly an­noy ins­te­ad of sad­den me.

  And you’d be right. Mostly. By the ti­me I was fi­ve, I’d stop­ped crying. I’d stop­ped ha­ving night­ma­res. I’d stop­ped sle­eping with the lights on so I wo­uldn’t see the­ir fa­ces. And I’d stop­ped tal­king abo­ut it, be­ca­use by that po­int the world be­li­eved us. Fi­ve hund­red mil­li­on tod­dlers can’t be wrong.

  But I ne­ver for­got. The­ir sto­ri­es are shel­ved in my mind, ne­at as a fi­ling system. Pro­bably be­ca­use I’ve re­ci­ted many of them on the wit­ness stand.

  Co­urts don’t just ta­ke my word for it, or any one per­son’s. Tes­ti­mony only co­unts if two of us post-Shif­ters ag­ree on a ghost’s sta­te­ment. Sin­ce ghosts ap­pa­rently can’t lie, they ma­ke gre­at wit­nes­ses. Last ye­ar, me and this ter­ri­fi­ed fresh­man trans­la­ted for the vic­tims of a psycho se­ri­al kil­ler. (Re­mem­ber Tom­cat? The one who li­ked to “play with his fo­od”?)

  Wel­co­me to my li­fe. It gets bet­ter.

  I pul­led in­to Lo­gan’s dri­ve­way at 6:40. I lo­ved go­ing to the Ke­eleys’ ho­use-it sat in a Hunt Val­ley de­ve­lop­ment that had be­en farm­land only a few ye­ars be­fo­re. Ne­wer ne­igh­bor­ho­ods had way fe­wer ghosts, and I’d ne­ver se­en one at the Ke­eleys’. At the ti­me, any­way.

  I chec­ked my ha­ir in the re­ar­vi­ew mir­ror. Ho­pe­les­sly well-gro­omed. I pa­wed thro­ugh my bag to find a few funky lit­tle sil­ver skull-and-cros­sbo­nes bar­ret­tes, then pin­ned them i
n­to my stra­ight dark brown ha­ir to ma­ke it stick out in ran­dom pla­ces.

  “Ye­ah, you lo­ok to­tal­ly punk in yo­ur be­ige su­it and sen­sib­le flats.” I ma­de a fa­ce at myself in the mir­ror, then le­aned clo­ser.

  We­re my eyes re­al­ly that old, li­ke ex-Ha­zel sa­id? May­be it was the dark circ­les un­der­ne­ath. I lic­ked my fin­ger and wi­ped un­der my brown eyes to see if the mas­ca­ra had sme­ared.

  No­pe. The gray sha­dows on my skin ca­me from too lit­tle sle­ep and too much wor­rying. Too much re­he­ar­sing what I wo­uld say to Lo­gan.

  As I wal­ked up the brick front path, I he­ard mu­sic blas­ting thro­ugh the open ba­se­ment win­dow.

  La­te. I wan­ted to hurl my bag ac­ross the Ke­eleys’ lawn in frust­ra­ti­on. On­ce Lo­gan got lost in his gu­itar, he for­got I exis­ted. And we re­al­ly ne­eded to talk.

  I went in the front do­or wit­ho­ut knoc­king, the way I had sin­ce we we­re six and the Ke­eleys li­ved aro­und the block in a row ho­me li­ke ours. I hur­ri­ed past the sta­irs, thro­ugh the kitc­hen, and in­to the fa­mily ro­om.

  “Hey, Aura,” cal­led Lo­gan’s fif­te­en-ye­ar-old brot­her Dylan from his usu­al po­si­ti­on, spraw­led ba­re­fo­ot and bow­leg­ged on the flo­or in front of the flat-scre­en TV. He glan­ced up from his vi­deo ga­me, then did a do­ub­le-ta­ke at the sight of my Slur­pee cup. “Bad one?”

  “Old lady, stab­bed in a mug­ging. Se­mi-Shady.”

  “Sucks.” He fo­cu­sed on his ga­me, nod­ding in ti­me to the me­tal so­undt­rack. “Pro­te­in drinks work bet­ter.”

  “You bo­un­ce back yo­ur way, I’ll bo­un­ce my way.”

  “Wha­te­ver.” His vo­ice ro­se sud­denly. “No­o­oo! Eat it! Eat it!” Dylan slam­med his back aga­inst the ot­to­man and jer­ked the joys­tick al­most hard eno­ugh to bre­ak it. As his ava­tar got torc­hed by a fla­meth­ro­wer, he shri­eked a stre­am of cur­ses that told me his pa­rents we­ren’t ho­me. Mr. and Mrs. Ke­eley had ap­pa­rently al­re­ady left for the­ir se­cond ho­ney­mo­on.