Anne Ursu - The Shadow Thieves

"Whatever, Mum," he said. It wasn't like he had anything else to do. It wasn't as if he could do anything to help all his sick friends. He might as well chatter away with a shrink while the Piper flu took all of England.

So he humored his parents. He sat in Dr. Vandimere's office for an hour. They talked of life in general- the upcoming school year, his activities, his plans for the future, even football, though Zee got the distinct impression Dr. Vandimere didn't know his flick header from his foot trap. Every once in a while the doctor would try to work in a more direct question, and Zee would parry as politely as he could.

"You haven't been sleeping well?"

"Bit rough."

"Tell me about your dreams."

"My dreams?"

"Yes. Is there anything you dream about that you remember in particular?"

"Doors." The word just popped out of Zee's mouth. He'd had no idea it was in there. But once it was out, he realized it was true. He dreamed of doors. At night his brain filled with them. Long, narrow corridors; hidden hallways; small, dark staircases-and at the end of them, doors. Simple, nondescript doors, the kind you could pass by a thousand times and never notice. But in Zee's dreams he wanted desperately to open them, to see what was on the other side. He could feel it, there in the psychiatrist's office, the urge to reach his hand out, wrap it around the knob, and turn…

"Doors?" Dr. Vandimere repeated eagerly. He leaned in.

“Moors,” Zee said. "I'm frightened of the moors. Hound of the Baskervilles and all that." He widened his eyes. "I have nightmares!"

"Ah," said Dr. Vandimere. He made a note.

"I was sorry to hear about your grandmother," the doctor said.

"Yeah," Zee said.

"You were very close."

"Yeah."

"And then the Piper flu hit."

"Yeah."

"A lot of your friends got it."

“Yeah.”

"How did that make you feel?"

Zee blinked. "Uh… well…" He cut off. He was trying to be polite, but the doctor was getting awfully personal. Really, he was a perfect stranger.

The doctor shifted in his seat. "There've been a lot of cases of this flu."

"Yeah."

"And a lot of your friends are sick."

"Yeah."

"Both in Exeter and here."

"Yeah."

"The flu might even seem to be… following you."

Zee raised his eyebrows.

"You know, Zachary" the doctor smiled gently, "sometimes things happen we can't understand. Sometimes bad things happen to people we care about. And when something bad happens to our friends or family, but not to us, we feel guilty. We don't know why we should be exempt, and sometimes we even begin to feel that what's happening is our fault. But it's not our fault…"

Dr. Vandimere went on while Zee's ears burned. He was never ever, ever going to speak to either of his parents again. He had enough to deal with without being patronized. There was something going on, something strange and terrible, and the whole world thought he was crazy. He was just going to have to figure this out on his own.

It did not take long.

The day after his appointment with Dr. Vandimere, Zee walked to the tuck shop to get a sandwich and drink; he was on his own for dinner, as his parents were going to a meeting at Feldwop about the Piper flu that evening. Zee had wanted none of that. But he did want a sandwich, preferably a turkey one, and perhaps some crisps. All his brooding had finally caused him to work up an appetite.

So he walked the few blocks to the shop, and as he walked, he found himself extremely aware of each door he passed. There were so many of them; there were doors everywhere, countless, and they all seemed to be beckoning to him.

It was a little strange.

And there was something else, something even stranger. Zee suddenly found himself very aware of the back of his neck, like the skin itself had sentience. The feeling traveled down his spine, electrifying his back. His head tingled. His legs seemed aware and alive. And then suddenly he knew with absolute certainty what he was feeling:

Zee was being followed.

In the movies whenever people realize they are being followed, they act extremely cool. They continue walking calmly, confidently, while carefully planning their next move.

Zee did not act cool. Zee stopped right where he was and looked around wildly.

There was no one there, no one at all, just Zee alone on this sunny, door-lined street. Zee turned around and around and tried to find someone, anyone, but there was nothing.

He got his sandwich. He got his crisps. He even got a pickle. He walked back home slowly, still paranoid and prickly, swiveling his head this way and that.

He turned the corner and saw a young man on the other side of the street. It made Zee feel strangely good-he hadn't seen another young person in days, and Zee had to fight off the urge to run and talk to him. But the boy seemed preoccupied with something. He was stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, looking around curiously. Zee half nodded at him as he passed, then turned the next corner.

That's when he heard the scream.

Zee whirled around and ran back around the corner. And then he froze.

The boy was no longer alone. Two men, or something very like men, were with him. The man-like men were extremely tall, extremely thin, and extremely pale. They were wearing old-fashioned tuxedos, and their skin looked like dirty plaster. One of the man-like men was holding the boy, the other was reaching into the boy's chest, which was giving way like jelly. The boy was screaming. Zee stood, absolutely unable to move, while the second man-like man started pulling out something long and black and flimsy from the boy's chest. And then the boy stopped screaming and seemed to collapse on the spot. The second man-like man took the black thing and folded it up like fabric, while the first picked up a shiny black physician's bag and held it open with an accommodating nod. The second smiled graciously and carefully tucked the black thing away, while the first tapped the boy on the forehead three times. The second took the bag, latched it, and gave his partner a satisfied nod, and they both brushed off their hands. Then the first one noticed Zee. He nudged his friend and pointed, and the two ran off.

Zee still stood in his spot, staring at the crumpled heap of boy. The boy weakly lifted his head, stood up, and stumbled around, and still Zee stared. The sun seemed to illuminate the boy, and that's when Zee noticed.

The boy had no shadow

Zee exploded into a run. He ran and ran, he ran all the way home, and then he did not leave his house until his parents put him on a plane headed out of England.

PHILONECRON HAD PLACED A DISCREET ORDER WITH the Underworld's best tailor. It cost him an arm and a leg (though not his), and Charon required his usual "service fee" for smuggling messages and goods back and forth from Exile. But Philonecron was not afraid to pay for quality, and he would have only the best for his Footmen-for that's what he had decided to call his new servants. He believed excellence inspired further excellence, and his would not be some hastily stitched, poly-blend, puckery-seamed, one-size-fits-all coup; no, no-Philonecron's revolution would be pearl buttoned, satin trimmed, and completely pucker-free.

This particular tailor had a reputation for working quite swiftly, as you might if you had two dozen arms (and were ambidextrous to boot), and in just two days Philonecron found on his doorstep (or what would have been his doorstep if he hadn't been exiled and weren't living in a godsforsaken cave-but, you know, stiff upper lip and all that) twelve promising-looking packages wrapped up in the tailor's own freshly shedded skin.

At the sight of the packages Philonecron let out what can only be called a squeal-as if he were a young girl on Christmas morning rushing to the tree to find a golden-haired puppy while a hush of snow fell over the world. A squeal is not a sound one might associate with an evil genius, but evil geniuses are people too (or in this case, not really), and they experience involuntary vocalizations just like you or I.