Ingrid Seymour - Ignite the Shadows

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.

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.