Ingrid Seymour - Ignite the Shadows

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 Sylica Rush .” 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.