Shield and the Shadow

By A.M. Yates

Curiouser and curiouser . . .

Hard times force sixteen-year-old Olli and her brother to move to sleepy Horizon Creek, and Olli’s biggest worry is that she, once again, won’t fit in.

And she doesn’t.

But when a mysterious shadow lurking in the woods draws out a strange power within her, she fears she’s losing her mind. Add to that tall, dark, and smoldering Brend, who can only speak in riddles, and she’s sure she's gone completely bonkers.

Yet day by day, Olli pieces together the truth. And what she finds changes everything she thought she knew--about the town, her family, even her own reflection.

So when the shadow emerges, taking one life and threatening to take more, all Olli needs to do to save the mad boy she loves is to step through the looking glass and become the girl she sees on the other side . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.M. Yates
• Release date: Nov 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310577895

A.M. Yates

a.m. yates collects pieces of souls. She meets with dead Russian writers in bamboo forests to discuss the color of the sunlight in the water. She seeks exceptions and similarities over generalities and differences. She feeds almost every stray the muse drops at her door and adopts out only the most demanding few. She suffers from two terrible addictions, both involving words. She has a life story, but it isn’t finished yet.

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Chapter 1

Don’t give up, Olli. Don’t. Give. Up.

Her annoying inner voice kept up the mantra, propelling her forward. Her legs burned and begged for mercy, plotting to give out before she reached the top of the hill.

Stupid voice, she panted. I don’t know why I listen to you.

For the last three weeks, she’d ridden her bike to her babysitting job. And every morning, she’d walked up the steepest hill. Her brother, Nate, always gave her crap about how weak and out-of-shape she was. Actually, he said, she did have a shape—a stick-shape. She should’ve been immune to his taunting, but instead she’d been riled. She’d made up her mind to bike this stupid hill and she was going to do it. But at the moment, she cursed her own stubborn determination.

She’d heard that Mississippi was hot, but this wasn’t hot—this was hot’s sweatier, uglier cousin. Overnight, summer had rolled into town. Haze smothered the skinny pines looming over the narrow blacktop road. A damp, slow-rot stench clung to the air and stuck in her lungs. And the sun wasn’t even up yet.

Worse, the insects seemed to love the heat. Her skin itched thinking about the multitude of bugs scurrying through the trees. Their noise was deafening: a virtual insect symphony, performing the soundtrack for the tale of a downtrodden young woman sent to live with her grandparents only to tragically drown in her own sweat while feebly attempting to stick it to her little brother. The tiny cricket violins rose to a pathetic crescendo . . . No, wait, that was a car engine.

She glanced over her shoulder, but the road was dark. She kept pedaling. So close to the top of the hill and yet . . . not.

This isn’t Horizon Creek—salty rivulets ran into her mouth—it’s one of the rings of hell. Next door to Sisyphus, she grunted with each rocking rotation of the pedals. Sisyphus’s sauna.

At the top of the hill—take that, Nate!—she put her foot down and looked back again.

A car swooped up the hill. Blue-white lights blinded her.

The car flew by, inches away. Displaced air crashed against her in a whirling wave. She gasped and flinched. The bike banged into her thigh, knocking her off balance. She reeled back, fighting to stay upright.

Then she tumbled, down and down and down.

Bumping through weeds, biting her tongue, bouncing over a rock—or two—smashing her elbow, scraping her knees, swearing and crying out in alternating bursts until . . . at last . . . she landed.

Sprawled amongst the weeds alongside the road, her entire body throbbed. Above her, dawn’s light crept into the sky, a feeble gray.

Groaning, she rolled onto her side and gazed up at the top of the hill.

She flopped onto her back again with a grimace and a huff. Being Sisyphus sucks.

Long silent parts of her body complained as she pushed upright. Then she noticed the car. A gleaming black four-door, more like a sports car than a sedan, slammed to a stop in the middle of the road.

The driver shoved his door open and rushed to her. He crouched on the road’s edge. His hands hovered at either side of her like she might fall over again. Mingled aromas of fresh coffee and leather wafted off of him.

Oh, guards. I—I—didn’t see you. What are you doing out here? he asked.

Her head spun, more from a boiling surge of anger than the fall. What kind of question was that? As if she wasn’t supposed to be . . . Where was she again? Oh, yeah. Horizon Creek, Mississippi.

She blinked furiously and did her best to focus her glare on him, but her vision bobbled like she was still tumbling. She pressed the heel of her hand into her temple and closed her eyes.

I didn’t expect anyone to be out here, he said, straddling apologetic and defensive, which she found annoying.

As far as she was concerned his first words should have been I’m sorry. A few adjectives would have helped too, like desperately, deeply, very, very. Instead, he repeated his first question, What are you doing out here?

She took a deep breath, rubbing her grit-crusted forehead, checking for blood, or worse, bugs. Trying out for the part of a hit-and-run victim. How am I doing?

His tone darkened. I didn’t hit you. You were just—and I was . . .

Opening her eyes again, her glare finally fixed on him as he ran his hands over his face and glanced towards the top of the hill, squinting as if trying to replay what had happened.

Two things struck her. One, why did he have to be attractive? Attractive in a long black hair, deep dark eyes, tall and handsome, moody romantic drama way? Even his dark T-shirt and jeans combo somehow contributed to his flutter-inspiring look. And two, she recognized him.

She didn’t know him, exactly. But she’d seen his picture. Olli’s young charge, Farren, chattered nonstop about her eighteen-year-old twin brothers. She was giddy for their return from boarding school. Farren had gone to their graduation weeks before, but her brothers had stayed to join their friends on a yacht or something like that. But apparently, they were home now.

Olli sighed, resigned to the awkwardness. Setting her teeth against the pain from the stinging wounds on her knees, she stood. She beat back her ridiculous concern over how terrible she looked—skin coated in grime, ponytail askew and afrizz, blood oozing from various wounds.

He stood when she did, watching her with wariness, like she might attack him. He wasn’t much taller, but she was pretty tall—freakish, was the word Nate used.

You’re bleeding, he said.

We mortals tend to do that, she muttered, not as sharply as she’d meant to. She picked twigs and grass from her scraped elbow. Her knees were both bleeding, angry-red and raw. Seeing them, somehow, made them hurt more.

She glanced up the hill to the fallen Schwinn—a long climb with injured knees.

He ran his hand through his hair. Look, I’m . . . Smoldering’s eyes narrowed again, his head tilted. Do I know you?

Why was he still here? Like she didn’t feel gross enough without Handsome standing there staring at her?

Nothing she could do about it now. She had to introduce herself sometime. She wiped her hand off on her shorts and held it out.

Olli Speare, she said, looking him right in the eye, no matter how much it made her blush. Her mom had always taught her to look at a person directly when introducing herself.

His eyes were long and heavily fringed, just like his little sister’s.

You’re a Speare? His gaze raked over her, up and down.

Not helping with the awkwardness, Handsome. Thanks.

Yes, I’m a Speare.

Why did people keep asking her that? Okay, she had her mom’s lean build, hazel eyes, and streaks of blond in her hair. But she had her father’s dark honey coloring and full mouth. Still, no one seemed to recognize any of her father in her. Nate, on the other hand, was greeted by every stranger with things like, You must be Archie’s son, and I’d know a Speare anywhere. Except they didn’t seem to know her. When she told them who she was, they gave her the same look that she was getting from Tall, Dark, and Smoldering now—skepticism.

She braced herself for the next comment she was used to receiving, something about how her mom was from out-of-town and how Olli must take after her. Her, they always said, like her mother had committed some offense by being born outside of Horizon Creek.

But Smoldering didn’t make any such remark. Nor was he shaking her hand. Not that she could blame him considering the sweat and dirt. She let her hand fall.

She glanced back up the hill and then behind her.

So awkward. Need to escape.

She could disappear into the trees—if they weren’t so bug-filled and gloomy and foreboding . . . Where was the sun already?

Was it her imagination or had the drone of insects disappeared? She listened harder. No chirping, no buzzing, no crick-crick-cricking, but there was a sound . . .

You’re the one who’s been watching my sister, he said as if suddenly realizing.

Uh-huh.

. . . a sound like running water, except the river was too far away to hear, wasn’t it?

She peered into the trees. The shadows between them seemed to grow darker. The sun had to rise soon, didn’t it? Maybe she was about to faint. Except she didn’t feel faint. She felt more alert than any sixteen-year-old had the right to be at six a.m. In fact, everything appeared ultra-crisp. As she gazed into the forest, her vision grew sharp enough to peel shadows apart. A prickle buzzed under her skin. All her aches and pains vanished.

"She said you’re reading her The Lord of the Rings—"

Was he still talking? She strained to hear over him . . . Was there a stream nearby?

"I don’t know if your CV includes working with many seven-year-olds, but don’t you think she’s too young—"

Shut up, she murmured.

What?

Why was it so quiet? No bugs, no birds, just a weird sort of . . . whisper-whisper.

Her chest tightened around her heart.

Deep in the trees, a shadow moved.

No, it darted.

Snap, crunch, crunch, crunch.

Her hand slammed into Handsome’s chest, pushing him away from the tree line.

He stumbled back. Wha—

Get in the car. She barely heard herself. All of her attention was fixed on the trees. Her eyes searched. Her ears ached. Nothing. No movement. No whisper-whispers.

Why? he asked from behind her.

Clenched as tight as a fist, breath shallow and rapid, she combed the thin understory of the pine stand, hunting shadows. And then . . . it passed. The surge of adrenaline subsided, the shadows blended together again, the bugs resumed their whining concert, and all she felt was . . . stupid.

Chapter 2

"Want to tell me what that was about?" he asked as they drove the remaining distance to his house.

Hugging her backpack to her chest, she continued to stare straight ahead. If she’d been uncomfortable before, she was now exploring terrible new depths of the sensation. The interior of his car was pristine, black leather with a soft sheen. At once inviting and repulsive to a girl covered in dirt and blood and sweat. But she couldn’t say no when he’d offered to drive her. They were going to the same place, and she was clearly injured.

Worsening her discomfort, the shadowy confines wrapped around them like an embrace, seeming to pull them so close she feared if she moved, she’d smear blood on him. She sat as still as possible with her tatty backpack, which he’d retrieved from the basket of the Schwinn. When she’d wondered aloud if it was okay to leave the bike on the side of the road, he’d given her a strange look. No one will take it, he’d said. Hardly anyone comes this way except family.

True. As far as she could tell the only people who lived on this side of the bridge were his family, the Gates. She had never even passed anyone else on the road, not one of the gardeners or maids, or Peter, the family’s personal chef. She supposed Smoldering had been speeding because he hadn’t expected to meet anyone on the road.

Did you see something? he pressed.

Why was he driving so slowly now? Did he think it would make up for his speeding earlier?

Something? Playing dumb was all she could think to do to end the conversation.

How could she speak while drowning in embarrassment? What was wrong with her? She’d shoved him. And why? She didn’t know.

When she thought about it, all she could come up with was a vague sense that she’d needed to protect him. But why and from what, she had no idea and really didn’t want to linger on the subject. She made it a policy not to dwell on things she couldn’t change. Nothing you can do? Then move on. That was her motto. Whatever had happened, it had been weird, and now, thankfully, it was over. If only he would let it be over.

If you saw something, you need to tell me, he said.

I didn’t see anything, she said, except—

Except . . .

What was he? A mind reader?

Except nothing, she insisted. I fell. I must’ve hit my head a dozen times. I’m probably concussed. I’m sorry I pushed you. I really didn’t mean to, honestly.

It’s only been a few months. These things don’t always show themselves right away, ya? If you saw something, if you felt something, you need to tell me.

Did her head hurt because she’d fallen, or because she didn’t understand anything Handsome had just said?

She turned towards him. A few months since what? What things?

He frowned, still watching the road. You are a Speare?

You already asked me that. Yes, I’m a Speare. So I’m not short and burly. Do I need to wear a nametag?

He tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. Do you know where my parents are?

Hope said they’re on . . . What’s it called? Sabbatical. Somewhere.

He looked at her from the corner of his eyes. You’re a Speare?

She resisted the urge to shove him again. Which one are you? she asked.

Which one?

You’re one of the twins, right?

His lips pursed, as if he found her question distasteful. Brend.

Brend. And the other one’s Roper. Is he back home now too?

He slid her a suspicious glance. Yes.

You’re not identical, are you?

No.

Good. She sat back fully—to hell with his upholstery.

He slowed the car to a crawl as they turned and rolled past the open iron gates to his family’s house. If house is a word that can be applied to a mini-palace.

Weary-looking pines stood behind the fifteen-foot-high fence, shielding the house. Three weeks ago, when Daniel, her cousin, had first circled up the driveway to the front step, she’d thought he’d been pulling a prank on her. She hadn’t even believed it was a house. It looked more like a postmodern museum.

A glass dome rose above the roofline, a glittering crystal swell. The front windows were small, geometric portholes. Faced with white stone, the house was low-slung and appeared to be one long single-story building. In fact, numerous floors, visible from the back of the house, tiered down the hillside in a cascade of white boxes. She’d never seen anything quite like it.

Then, when she’d realized that Horizon Creek was much too small to have a postmodern museum, much less one of massive size, she’d thought her grandparents had been mistaken. Whoever owned this house did not want her watching their kid. They could afford to send away for a proper nanny, one with a magic umbrella and a carpet bag.

That first time, she’d almost been too intimidated to ring the bell. At the moment, she couldn’t wait to go inside, away from the strange tension warming her in spite of the icy air blasting out of the vents.

The car stopped behind a daisy-yellow moped belonging to the family’s personal chef. The engine continued to purr, idling. The doors remained locked.

Brend slid back in his seat and faced her. He held her gaze for a few seconds. Somehow, instead of inspiring more awkwardness, his gaze chased away her discomfort. She forgot about the grime and the blood. She forgot he’d almost hit her—and still hadn’t apologized. She forgot that she’d shoved him for no reason. And in those brief breaths, she felt oddly, completely, at ease. The kind of quiet comfort she hadn’t yet experienced in Horizon Creek—or anywhere—but had hoped for ever since she’d learned she was moving back.

Farren seems to like you, he said.

I like her.

He smiled a little. I think I like you too, he said. Speare.

He turned off the engine, unlocked the doors, and left her sitting there, dumbfounded and seized, once more, by awkward girl feelings.

Scene Break

He held the doors open for her, the car door and the front door. A small courtesy she couldn’t help but find charming. Stupid girl feelings.

Once they entered the foyer, the house opened up. Overhead, glass panels arched, filling with pale morning light almost as white as the sprawling marble tiles underfoot. The first time she’d seen the interior it had struck her as over-bright and austere. But over the last few weeks, she’d learned to appreciate the clean lines and white spaces. Still, she found the extreme lack of decoration odd. A few family photos hung here and there; otherwise, the walls were bare. She’d always imagined people with wealth spent money on art and vases and busts. But what did she know about how wealthy people lived? The Gateses were the first truly wealthy people she’d ever known.

For a moment, she stood inside the door, soaking in the chill of the air conditioning and the calm of the house.

A rapid stomp, stomp, stomp broke her meditation.

Frazzled and bleary-eyed, even more than usual, Hope stormed up the steps from the front room into the foyer. She was supposed to be at the hospital early, which is why Olli had left before dawn, but Hope was still in her spandex workout clothes.

Where have you been? she shouted at Brend. I’ve been up all night.

Brend hung back behind Olli’s shoulder. But she wasn’t feeling any desire to protect him now. She hadn’t known his aunt very long, but Olli had never seen the doctor’s veins pop the way they were now. Though petite, Hope was all compact muscle, like a little bulldog. When not at the hospital, she sweated away the hours on the treadmill in her room. Farren said Hope ran to clear her head, but as far as Olli could tell, it didn’t seem to be working. Dr. Hope always seemed preoccupied.

I told you where I was going, Brend said.

The vein in Hope’s forehead bulged. You didn’t, she said through her teeth.

Olli sidled towards the wall, out of the line of fire. She slipped into the formal front room, edging past the ultra-modern white leather sofa and the skeletal wooden chairs. She didn’t want to get blood on anything if she could help it.

Brend growled, I’ll do what I have to do.

Brend!

I didn’t see her, okay?

Olli frowned over her shoulder, though she couldn’t see Brend or his aunt as she passed through the wide threshold into the kitchen. Their voices dropped to angered hisses and whispers behind her. Brend and his brother must’ve gotten back sometime over the weekend. So they’d only been in town a couple of days at most. She wondered what he’d done in the last forty-eight hours to push Hope to this frothing state, and just who this mysterious her was.

As she winced her way down the steps into the kitchen, Peter shut the refrigerator door and lifted a pierced, manicured eyebrow at her.

I hope you gave that hussy a whoopin’, he said.

She dumped her backpack on the floor and limped around the massive slab of granite that was truly big enough to be called an island, pulling herself onto one of the stools. Huh?

Peter leaned his thick, tattooed arms on the countertop. A field of white flowers cuffed one. The entire Looney Tunes cast graced the other. His brown eyes were warm as a teddy bear’s. But he was as big as a real bear, tall and broad. His black hair was shaved on the sides. The top sculpted and highlighted.

It means, I hope whoever did this to you looks worse than you do, he said, leaving off his Southern accent as he translated. He was the only person she’d met in Horizon Creek who sounded, even remotely, like how one might expect a Southerner to sound, but he only seemed to do it to scandalize everyone else. Farren giggled uncontrollably every time Peter said anything in his Southern drawl.

I didn’t get into a fight, she said. I fell.

He tapped his phone screen rapidly as she spoke.

Fell? he said, finally setting aside the phone with a roll of his eyes. Honey-pie, that is not a Speare-worthy story. He bent, opened a cabinet, and came back up with a first aid kit. You have to take care of that yourself, he said, pushing the white box across the dark stone towards her. I do not do blood.

You’re a chef, she said, taking the kit.

Human blood, he amended. Did you fall off that disaster you call a bicycle? He picked up his phone again. Before she could answer, he said, I’m making a grocery list if you think of anything. He eyed her with a grin. You’ve been putting on weight in all the right places since you’ve been getting fed proper.

She ripped open a disposable alcohol package. Aren’t you gay?

Yes, gay, not blind. He winked.

Her cheeks flushed.

A thud, like a door slamming, or being kicked, made her jump and drained the warmth from her.

Brend shouted. She should’ve said something! She—she shouldn’t have done it!

Keep your voice down!

Peter tsked, shaking his head and crossing his arm over his blinding-white chef’s coat, while his thumb moved over the screen of his phone. That boy . . .

What did he do? She sucked air through her teeth as she dabbed at her scraped arms with the alcohol pad.

Peter’s cheeks drew in. Did you meet him?

Yes. He’s the reason I fell. She grimaced. As the alcohol sting tingled up her arm, little sparks of pain popped across the back of her neck.

The reason you fell? Peter repeated with a widening grin, a mischievous glint in his eye.

She frowned. Why are you smiling?

He straightened his mouth. No reason. But I don’t guess it’s every day that our young Master Brend finds himself a long-legged, green-eyed vixen come home ’cross the river, and a Speare to boot.

She laughed. I’m not a vixen.

He leaned on the counter again, dropping his voice to confidential levels. "Darling, you have a complexion like my browned butter frosting, a figure that just keeps getting better, and a face that, as my Grammy would say, ‘Would break open the gates.’ Put your books down once in a while and take a good look in the mirror, because I can promise you that that boy—he pointed in the direction of the foyer—sees everything I do, plus some. And he is drama that one, so you better prepare yourself. Besides, you’re already bleedin’. So it is too late for you, missy."

Before Ollie could ask him what he meant, a shrill pixie voice interrupted.

Olli! What happened? Her bare feet slapped the tile. Her long black hair flew behind her, bed-tangled. Oh my guards! She covered her Cupid’s bow mouth, her doe eyes widening as she took in Olli’s dirt-and-blood smeared body. Peter could say what he wanted, but the way Farren looked at her made her feel like a corpse who’d just clawed her way out of a fresh grave.

It’s all right, really, Olli said to her, but her outburst had drawn Hope from the foyer.

Farren, what is wrong? she asked.

Farren pointed, causing the ruffles of her violet nightgown to swing around her. Look at Olli! She’s hurt!

Hope finally seemed to see Olli. The bulging vein and boiling sheen over her eyes vanished, replaced once again by that cool, professional façade that was always a bit elsewhere. Oh, Olli . . . Hope hurried to Olli.

Brend appeared in the threshold. He scowled at Hope’s back. Hard edges of anger framed his face, along with his shoulder-length hair. He met Olli’s gaze and—maybe it was just her imagination—some of the hardness seemed to relent.

Peter let out a soft um-hmm and tucked his phone in the pocket of his loose chef’s pants. He winked at Olli, who only then realized that she was as warm as browned butter. Bring down the Gates, girl.

What’s that, Peter? Hope asked as she picked through the first aid kit.

Nothing, Dr. Hope, he said, resuming his drawl. I’ll be back by later. Have a good day y’all. He scooped up his white helmet dotted with yellow daises and headed towards the front door. As he passed Brend, Olli swore she heard him say,

Like browned butter frosting.

Whether he did or not, Olli’s face burned. Hope snapped on some gloves from the first aid kid and set about cleaning and disinfecting Olli’s wounds. Farren hopped up onto the stool next to Olli’s.

What happened? Hope asked a few moments later.

I was almost hit by a car, Olli explained.

My car, Brend offered from the opposite side of the kitchen island, where he’d made a French press coffee while Olli grimaced and sucked sharp breaths under Hope’s disinfecting ministrations. Farren and Hope stared at him.

Your car? Hope repeated.

You hit Olli! Farren’s round cheeks flared pink.

Only almost. Olli smiled thinly at him.

He raised his eyebrows as if to say, Oh, is that how you want it? But too quickly dark shadows swallowed the glint in his eyes. Something happened afterwards.

What happened? Farren asked.

He took a sip of coffee and then said softly, Olli saw something.

Olli scowled at him. No, I didn’t.

It scared her, he said, not only like she wasn’t there, but also like it was fact and not something she’d imagined. Why was he telling them about this? Did he want them to think she was crazy? Hope would probably make her go to the hospital for a CT scan and a psychiatric evaluation. She tried to protect me from it, he added.

From what? Farren asked in a tiny voice.

You did? Hope said, giving Olli an odd look. Odd only because she didn’t seem to think the incident called for lengthy medical testing.

Nothing. No, Olli insisted, shaking her head.

Yes, she did, the handsome jerk contradicted.

What was it? Farren demanded, slapping her hand on the counter, looking from Olli to Brend and back. When neither of them answered, she recoiled. A worried line creased her brow.

Olli touched Farren’s knee gently. It was nothing.

This time Brend didn’t argue. His eyes stayed on Hope. What’s going on?

Hope’s broad face tightened. Later.

Why doesn’t she know?

His tone even caused Olli to pull back for a moment. She couldn’t imagine speaking to any of the adults in her world the way he spoke to his aunt—like he was the adult.

Not now, Hope sighed, dropping the last of the bloodied pads into the garbage.

In spite of the returned tension, Olli had to ask, What don’t I know?

Farren chewed her lip, kicking her legs faster and faster.

Brend continued to frown at Hope. Hope tore open a bandage to place on Olli’s forearm, though the bleeding had already stopped.

Wait. Olli laid her hand on Hope’s arm. What don’t I know?

We’re not supposed to tell you, Farren blurted out, clapping her hand over her mouth even as the last word left it. Hope shot her a warning look.

Why not? Brend asked again.

I said later, Hope growled.

Why—

She’s not from here, Hope said.

Who decided that? he demanded.

That’s not your concern.

Yes, it is, he said. You should’ve seen her—

Olli stiffened. What does that mean?

Hope leaned over the counter, blocking Farren from Olli’s view, to point a finger at Brend. Booker made a promise.

Brend leaned in too, apparently unthreatened by his aunt’s sharp gesture. She’s a Speare. She tried to protect me. You know what that—

I don’t know anything and neither do you. Hope’s hand and voice dropped, but she was no less threatening. It’s not your place to question Booker. Besides,—she stripped her gloves off and tossed them into the trash—it’s been three months. I’m sure it was nothing. It would be better if you forget about it.

Hello. I’m still here, remember? Olli interjected, head reeling as she tried to make sense of the conversation. Want to fill me in?

It’s not better, he said. What if something happens? What if—

What if the Dowager finds out? Hope’s question chilled the room. Even Farren, who seemed to be in perpetual motion, froze.

No, she can’t, Farren squeaked. She looked a Brend, pleading. Don’t let her take Olli.

Take me? Olli asked. What does that mean? Again, she was ignored.

I won’t, Brend said to Farren, softly. Then he turned to Hope. I know what I saw. He dumped his coffee in the sink, clunked his cup down on the counter, and stormed to the glass wall overlooking