Secondhand Shadow

By Elizabeth Belyeu

From the pen of Shelly Greene writing as Elizabeth Belyeu ...

It's supposed to be a symbiotic relationship: the Shadow serves and protects the human Lumi, the Lumi feeds and cares for the Shadow. But when Damon’s Lumi died young and severed the bond between them, he declined to go with her like a good little Shadow. Yes, it hurts. Yes, he's cold and hungry all the time. And yes, his own people call him an abomination. But for the first time, Damon's life is his own, and he’s never going back.

Or so he thinks, until he meets Naomi, a pregnant college student, and bonds to her as his new Lumi. Which has never happened to a Shadow before.

Naomi has enough problems on her plate, juggling college and a crappy survival job, preparing for a baby, and getting over her cheating ex-husband. The last thing she needs is a dark, brooding fellow like Damon depending on her physically and emotionally, and hating her for it. But a vigilante among Damon's people has his sights set on Naomi -- and they both know Damon is her only chance for survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: May 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9798627332710

Elizabeth Belyeu

Elizabeth Belyeu lives in Texas, where she supports herself, her dog, and her steadily growing TBR pile by working in a library. Secondhand Shadow is her first novel. Her second, Ice & Smoke, is available through Amazon. She has been writing since she could hold a pencil, and plans to continue until she is too senile to type. Check out her blog at elizabethbelyeu.wordpress.com.

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Secondhand Shadow

By Elizabeth Belyeu

Copyright © 2014 Elizabeth Belyeu

Cover art © 2020 Nyra K.T.

All rights reserved.

DEDICATION

To my mother, for liking everything I ever wrote;

To my father, for answering obscure questions about this odd thing called reality;

To both of them, for telling me to follow my star;

To my second-grade teacher, Deborah Taylor, for letting me write stories in the corner instead of doing worksheets, and to all the other teachers who said they just knew they’d see my name on a book cover someday;

To my fellow creative writing students who told me, as politely as they could, that my first attempt at this story was kinda lame;

To my agent, Lindsay, for pulling my name from the pile, and holding my hand through the hideous process of revisions;

And most especially, to my big sister Misty, who is still waiting for me to finish all the stories I pestered her to critique, and whose demand that I give her a new chapter of this one every week resulted in my first ever Complete First Draft. Dearest Moose, you are truly irreplaceable.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER 1

ELEVATOR GHOSTS

NAOMI

…hardly the Dread Pirate Roberts, Dad. Can you really see him ripping someone’s throat out with his teeth?

I froze outside my English professor’s office door, and decided I did not want to interrupt that conversation. My hand didn’t get the memo and knocked anyway. I snatched it back and bit it, but it was too late.

From inside came silence, then Dr. DiNovi’s voice. Come in.

I debated running away instead. Or waddling away, since the U.S.S. Third Trimester wasn’t achieving warp speed anytime soon. But I opened the door.

We all do dumb things.

Dr. DiNovi was sitting at his desk in a perfectly normal way, which was all wrong. Dr. DiNovi was a feet-on-the-desk, head-in-the-clouds kind of guy, not a feet-on-the-floor, head-in-his-hands kind of guy. I’d never seen his bald spot before, peeking out of dark hair like a moon on a cloudy night. Maybe he grew the beard to compensate for the bald spot. He looks good with the beard, in a professorial kind of way.

The other guy in the room did not look professorial. He looked grim and dark and scruffy and altogether Strider-like. All he needed was a cloak. The leather jacket, I decided, was a satisfactory modernization. Of course, if he was Strider, I was apparently a Ringwraith, because he was looking at me like he couldn’t decide whether to run away or run me through. I fully expected him to snarl.

Ah, Naomi, Dr. DiNovi said. Come to throw your term paper on my tender mercies? His voice was casual and cheerful and did not match the way he kept glancing from me to Strider.

Yes, sir. It was hard to look away from Strider, but easier than continuing to look at him. He reminded me of a firework my grandfather lit once, that sizzled and smoked and then went quiet—just before blowing up in his face and burning his beard off. So talk quick and get out of here before he explodes. I need an extension, sir. Please. Dr. DiNovi was not famous for cutting anyone a break on deadlines. I had marshalled all kinds of arguments to cover the fact that I flat forgot about my term paper. I could not remember any of them now. Please, sir, I’m very pregnant. I cry easily, and if you make pregnant women cry you go to hell. I’d hate to see that happen to you, sir.

Dr. DiNovi gestured at Strider. I don’t know if you’ve met my son, Ga—

Damon. His voice was rough, as if he’d been screaming. Without meaning to, I looked back toward him, and he flinched. So did I. He seemed to burn my retinas.

Damon, Dr. DiNovi continued, this is one of my Brit Lit students, Naomi Winters.

Naomi, he repeated, his voice even more choked, as if my name were razors in his mouth. He glanced at his father. I have to go.

I was still standing more or less in the doorway. I tried to dodge him, and he tried to dodge me, and my shoulder bounced off his. He hissed—seriously, hissed, a sort of gasp between clenched teeth—and was out the door and gone.

I bit my lip and glanced at Dr. DiNovi, my cheeks going hot even though I hadn’t done anything. That’s why I always got in trouble when my little brother broke something. Guilty is my default expression.

Dr. DiNovi was not looking at me, but at the doorway his son had disappeared through. He looked happy as a clam, by which I mean confused and worried. That’s how I’d feel if I was a wad of snot living in a seashell.

Sorry, he said after a second. About Damon. He’s had a rough… He looked at me as if I’d turned to blinking neon. "Oh. Oh. I guess that might explain it. Red hair, blue eyes… hmm."

Sir?

I’m sorry to cut our conversation short, Naomi, but I need to talk to my son.

But—my paper—

Yes, of course. I understand your situation. Just try to have it in by Monday. He stepped out the door, hardly waiting to see if I followed, locked it behind us, and headed for the stairs. Have a nice afternoon, Naomi!

So, aside from Weirdos from Middle Earth, I guess my day is looking up. I had gotten an extension out of King Deadline, meaning I had five nights, rather than two, to cook up a twelve-page term paper. I squinched my eyes and tried to remember what topic I had decided on, after my initial proposal—the role of dogs in Rebecca and Pride and Prejudice—was rejected on the basis of there being no dogs in Pride and Prejudice, though I distinctly remember a Harlequin Great Dane in the miniseries version. Beautiful dog. My second proposal was something else with Rebecca and Jane Austen…

I unsquinched my eyes as it dawned on me that I was not alone in the corridor.

Except I was. Nobody in sight.

Well, I murmured as I rubbed the top of my Wonder Tummy, one advantage of pregnancy is that you’re never quite alone. Not that you’re much of a conversationalist. He turned under my hand. Or she, who knew?

Could it be the baby that Strider—Damon—had reacted to so strongly? Plenty of people still disapproved of unwed pregnancy here in Ilium, Alabama, never mind that I was wed when Wonder Tummy began. But I was twenty-two, for crying out loud, not exactly a teenybopper; there was no reason to assume I was unwed. Besides, such disapprovers were usually fifty or above. Seemed odd that a guy my own age, whose father had no problem with me, would treat the tummy like a Black Plague pustule. But if it wasn’t the baby, then what?

Dr. DiNovi had said something about my hair and eyes. I turned around to look at myself in the window of Dr. DiNovi’s door. He had it covered over with clipped-out comic strips, and my reflection was a thin layer over Garfield, Snoopy, and Hobbes. Red hair, long and windblown, hanging in my face. Blue eyes. No make-up. Baggy gray sweater flopping down over my hands. Third Trimester had killed my wardrobe, but I couldn’t believe that would make anyone hiss at me.

Whatever. I had to walk home and change into my uniform before work. If I left now, I could take my time and get there late enough that I’d have to hurry to work. If I put it off, I’d walk fast and get home early, which meant facing the mountain of dishes in the sink.

I started down the hallway toward the elevator. Dr. DiNovi’s office was on the third floor, and I’d taken the stairs to avoid the English building elevator, known affectionately as the Tomb of the Unknown Student. My first day at Ilium U, I’d heard the story of the murdered student in the elevator shaft whose vengeful ghost liked to trap people in the elevator. I had a nightmare about it that night, and had avoided the blasted elevator for weeks afterward, before… Tyler convinced me to get on it with him.

Ow. The only thing worse than reminding myself of bad times with Tyler was reminding myself of good times with Tyler. The elevator had been a good time. We rode up, we rode down, we rode up, we rode down. We heard later that it got stuck minutes after we left.

All right, Elevator Ghosts of Various Metaphorical Layers. Me and Wonder Tummy have had enough stairs for today. Make way. I marched—waddle-marched—down the hall, pushed the Down button, and stepped into the Tomb.

I jumped when a hand shot between the silver doors just as they slid closed. They popped back open, and Dr. DiNovi’s son stepped through.

GodpleaseforgivemeformysinsIthinkI’mabouttobemurdered.

He didn’t jump at me with a knife. He didn’t even snarl. He just stared at me as the doors closed again. I felt my face heating up, but I set my teeth and stared back. I was in the stupid elevator first. This was my turf.

He didn’t look so very Strider-like after all, I decided. No stubble, and his face was too narrow. He had the hair, dark and tangled and hanging past his chin. But his eyes were green as a cat’s and sharp as claws. Again I had the sensation that they might burn me.

So, who do I look like? I asked.

He jumped, as if he hadn’t expected me to have the power of speech. What?

Either I look like someone you never wanted to see again, or I smell bad. Since you got in an elevator with me, I’m going with Option A.

He continued staring a moment, then opened his mouth to speak.

And the elevator shuddered to a halt.

No. I closed my eyes. No, this cannot be. These things don’t really happen. I leaned my head back against the wall with a thunk. Then, to my own dismay, I started to laugh.

I’m sorry, I gasped when I saw Damon’s stare turn from mysterious to confused. It’s just such a cliché. The pregnant lady trapped in the elevator. If I give birth in an elevator— Confusion became alarm. Oh, no, I’m fine, I said quickly. Still two months to go, thank goodness. It’s just the idea.

I was able to stop laughing after a minute, because it stopped being funny. There was a help button in the wall, which I would be calm enough to push, eventually. But it could be hours before we got out of here. Hours during which I was supposed to be at work. I fumbled my cell phone out of my book bag. No signal.

Damon began to pace, which was a nice trick in an elevator that size, especially when he refused to come anywhere close to me. Yeah, well, I wouldn’t touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot pole, either.

I can’t be here, he muttered under his breath, and ran a hand through his hair, which very unexpectedly made my breath catch. So I have a thing for long-haired guys. Why else would I have the Lord of the Rings movies memorized?

Hit the help button, I said. It was on his side.

He paused, looked at the button a moment, then resumed pacing. You should do it.

Bossy much? I considered suggesting an anatomically unlikely new location for the help button, but then I remembered that just because he hadn’t pulled a knife on me yet didn’t mean he wouldn’t. I stepped toward the help button, wondering what he’d do when I crossed the orbit of his pacing.

What he did was stop dead with a sharp breath, back up against the wall, and close his eyes.

For the first time, I was truly afraid to turn my back on him. I froze, not breathing, and waited.

He kept his eyes closed, breath coming faster, hands half-raised as if to ward me off. They were shaking.

Seconds passed. A minute. Maybe more. My fear began to ebb, just a bit, to make room for pity. He was in pain. I had no idea why or how, or what I could do to help, but surely I ought to try.

Damon?

The word was tiny and feather-edged, but it broke something. Suddenly I was pinned between him and the wall, my upraised hands trapped against his chest, too stunned to push him away.

I won’t hurt you, he said, pressing his face into my hair. I won’t hurt you. I hate you too much to ever hurt you. I’m sorry.

I felt a hand against my cheek.

And I was alone in the elevator.

DAMON

I wasn’t sure what state the cemetery was located in. I’d seen it in a magazine years ago, alongside an article I couldn’t remember. What mattered was that it was neat and quiet, with nobody—no living body—for miles. And that I didn’t know a single person buried there.

I sank to the ground beneath the magnolia whose shadow I’d borrowed to escape the elevator. Before me stretched a carpet of grass and stone, silent in the sunlight, welcoming in its calm, indifferent way. I wanted to walk to the nearest grave, lie down in it, and never get up. I hadn’t been seriously suicidal in over a decade, but I would never have let my father persuade me to live if I had, for one second, thought this could happen.

Orphan. Vampire. Kathair. Abomination. What I was had many names, among my people. Some names were given by those who feared and hated us, some by those who loved us still. All pitied us, if only distantly. Because our wounds could never heal. There was no hope for us. Only pain, blood, and eventually oblivion. No grave for me and mine, only a handful of dust and a sigh of relief to scatter it.

It was not an easy life. But this was worse.

If I could stay away from her for a few days, a week at most, the bond would die unborn. Would it hurt less this time? If not, I doubted I’d survive it. Not an unpleasant thought at the moment.

What would happen to my orphans then?

I shivered in the warm grass, my fingers leaving furrows in the dirt. Without me to hold them together, it was a matter of time before one of them lost their hard-won self-control. Pain and blood then, to be sure, and oblivion on its heels. The Formyndari would see to that. They might not even wait for someone to slip.

I had to at least warn them. They deserved to know what was happening. After all, if it could happen to me, it could happen to anyone. I had to talk to Westley.

But not yet. I could stay here a while longer, in a place that was empty and clean, and try to accept that, one way or another, the life I’d spent thirteen years piecing together had just been obliterated.

NAOMI

Carmen came through the door in a rainstorm of jangling keys, clattering shoes, and the thunk of a bucket-sized purse to the floor. The couch, facing away from the door, hid me despite the Wonder Tummy; I stayed silent and still, staring at the shards of pea-green carpet peeking between piles of clothes and books. At Carmen’s gangbanger posters scowling, leering, flipping me the bird. At my dark, lumpy, fish-eyed reflection in the blind eye of the TV set. Carmen clomped past me into the bedroom and began skinning out of her Mr. Snow’s Ice Cream uniform. Much as I liked my roommate, which sometimes wasn’t much but was usually a fair bit, I did not want to talk to her right now. I was too preoccupied with the question of whether I had lost my mind. People do not, cannot, and certainly should not evaporate from stalled elevators. The question of how he had gotten out took a distinct backseat to: Was he ever there to begin with? No one else saw him, after all. I wasn’t quite ready to write off the conversation with Dr. DiNovi as a hallucination—though it would explain the term paper extension. If I could assume that conversation was real, then Damon, too, was real. But that didn’t mean he had gotten on the elevator with me. In fact, the more I thought about that, the less likely it seemed. Why would a man with an intense (if inexplicable) allergy to my presence, who had in fact already departed the premises, return to board an elevator with me?

I hate you too much to ever hurt you. I shivered.

I’d made it all up. It was the only explanation. And when the situation got more intense than my subconscious had bargained for, it banished him as easily as it had called him forth.

I’ve gone crazy.

The university had counselors, I knew, available to students at no extra charge. I had considered seeing one before, once or twice, when the whole thing—the baby, the divorce, school, work, my parents, homelessness—had crushed the air from my lungs and left me sobbing for breath. But I was afraid—of being judged, or tattled on, or exposed, I don’t know. But I was doubly frightened now. A counselor would listen to this with wide eyes, visions of straitjackets dancing in his head. I could be locked up, or worse, dragged home to my parents.

Maybe I should be. I shivered again.

Gyaah!

I jumped, nearly falling off the couch, and scrambled into a sitting position to face Carmen, now in jeans and a red halter top, standing in the bedroom doorway with her chest heaving.

"Don’t do that! She leaned against the doorframe with a hand to her chest. Have you been here the whole time?"

Sorry. I, um, fell asleep.

Carmen shook herself and stuck a pair of sunglasses in her hair. Whatcha doing here, anyway? I thought you had the evening shift on Wednesdays.

I shifted my weight where a disgruntled spring in the couch was jabbing. Yeah, uh… I got stuck in the Tomb for over three hours. By the time I could call, Jana said don’t bother coming in, they had it handled.

Carmen grimaced. That’s not a good sign, girl.

She had that Oscar-the-Grouch voice going, I agreed. "But it’s not my fault." I rubbed the Wonder Tummy irritably.

You ought to know better than to ride that elevator, Carmen said, plopping into the green-upholstered chair next to the couch. Hey, don’t worry about it. If you get fired, I’ll just take your rent out in housework. She dug the remote out of the chair cushions and flicked on the television.

I swallowed. Her words might sound like a joke to someone who didn’t know her, but Carmen was a pragmatist. If her landlord found out she had an unauthorized roommate, she could get evicted. If I didn’t pull my weight financially, there was no reason to keep me around. I was already pretty much her personal house-elf, but I doubted that would be worth shouldering the rent and the risk.

Of course, it would be a non-issue all too soon. Four months ago, when she found me sobbing in a stairwell, Carmen had let me know that once Wonder Tummy converted to Squalling Brat, I was out of the apartment. Four months ago, I had thought that I’d have my feet under me by then. Instead, I was still crawling on my hands and knees across broken glass.

Speaking of the Brat within the Tummy—he was playing hop-scotch on my insides again. I lurched off the couch and staggered into the bathroom.

Hi-yo, Silver! Catch that bladder bandit! Carmen laughed over the bovine tones of Homer Simpson. I want you to know, Red, you have taught me a great thing. I am more convinced than ever that safe sex is the only way to go. She hardly had to raise her voice for me to hear her through the parchment walls, which was just lovely when one of us had a stomach bug, let me tell you.

My cellphone, still in my book bag by the couch, started singing The Baby Elephant Walk. I hoped Carmen would let it go to voicemail.

You have reached the cellular unit of the bestest babe with the biggest belly and the baddest bladder, Carmen said in her best chirpy secretary voice. Well, greetings, Sole Source of Emotional Support. She got stuck in an elevator today. Uh-huh. Her voice rose to an unnecessary shout. Naomi, it’s your brother!

Be out in a minute, I called back. Some things can’t be hurried, but then again I didn’t like Carmen talking to my family any more than necessary. She was far too free with my life details. What if it had been my mother calling when she answered with all the big-belly stuff? Mom and Dad were in the dark about Wonder Tummy, and I wanted them to stay that way.

Not, of course, that Mom was likely to call. Why start now?

I waddled free of our glove-sized bathroom and tugged the phone from Carmen’s hand just as the words like a pimple about to pop were leaving her mouth.

Hi, butthead, I chirped.

Hi, pustule, he said. Trapped in an elevator, huh? Sounds scary.

More like boring, I lied. But at least it saved me from a night pimping DVDs while my thighs and ankles slowly merged. Carmen cackled at something a bug-eyed clown said on the TV, and I began maneuvering the Wonder Tummy out the front door.

The sun had gone down an hour before, but a streetlamp between the building and the road cast a romantic glow over Easton Apartments, a maze of sand-colored stucco walls, green door after green door with gleaming metal numbers. An illegal dog barked upstairs, possibly at the cluster of laughing youths piling out of a car in the lot, possibly at the stutter of drums from marching band practice at the soccer field. This close to campus, it qualified as a quiet evening.

Not a cool one, though. Even an hour after sundown, the humidity was like a slap in the face. Or at least a warm, moist hug in the face, possibly from a great-aunt with poor dental hygiene. I gagged and started squirming out of my sweater. It had been cool enough this morning to layer. Welcome to the South.

—to warn you that your phone may not work much longer, Jonathan was saying as I managed to peel pilly, gray fabric off one shoulder. Mom caught on that Dad was still paying for it. They’re battling it out, but Dad hasn’t exactly been on a winning streak.

Has he ever? I rubbed my forehead. I couldn’t come close to paying for the phone myself, and Carmen had no landline in her apartment; we each depended solely on our cells. I tried to stomp out a flare of resentment against my mother. She couldn’t know what a financial sinkhole Wonder Tummy was turning out to be. Maternity clothes, doctor’s visits, prenatal vitamins… Much as I didn’t want this baby, he was a captive audience for the time being, and I had a responsibility to take care of him.

I swear Jonathan hears my thoughts sometimes. Listen, Nims, I really don’t mean to nag you, he said, voice low, but have you made up your mind what you’re going to do with the baby?

I finished wriggling out of the sweater, and eased myself into one of the plastic chairs on the apartment patio—read: coffin-sized plot of cement. The chairs belonged to the goth couple next door, who were nice people despite the scary piercings. They probably wouldn’t mind that a small barge docked in their chair a while.

Naomi?

Well, you know, I talked to that adoption agency lady.

Yes, he said patiently. That was two weeks ago.

I realized belatedly that the plastic chairs were supposed to be blue. It was a thick layer of pollen that had given them that greenish tinge. So much for wearing these jeans tomorrow. Well, I, I looked through those folders she gave me, the parent profile thingies.

And?

And none of them have jumped out at me. I’ve read all the articles, you know. There’s supposed to be a couple that just feels right. And there isn’t. Besides, I don’t feel right giving it up without telling Tyler. I don’t even think it’s legal.

So tell him. Jonathan did a good job acting like he hadn’t been trying to get me to do just that for going on seven months.

"I can’t. I can’t see him. I can’t talk to him. Not yet."

When, then? When the kid graduates high school? You are running out of time, sis.

I’ve got two months. I rubbed the tummy, as if making sure it was still there. Two months seemed incomprehensible. I was barely getting through individual days.

Which reminded me, I had a twelve-page paper to spew forth.

Listen, kid, before I go, how’s that for subtle? tell me what’s going on at your end.

Jonathan sighed but obediently started spilling the juiciest gossip of a small-town high school. The head cheerleader had broken a leg when her teammates dropped her, possibly on purpose. The principal’s wife got arrested for driving under the influence, and parents were foaming at the mouth, including Mom. Rumor had it that the valedictorian and his stepsister were getting a little closer than family. And people were still whispering that Jonathan earned his football MVP solely because he was dating the team captain’s sister. —which they would never say if they could see how those two catfight. If anything, I won despite Jenna, Jonathan muttered.

"Anyone who, like, went to a game would know you earned it fair and square," I said staunchly.

He laughed. How would you know? Being in another state and all.

I know you, little brother. You’re good at everything. And I couldn’t even hate him for it. He got better grades than me, without trying. Made friends at the drop of a hat. Never said the wrong thing, never embarrassed his parents. Played sports like a tiger and charmed the girls like a prince. And did it all with such warmth and cheer that I couldn’t even be jealous. Well, maybe a helpless, hopeless sort of jealousy, but not the angry, soul-destroying kind. I could never stay angry at Jonathan.

Not everything, he muttered, in such a wistful tone that I almost asked him what was wrong, but he was already talking again. Naomi, I know we’ve had this conversation before, but I really think you ought to tell Mom and Dad about the baby. They’d change their minds, I know it. They’d help you. This is their grandchild, after all. And it’s not like you even got it out of wedlock.

No, just in eloped wedlock with a boy they forbade me to see. I think you may be giving them too much credit.

Hey, I never said they’d forgive you, just that they’d help you.

"I don’t need their help. Or their forgiveness."

He sighed. Suit yourself. I hear Mom coming through the front door. Talk to you later?

Yeah, I sighed. Thanks for the warning about the cell phone. And take care of yourself, okay?

When you do, he snorted, and hung up.

DAMON

I stepped out of the shadow of the refrigerator to the sound of breaking glass. Galatea stood at the kitchen counter, a champagne flute smashed beneath her hand.

Three, she said, then turned to the sink, snatched up a damp dishcloth, and tore it down the middle. Four.

Galatea? I said cautiously.

No response. She spun away from me, long black braids flying, plucked a section of newspaper from the opposite counter and tore it into ragged halves. Five. One palm, presumably victim of the shattered champagne flute, left a scarlet print on everything it touched.

It wasn’t the only blood in the room. Jewel perched on the counter, knees drawn up to her chest, and clutched a mug of our refrigerated O-positive, watching Galatea with wide eyes. She looked terrified, but part of that was just Jewel; tiny and waifish, with white-blonde curls and sunken eyes, she always seemed to need protection. We were all broken dolls, here, but Jewel looked the part more than most. I shifted to stand between her and Galatea, just in case.

When Galatea opened a cabinet and reached for a stack of plates, I caught her hands and pulled her away. Teya, talk to me. Come on, I’m here, it’s all right.

Two more. I need two more.

We’re working on this, remember? Just breathe deep—

"Two more."

I sighed and pulled a pair of white candles from the top of the fridge. Strong brown fingers curled around one candle, then the other.

Snap. Six. Snap. Seven. She closed her eyes and let out a long, ragged breath, tension melting from her shoulders. On the inhale, she straightened her spine, and opened her eyes to meet mine. She had broken seven things, and was able to be Galatea again. Spitting mad, but Galatea.

You okay now? I asked, putting a steadying grip on her shoulders.

Peachy.

What happened? Where’s Westley?

Westley’s on the roof, Galatea said, voice hard. With a bottle of Dom Perignon.

I closed my eyes. Emily’s birthday. I can’t believe I forgot. "You left him up there alone?"

At his insistence. Her anger was a thin, if scorching, mask for the worry I could feel creeping up my own spine.

He wouldn’t let either of us stay, Jewel said, sulkily.

Well, it was no surprise for Westley to exclude Jewel; she’d been at the Orphanage only a year. But he always leaned on me and Galatea during his annual breakdown. Always.

Where have you been all day? Galatea demanded. How could you possibly forget?

I did not want to discuss what had driven Emily’s birthday out of my mind. Don’t worry, Teya. No one could possibly regret it more than I do. If I hadn’t gone out today… I stepped back into the shadow of the fridge.

He needs to hunt, Galatea said. "Make him hunt."

I will, I said, and shaded up to the roof.

Westley’s profile was dark against a scarlet sunset, the almost-empty wine bottle dangling from his hand. The same vintage of Dom Perignon he had shared with Emily on her last day. She had fought tooth and nail for that last month, he told me once, determined to make it to her birthday. She died just before midnight, on her first and only day at the age of twenty-one.

Would it be easier for Westley if Emily had died some other day? Would he grieve half as much, twice a year, or would it simply devastate him twice as often?

Twice as often, I decided. I was certainly acutely aware of both dates carved on Claire’s headstone, even if I never mentioned them. Westley was lucky to have only one date to dread.

The panic I thought I had finally worn through at the cemetery threatened to pour through me again, numbing as ice. The important dates in my life had just doubled. Or would, if I let them. If I fell to the riptide pulling me toward her, the desperate need to be near her, know what she was doing and if she was all right…

Westley drained the bottle, then got to his feet and stood at the edge of the roof. A human would probably be stumbling drunk at that point; Westley only moved a touch more slowly. I watched him hold the empty bottle out, over the edge, and let go. There was a crack as it hit the ground. He cocked his head, looking down at the broken bottle in an expressionless way I did not like at all.

He wouldn’t jump. He couldn’t jump. He had promised Emily, and for a Shadow, that wasn’t just a matter of honor.

I must have made some sound; he glanced over his shoulder at me. His face never changed, but after a moment he stepped back from the edge and sat down again.

Light flickered against his face, and I realized he was lighting a cigarette.

Since when do you smoke? I asked, stepping across the shingles toward him.

He didn’t look up. What’s it going to do, kill me?

His voice was a dead monotone, even his British accent flattened nearly out of existence. Unease tightened in my throat, but today of all days, Wes had the right to be crazy.

Why did you send Teya away? I asked. She had to break things.

Instead of answering, he blew smoke toward the sunset, the dead, dusty smell of tobacco mingling with the overblown sweetness of the azalea bushes below. Where have you been? he asked, still dead-voiced. When I didn’t answer, he glanced up at me, and an emotion—concern—flickered in his face for the first time.

What’s wrong? he asked. I wondered if I looked as hollowed-out and frightening to him as he did to me.

This was a bad, bad time to tell him, but it would be worse to hide it from him. Besides, if I put it off, I might just go fade somewhere without ever telling him, and that would be unforgivable. Wes, have you ever heard of… I swallowed. Of a Shadow… covanting again?

For a moment he looked at me blankly, as if he’d never heard the term before, as if he’d never been a child who ached to grow up and covant, bind his soul to the person who would be the center of his life forever after.

"What do you mean again?" he said at last. You mean an orphan… bonding to someone else? That’s obscene.

Yes. Oh, yes. But have you ever heard of it happening?

Of course not. He stared at me, then took a shaky drag on the cigarette. Why?

I didn’t speak. A couple, the boy holding a terrier’s leash, walked down the street in front of us, arm in arm. The girl held her cellphone in front of her, a blue gleam in the darkening red light, and the boy laughed at something on the screen. She huffed and punched his arm before laughing along. A picture of casual, comfortable intimacy. My skin felt like it was trying to crawl off me. Where is she? Is she okay? Wantneedwantneedwantneed—

The couple disappeared around a bend in the road, without ever glancing at us.

Westley spoke again, his voice warier. Afraid. Why are you asking, Damon?

I tried to think of a way to say it. A way that didn’t involve screaming or vomiting. Westley leaned more heavily against the shingles at his back. Brother. Tell me.

She doesn’t even look like Claire. Those were not the words I had decided to say. Except for the red hair, she doesn’t look like her at all.

He closed his eyes and crossed himself.

Are you sure? he whispered after a moment. Just because we’re Shadows doesn’t mean we can’t feel something other than, than… I mean, humans are always getting these sudden attachments to each other, it doesn’t mean…

If it was garden-variety love at first sight, I don’t think I’d be wanting to die right now.

A new fear rose in his eyes. You promised your father—

I know what I promised my father. You hypocrite. Aren’t we a pair.

Suicide wasn’t much more of an option for me than for Westley; my father would keep me alive, whatever the cost—to me, to him, to anyone. My mother, on the other hand, would understand. Sometimes I thought she might even approve.

What… What does it feel like? Westley asked.

Just like the first time, I said after a long pause. Only with a nice helping of terror, hatred and self-loathing thrown in.

I can imagine, he muttered, rubbing hands through his blond hair.

No you can’t. Not as good as Emily was to you.

What are you going to do? Westley asked.

I shrugged. I survived one breach. I can do it again.

He laughed—a bitter, broken sound.

We were both sitting on the roof, now; I didn’t remember when my knees had given out. Westley’s cigarette lay at our feet, a tiny, angry glow in the deepening dusk.

If I’m wrong, I said, you’ll need to take over.

I can’t. There was no protest or surprise in his voice, only a gentle statement of fact. You know I can’t do it.

Who else, then?

Nobody, he said, voice tightening. So it would really be best for you not to die.

I’ll try, Wes. No promises.

He crushed the cigarette against the shingles. Full dark had fallen.

Time to hunt.

CHAPTER 2

BRIGHT ONE

NAOMI

Wonder Tummy gave me weird dreams from day one. I’d always had nightmares when I was stressed, anyway, not that being pregnant and homeless and hallucinating could possibly be stressful. I woke up at four-thirty a.m., some twelve hours after Damon did not get in the elevator with me, and took my customary several seconds to figure out where I was and what was real. Lately the ol’ psyche’s favorite nocturnal torment was kittens. Kittens, of course, are wonderful—once they have fur and ears and look like kittens. My cat Luna had kittens when I was fourteen, and it was disgusting. The ones in my dream were even worse. Slimy pink squirming things, crying piteously, that I knew I ought to help and love but I only wanted to run far away from them. And they were coming out of me.

The school