The Shadow Society

by Marie Rutkoski

  Then his chin tilted up suddenly, and my pulse jumped. Could he see my shadow? I oozed toward a tall woman, hovering almost inside her body, pooling my shadow into hers.

  But Conn’s eyes were on the subway plate in the center of the car. His stop must be coming up. My breath (if I’d had any) hitched with relief, and when he stepped forward I slipped behind him onto the plate. My shadow mingled with his.

  It was a short walk from the subway to the IBI, and when Conn set his foot on the first of those twenty-seven steps, I quailed. Of course, he had said he was going to meet Fitzgerald. That’s why I was stalking him. But when I actually saw the building, fear bloomed inside me, and I remembered all of the very good reasons I shouldn’t go inside—all of them, that is, except the best reason, the one that I couldn’t remember, the one that had brought me here when I was almost five.

  But Conn mounted the steps, and without thinking I followed as if an invisible string tied me to him. We went inside.

  Agents called cheerfully to Conn, who chatted with them about some sport named wicket that was apparently all the rage here. He took off his long coat and slung it over an arm, revealing his IBI jacket. Conn’s stance was easy, sure. He was in his element. He belonged here.

  Which, I reminded myself, was all the more reason to dislike him.

  Conn wove through a section of the IBI I hadn’t seen last time. A warren of offices. Finally, he stepped into a waiting room and hung his coat neatly on a hook.

  A middle-aged woman in a brown wool dress looked up from her desk. “Conn.” She smiled.

  “Hello, Helen.” He stepped toward her. “Thanks again for dinner the other night.”

  Oh.

  This was the secretary he’d talked about. This kind-eyed woman with an actual lace handkerchief peeking out of the purse that sat open on her desk.

  “Sweetie.” Helen flapped one hand. “You should come over more often. The kids love you.”

  Conn smiled. “They love wrestling me to the ground.”

  “It’s good for you. You work too hard and spend too much time alone.”

  “Speaking of work…” Conn’s eyes flicked meaningfully toward the closed door.

  “The Director’s in. I’ll let her know you’re here.” Helen stood from her desk and was turning toward the door when she paused and leaned close to Conn. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you,” she murmured. “You know, with your question about that girl.”

  Conn shrugged. “It’s all right.”

  “No,” she said with sudden sternness. “It’s not. None of it’s right, Conn. You should leave 1997 alone. It’ll only bring grief.”

  “Helen,” he said. “Please.”

  But she walked toward Fitzgerald’s office, knocked, and when she heard a muffled “yes,” cracked open the door to say, “Agent McCrea to see you.”

  When Conn walked past her, Helen raised her hand to rest it briefly on his tall shoulder. “You’re a good boy,” she said, and returned to her desk.

  “Sit,” Fitzgerald told Conn as he stepped inside her office. The leather chair sighed under his weight but not under mine as I glided over it to blend my shadow into the leaves of a potted ficus tree.

  Fitzgerald settled onto the couch across from him, her posture straight, almost stiff. Her gray pants had sharp creases ironed into them. “So?” she said. “How’s the Jones Project?”

  Conn rubbed his brow. “Frustrating.”

  “You asked for this, McCrea. Begged for it, I might add.”

  “I know.”

  “Need I remind you of how you stormed into my office, interrupting a sensitive meeting with the mayor, demanding that I hurry to witness your debrief with Ivers?”

  Conn was silent.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t put you on probation,” Fitzgerald said. “Had you been any other agent, I certainly would have. But you’re one of our finest. And, given your history, if you were willing to give a Shade the benefit of the doubt, I suppose I had to listen to your rather extraordinary plan. I gave you what you wanted. So don’t whine. Give me results.”

  Conn told her about my upcoming meeting with Meridian, but I didn’t pay attention. I could only think of Conn’s defiance to Ivers, who had been ready to torture me. I remembered Conn’s urgent voice as he had rushed me away from him, down the IBI halls to solitary confinement. I heard Conn’s promise that he would be back. And I suddenly understood that even though he’d thrown me headlong into trouble, he’d saved me from it, too.

  Fitzgerald said, “We need to know Meridian’s plan. Jones needs to make that meeting.”

  “Yes … but I’m not sure she will.”

  “Please tell me that I misheard you.”

  “She knows that as soon as she can ghost at will, there’s nothing to stop her from using any portal she likes.”

  Fitzgerald leaned back, exhaling. “Well,” she said. “I suppose we should be grateful she didn’t discover this sooner. It was only a matter of time. But”—she raised one finger—“Jones does not know how to control her shadow.”

  “No.”

  “Thank God for small favors. That means we still have some leverage. Work it, McCrea. Milk her for all she’s worth while we can.”

  Conn looked at her.

  Fitzgerald widened her eyes in disbelief. “Unless, of course, you’d like to see Ravenswood happen again.”

  “No.”

  “Good. When’s your next meeting?”

  “Monday. If she comes.”

  “She’d better. When she does, make her a promise. Tell her that we’re pleased with her reports, and that we’ll send her home soon—as soon as we know Meridian’s plan.”

  “And if she gives us partial information?”

  “I do not need to tell you how to string someone along. Just do it.” Fitzgerald stood. “That will be all.”

  Conn didn’t reply, but there was a rebellious glint in his gaze. Then he stood and headed for the door. For a moment, I couldn’t move. I felt rooted in place, like I had truly become part of the tree and would grow with it, like my perception of Conn was growing, changing, putting out tender new twigs, green vines, baby leaves tightly curled.

  The sound of the doorknob as it turned in his hand jolted me out of my trance. I floated toward him.

  “Don’t screw this up, McCrea,” Fitzgerald called. “Ivers would be glad to have your hide, and if you fail me, I’ll be glad to let him.”

  Conn glanced over his shoulder and we were suddenly face-to-face. I pulled back, unnerved, but his eyes stared right through me, focusing on Fitzgerald.

  “I’d expect nothing less,” he told her, and walked out of the office, grabbing his coat and waving at Helen as he passed her desk.

  Then it was back through the carpeted offices, down a narrow hall that gave way to iron and gray marble. Conn opened a wooden door. I was already following him into this new room when he shifted, and I saw the sign his body had blocked.

  He stepped forward. The door swung shut behind him.

  MEN’S LOCKER ROOM, the sign said.

  I took a deep breath. Then I slipped through the door.

  32

  I swooped after Conn, because if I didn’t move fast my hesitation would get the better of me and I’d end up pacing outside the locker room, missing the kind of revelations I’d just heard.

  Conn halted in front of a locker, and I flew into him before I could stop myself. His feet stood right below me, as if they were my feet. His hand reached out as if it were my hand and pressed a thumb to a pad exactly where a spin lock should go. It occurred to me that if I lost control of my shadow now, my body would come alive inside Conn’s.

  I jerked back.

  Lockers whined, banged open, banged shut. Men were seated along the wooden bench, pulling off the polished boots of the IBI uniform. Others were walking across the room with towels draped around their hips, hair wet, bare feet slap-slapping on the floor. I heard the hiss and whistle of showers not too far away.

 
Joking with Lily about being a fly on the wall in the boys’ locker room was one thing. This was real. It was too real.

  I decided to focus on the contents of Conn’s locker. Jeans and a stone-colored sweater. Very uninteresting. Very non-distracting. Very unhelpful.

  “McCrea.” A young man leaned against the lockers next to Conn’s. “Punching out early?” he asked in a mock disapproving tone.

  “So are you, Paulo.”

  “It is Friday. Got plans?”

  “Yes.”

  Catcalls came from nearby men.

  “I’ve got to get out of this thing.” Conn yanked at the top button of his uniform. “Why do they have to make the collars so tight?”

  “To make me look good.” Paulo grinned.

  Conn rolled his eyes. Then he shrugged off his shirt, balled it, and pitched it into a laundry basket.

  If I’d had any breath, I would have lost it.

  The strong wings of his shoulder blades. The ribbon of his spine. A narrow waist. The faded tattoo of a circle marking his upper right shoulder.

  I’d seen this all before, in the back of the truck rumbling toward the IBI. But I had hated him then.

  A thought cracked delicately inside me like a frail egg that spilled out a secret I had been keeping from myself for some time now.

  I didn’t hate him anymore.

  Conn’s skin looked new because he was new. Because he was a stranger again, someone who had fought to save me from the situation he’d created, who had broken his nose as a boy, who had asked me what I longed to eat and offered art I longed to see. He was someone I wanted to understand.

  He unbuckled his belt.

  My gaze fell to the floor. My entire body would have blushed, if I’d had one. I examined the tiny white floor tiles and listened to Paulo talk about traffic tickets.

  Then he said, “Conn. What are you wearing?”

  I glanced up. Conn had pulled on the jeans and sweater. “I got it in the Alter.”

  “No no no,” said Paulo. “If you’re going out tonight, you’re not looking like an Alter-addled weirdo.”

  “It’s comfortable.”

  “Flannel trousers. A nice, sharp tailored suit. It’s the fashion.”

  “It’s not the law.”

  Paulo held up both hands as if to show he had no weapon. “Hey. You want to commit sartorial suicide, you go right ahead.” He shut his locker and leaned against it. “About the Alter … how’s your project?”

  “Project?” called a new voice. It was Michael, strutting down the aisle.

  “None of your business,” said Conn.

  “Project Jones,” Michael drawled. “I’d like to project her.”

  Conn flinched. Then he bit his lip, hard, and pulled on his coat.

  “You’re sick, Mike,” said Paulo. “Shades and humans do not mix.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Michael. “Seriously, McCrea, I’m surprised you signed up for this. Kind of twisted, isn’t it? Interrogating her must be like talking with your worst nightmare. Why do you do it? Halloween was almost two months ago.”

  “That’s right,” Conn said coolly. “So then who let you out of your cage?”

  Michael’s eyes flashed.

  “Now, Mike,” said Paulo. “It was a joke.”

  “No,” said Conn. “It wasn’t.” He held his body ready, to take a blow or strike one of his own.

  “Hey,” Paulo said to Michael, smiling, “some of us are going out to Allegri’s after. Wanna come?”

  Michael scowled at Conn.

  “Conn’s got plans,” Paulo said easily.

  “Yeah, sure,” Michael mumbled. “Meet you there.” He stalked away.

  As soon as the locker room door had swung shut behind him, Paulo turned to Conn with a big, sarcastic thumbs-up. “Good job, Conn. You’ve made an enemy out of Ivers’s lapdog.”

  “He made an enemy of me,” said Conn, and stalked toward the door.

  I was floating after him when I noticed someone watching from a far bench. He was middle-aged, with a hefty body and prematurely gray hair. His eyes were on Conn, and had been for some time, I thought. Given the tense expression on his face, he seemed to have listened to the entire exchange.

  That was not what startled me.

  I remembered him.

  I stared, trying to unclog my memory, yet the more I struggled, the more it fought back. And beneath it, fear bubbled like black tar.

  I wanted to remember. Some part of me, though, didn’t want to, and would fight tooth and nail to keep it from happening. Maybe it was the wisest part of me.

  I heard the door swing shut. Conn was gone.

  I looked at the door. I looked at the man. The choice was clear, and I knew what I should do.

  But then the invisible string that tied me to Conn tugged on the line, and I didn’t even really decide. I simply followed him.

  * * *

  HE GOT OUT OF THE SUBWAY at an area that sort of looked like the Ukrainian Village. Through the twilight, I could see tall, old Victorian houses, and when Conn rested his eyes on one of them his shoulders relaxed, and I wondered if he was glad to see whomever he was visiting, or if maybe this was his home.

  It was the kind of house I used to dream about when I was little. It had gables, bay windows, fresh paint. Every window in the house glowed, and I could see a dog hurtling through the living room to jump at the front door. I heard glad barking. A little girl was sitting on the couch, her legs too short to reach the floor, a book open on her lap.

  Conn pulled a set of keys from his pocket. He was home.

  But he didn’t walk up the front steps. He went around to the backyard, where a swing set sang in the wind. The back of the house had one dark window and a weathered door. Conn set his key in the lock and went inside.

  It was a studio apartment, completely separate from the rest of the house.

  The walls were white and bare. A bar partitioned the main room from a tiny kitchen with a two-plate stove and a clean, empty sink. A stool stood at the bar. Books were stacked on the floor along the walls of the entire main room, except where a mattress lay on the floor, pushed into a corner. At the center of the apartment was a table cluttered with tools, gears, and blueprints.

  Conn walked into the kitchen to open the narrow refrigerator, then went to the living room with a sandwich on a plate and a glass of water, which he rested on the only clear spot on the table. He pulled the stool from the bar, lowered it, and dragged it up to the table. He sat, poring over pages of mechanical designs as he ate. When he finished, he leaned to set the empty plate on the bar, brushed his hands, and picked up a pair of pliers and something that looked like a carburator. He settled back and proceeded to take the thing apart.

  For some time there was no sound except a bare branch scratching at the dark window, the jingle of metallic parts, and the clunk of the pliers hitting the table when Conn dropped them to pick up a screwdriver. His face softened and filled with peace. I had never seen him look like that before.

  Conn showed no intention of doing anything else than tinkering all night long. This, it seemed, was his big Friday night plan.

  The screwdriver slipped, stabbing into Conn’s other hand. He swore and dropped the part, which thumped onto the table and then onto the floor, where it broke apart and scattered.

  For a moment, Conn stared at the gears rocking on the floor, at the screws spinning on their heads like little break-dancers. Then, with a movement so sudden I nearly jumped out of my invisible skin, he flung out his arm and swept everything off the table. Metal hit the floor with the jangle of a thousand tuneless bells. Conn dropped his head into his hands.

  He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, shoulders tight, body frozen, breathless.

  Enough. I felt as if I had destroyed something. He never would have shown me this. He never would have shared anything I had seen and heard. I had stolen it.

  Guilt sickened me as I glided toward an outside wall, ready to fade away.

/>   Conn’s head snapped up, and his eyes zeroed in on me. They went wide with disbelief, then livid with rage.

  He could see my shadow.

  He vaulted off the stool and grabbed something from the pile of metal on the floor.

  A flamethrower.

  With a click, it came alive, spitting a stream of fire. Conn lifted it like a blazing sword and stepped steadily toward me.

  33

  My mind disintegrated at the sight of fire, babbling Run run run and He doesn’t know it’s you, he can’t know it’s you. Go, go now!

  If I stayed, fear would melt my body into being, and then he would know that I was that shadow. He would know.

  That thought was more terrifying than fire.

  Yet … I chose to stay.

  I poured myself back into my skin, feeling flesh cloak my bones and adrenaline spike my blood so strongly it felt like poison. “Conn.” I swallowed. “It’s me.”

  He lowered the flamethrower. “You,” he said slowly, as if the word was part of a foreign language. “You.” He switched off the flames, and I almost sighed with relief. Then I saw his face. It was worse than before. There was still rage, yes. But also betrayal.

  “How long?” he whispered.

  “How—what?” I stammered.

  “How long have you been here?” he shouted.

  My lungs swelled with everything I couldn’t say. I closed my mouth. Drew back.

  “Since the beach,” Conn said through gritted teeth. He nodded. His knuckles clenched white around the flamethrower before he flung it to the floor. “You’ve followed me since the beach. The whole time.”

  I forced myself to speak. “Yes.”

  “How dare you?” he hissed.

  “You wanted this,” I said, suddenly frightened. Not of him, but of what I had done. “I mean, not this this, but you wanted me to learn how to ghost. You demanded it. Didn’t you want me to spy on people? Not on you, of course, but—”