Shine

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “What’s wrong?” I took a seat on the city bus headed down Charles Street. “Is it Mickey?” Megan’s morose boyfriend, Logan’s older brother, was the usual cause of her tears.

  “It’s everything else.” She sniffled. “We’re doing three viewings tonight for Flight 346 victims. That’s why I can’t meet you on time.”

  “Did you have to talk to their ghosts?” At her family’s funeral home, Megan translated dead people’s wishes for their services.

  “One of them, this fourteen-year-old girl. She said she won’t pass on until her little sister stops crying. Sometimes I hate this job.”

  Megan rarely complained to me about work. She couldn’t wait to take over the business one day and make it more ghost-friendly, catering to goths and punks or anyone who wanted drama with their final exit.

  “I never cry when strangers die,” she told me as my bus rumbled past row homes in various states of repair—some boarded up and falling apart, some with full flower gardens and painted porches. “But I can’t stop thinking about this crash. On TV it’s nothing but Flight 346, Flight 346. I feel like I know every person on that plane, even the ones who aren’t our clients.”

  “Yeah,” I said sympathetically, though I’d tried to avoid OD’ing on disaster coverage. Maybe it was callous, but I was too worried about the living to mourn the dead.

  I thought about the fourteen-year-old girl Megan had mentioned. Could she be the DMP witness who saw Logan and Zachary talking in the airport?

  “How was your interrogation?” Megan asked.

  I was relieved to hear she knew nothing about Zachary from watching the news. Gina said the DMP wouldn’t release his name to the press, supposedly because he was a minor. But I wondered if it was really because they didn’t want the public scrutiny.

  An old guy in a floppy hat got on the bus and sat in front of me. I looked around, but didn’t see any seats away from people who might hear. “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Then I’ll come to your house tonight—with mochas.”

  After hanging up, I frowned at my phone. If the DMP had bugged it, I couldn’t have a private conversation with anyone, no matter who was around.

  A sudden thought slapped me so hard, I almost yelped.

  Eowyn Harris called me last night. On this phone. The one the DMP had probably bugged. That meant they could trace the call and track her down. Steal my mom’s journal. . . .

  And find out my dad was a ghost.

  I stood at the Flight 346 vigil site at Mount Vernon Place, inhaling the scent of fresh-cut flowers and trying to calm my fears.

  Photo posters of the deceased were taped to the gilded wrought-iron fence encircling the Washington Monument. The pillar was about a third the height of the more famous monument in DC, but topped with a statue of George Washington. Every December, Baltimore decorated it with white holiday lights, then purple lights when the Ravens made the playoffs. Now, it was draped in black.

  Traffic rumbled over the plaza’s cobblestones, but I could hear the prayer group gathered on the north side of the monument. They were singing both national anthems, though most were merely humming “God Save the Queen,” which had the same tune as “My Country ’Tis of Thee.” Baltimore and London would be forever linked in mourning.

  A college-age African-American guy wandered closer to where I stood. The piles of flowers and teddy bears created a wide moat, so he had to bend forward to read the posters’ captions. He adjusted his glasses and squinted at a heart-shaped piece of pink construction paper that read in a child’s scrawl, We Love You, Miss Korman.

  The guy pulled out a small white flag with a red cross. He crouched down and inserted it next to an American flag, between two gilded whorls in the wrought-iron fence.

  “What kind of flag is that?” I asked him.

  He looked up at me, startled. “Hmm?”

  “Which country? Switzerland?”

  His face broke into a warm smile. “It’s England, love.”

  Okay, so he wasn’t African-American, he was, uh, African-English? Or maybe just English.

  “Sorry,” I said, “I didn’t know England had its own flag. I figured they used the Union Jack.”

  “That’s for the United Kingdom, which England is part of, along with Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland.”

  “Well, I knew that. And I knew Scotland had its own flag. The Saint Andrew’s Cross.”

  He gestured to the English flag. “Ours is Saint George’s Cross. How do you know so much about Scotland?”

  “My—” I stopped, not wanting to reveal too much. “My English class. We studied Robert Burns.”

  “Ah.” He started reciting one of Burns’s poems, in an even worse Scottish accent than mine. I couldn’t help wonder what Zachary and his dad would—

  Wait. Thinking of Ian reminded me what he’d said today. Someone will be contacting you shortly. Maybe this was that “someone.”

  But as much as I liked the direct approach, it seemed dumb to blurt, “Hey, are you a secret agent?” So I checked out his clothes to see if anything screamed “spy.” Which of course it wouldn’t, if he were a good one.

  “What did you think of Wee Robbie?” he asked.

  His question jolted me out of my thoughts. “Who?”

  “The poet?”

  “Oh. I couldn’t understand a single word on the page, but when the teacher had—” I stopped myself from mentioning Zachary. “When she had a, um, recording of an actual Scotsman reading it, it made sense. Except the words that weren’t in English.” Zachary had hammered home the point that Scots wasn’t a dialect but a language sprung from others like French and Norwegian, in the same way that English mostly evolved from Latin and German. I longed to hear one of his patient, pedantic explanations right now.

  The Englishman stepped closer, avoiding a bouquet of red and white daisies leaning over into the sidewalk.

  “Did you lose someone in the crash?” he asked softly.

  Hmm, if he’s MI-X, this could be a test. See how much I’ll give away about myself.

  “No. Did you?”

  “I’m here in the name of international solidarity.” He shifted his feet. “Talking of which, fancy a cup of coffee?”

  I followed his gesture to see a violet-and-black NEW LOCATION! banner over the Free Spirit Café, a local coffee shop where ghosts took people’s orders and live humans delivered the food and drink. It was popular with pre-Shifters and their little kids, but no one I knew hung out there.

  “We just met.” I was not going to make this easy for Spy Boy. Not until I knew that’s what he was, and not some random college dude chatting me up.

  “True, but by the time we have coffee, that ‘just met’ will be a bit further behind us.”

  “I can’t. I have—” No, don’t say “boyfriend.” “Work in the morning.”

  “It’s only quarter past eight.”

  “And in an hour, you’ll still be too old for me.”

  “I’m only seventeen,” he said.

  “More like twenty-two, I’m guessing.”

  His mouth opened, then closed. “I thought I was getting it right.”

  “Getting what right?”

  His tone turned pure business. “Have coffee with me, and we’ll discuss how we can help Zachary Moore.”

  “Is this decaf?” the thirty-whatever mom asked the human waitress as I took a window table with the English stranger.

  The waitress checked the ticket. “It doesn’t say decaf.”

  “I can’t have caffeine.” The customer slammed the mug onto the waitress’s tray, almost spilling it onto her young daughter’s head. “It makes me tense.”

  I grimaced across the table at my companion. “I hate these places.”

  “I know,” he said. “Er, that is, it seemed best for us to chat somewhere we wouldn’t be seen by any of your usual acquaintances.”

  I wanted to ask him a million questions, starting with, “How’d you know I never come to this coffe
e shop?” but more important, “How do we help Zachary?”

  “Hello!” A ghost with short hair and straight-cut bangs appeared beside our table. “I’m Tracy! Welcome to the Free Spirit Café.” She beamed at me. “Can he see me or just you?”

  “Just me.” Maybe Mystery Dude looked younger than I thought.

  The woman in the corner was still berating the human waitress. “Tell that stupid ghost I’ll have her fired if she doesn’t shape up.”

  Ex-Tracy clicked her tongue. “God, her again. She’s one of those pre-Shifters who comes in here all the time for the sole purpose of mocking ghosts. So what can I get you?”

  I placed our orders quickly to make her go away.

  When she vanished, I said, “We’re alone.”

  “Right, then.” The English guy opened a crimson three-ring binder. “You’re probably wondering who I am and who I work for.”

  “From your accent, I’m guessing you work for MI-X, and your name is something über-British like Nigel.”

  “Close. Simon.” He reached across to shake my hand while sliding a folded black leather badge holder across the table. I opened it, noting his full name, Simon Wheeler, then examined the MI-X logo. A three-headed serpent with the body of a dragon reared fiercely in the center of a circle topped by a crown. The Latin motto, Verum ex arcanum, curled beneath the hydra’s talons.

  “What’s that mean in English?”

  “Roughly? ‘Truth from secrets.’ ”

  I found the translation comforting but creepy.

  “Please tell me good news on Zachary.” I gave back the badge. “You’re cracking skulls to set him free?”

  “MI-X is doing all it can, at every level.” His dark eyes softened. “It could take a while.”

  “What’s a while? Days? Weeks?” When Simon glanced away, I nearly shouted. “Months?”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  My hands tightened on the polished table edge. “You asked me to have coffee so we could talk about how to help him. So how do I help him?”

  “In the immediate future, the best way to help him—or to not make things worse, at least—is to keep yourself safe. Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “What’s that mean? Don’t do anything at all?”

  “Yes, for now, during this chaos. Remember, it’s only twenty-four hours since the crash. Your role is more long-term.”

  “Here you go!” The waitress delivered our cappuccinos and biscotti. Simon drew four sugar packets from the dispenser and gave me two.

  How did he know I took two sugars? How long had he been watching me?

  He pulled a padded envelope from his backpack. “Your new phone. Use it only to call us in MI-X. No one else has the number.”

  I peeked inside the envelope—the phone was red, which gave me a pang of longing for Zachary. It also reminded me:

  “You guys should check on Eowyn Harris. She called me on a phone the DMP might have bugged.”

  He grimaced. “Oh, that’s not good. I’ll alert my supervisor so MI-X can remove her to a safe house. Do not attempt further contact with her.”

  I seethed in silence as he placed a hushed, hurried phone call. Eowyn had been my and Zachary’s best source of information about the Shift, and now she’d be out of reach.

  “Who is your supervisor?” I asked after he hung up.

  “Minerva Wolcott. She’s MI-X’s new DMP liaison.”

  “So your boss is Ian Moore’s replacement, which is why you’re following me.”

  “Precisely. I’ll be enrolling in your high school as an exchange student.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two. As you guessed.”

  His face could pass for eighteen, but his demeanor was way too mature for a high school student. Then again, people might think he was just being English.

  Simon swirled his spoon through the cappuccino. “It’s probably best if we avoid each other at school, lest the other students wonder why you always hang out with foreigners.”

  “Let me get this straight. I have to (a) shut up, and (b) ignore you. Then Zachary will magically be released? This is bullshit, Simon.”

  “There is something else you can do.” He let the spoon drip into his cup before setting it on the saucer. “Should you encounter information that would damage the DMP, please let us know. It could give us the leverage we need to gain Zachary’s freedom.”

  My pulse jumped with hope. “What kind of information? Where do I get it?”

  “That’s up to you.” He dunked his biscotti with a calm, elegant maneuver, again stretching out the tension. “The key is to ensure that they see you sympathetically. If you continue to piss them off, all avenues of information could close.” He bit the biscotti, then wiped his mouth with the violet paper napkin. “Things could get dangerous.”

  My spine chilled. “Dangerous for me?”

  “Some elements within the DMP are looking for any excuse to, well—disincentivize you, as we say in the business.”

  My mind replayed his words in a rapid panic.

  “Disincent—what, kill me? Why?”

  “Your birth coincided with the Shift. Both agencies know it. What we don’t know yet is whether your birth caused the Shift.”

  Yes, it did. “No, it’s a coincidence.”

  He angled his head in an oh please posture. “Point being, if your birth did cause the Shift, perhaps only your death can end it.”

  I’d never heard anyone but me say that out loud.

  Simon continued, “The DMP’s unstated mission is to rid the world of ghosts, or at least make it so they can’t communicate with the living.”

  “Why are they so afraid?”

  “Their fear isn’t entirely irrational. Almost any sensitive government information—weapons development, diplomatic strategies, troop movements—could be revealed by a ghost who was in the right place at the right time.”

  “No, it couldn’t. Military bases and government buildings have BlackBox to keep that stuff safe from ghosts.”

  “But what happens when a person with a top secret security clearance dies and becomes a ghost? He won’t forget everything he knew in life, will he?”

  Simon had a point. Because ghosts were almost everywhere, and since they couldn’t lie, post-Shifters had to live painfully honest lives. A few weeks ago the Ridgewood prom prince broke up with the prom princess because a bratty eleven-year-old ghost saw her making out with a guy from Gilman (our archrival).

  But the honesty wasn’t all bad, and it affected more than post-Shifters. In the four years since ghosts had started testifying at murder trials (some of which I’d translated for), the homicide rate had plummeted. Organized crime rings were disintegrating, since bosses could no longer use the fear of “getting whacked” against their own members. Murders that did occur were either complete stealth jobs or crimes of passion.

  So in our future world of ghosts and post-Shifter adults, governments would have to be as honest as their citizens. No wonder they were scared.

  “But if they wanted to kill me”—I tried not to stutter—“they could’ve done it last week when they captured me and Zach.” I glanced at the window, painted black to keep the restaurant dark enough to see ghosts. “Heck, they could do it any minute.”

  “True. I honestly don’t know why they haven’t taken you out.” He picked up his cappuccino. “But I can only assume you’re more useful to them alive than dead.”

  “For now, you mean.”

  Simon’s cup stopped halfway to his lips. “Yeah. For now.”

  Chapter Eight

  I couldn’t sleep that night, waiting for Zachary’s parents to call me. Their plane would land in Glasgow in early morning, which meant two or three a.m. here. Would they call me right away, or wait until they thought I was awake? Wouldn’t they know I’d stay awake until they called?

  The first thing I’d ask Ian was whether I should trust Simon, and whether the young agent’s warning could be true. I still had trouble
believing that the Department of Metaphysical Purity—or at least some part of it—wanted to kill me. But maybe MI-X knew worse things about the DMP than I did.

  Giving up on sleep, I slipped out of bed and put on an old pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. It was warm out, but where I was going, there’d probably be mosquitoes.

  Carrying my shoes, I tiptoed down the hall past Gina’s room. As I reached the stairs, she gave an extra-loud, snorty snore, the kind that made me wonder if she had sleep apnea and would have a heart attack one night and never wake up. Not that I’m morbid much.

  I stood on the top step, toes hanging over and twitching in the air as I decided what to do. Finally, I went to her door and pushed it open.

  She came instantly alert, mom-style. “Yeah! What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Aw, hon. Did you want to sleep in here with me?”

  “No, thanks. I’m not tired.” I’m also not four years old. “I need to take the car.”

  She squinted at the red digits of her nightstand clock. “It’s midnight. Where are you going?” When I told her, she shook her head. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s safe up there.”

  “Maybe. But driving between here and the highway is definitely not safe for a girl on her own.”

  “I could’ve snuck out.”

  “You think I don’t keep track of the odometer? That’s the first thing they teach in Surviving a Teenager 101.”

  I sighed at her patronizing joke. “Gina, I need to go. Can’t you understand why?”

  “Of course I can.” She threw back the sheet. “Which is why I’m coming with you.”

  On our way to Farmer Frank’s wheat field, where Zachary and I had spent one night a month mapping stars for Eowyn, I found the nerve to ask Aunt Gina about my dad.

  Indirectly.

  “Why did my mom want to go to Ireland so bad? And why Newgrange at the solstice? Did she hear about it and think, ‘Wow, that sounds cool’?”

  “Sort of.” The blue dashboard light cast shadows on Gina’s smile lines. “You remember that guy Anthony I told you about? The one who—”

  “Took care of Mom the first time she had cancer.” And who you had an affair with.