Shine

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “Wow,” I said. “I’d love to hear more about that.” My tone was hollow and insincere. All I wanted was to be by Zachary’s side, not pumping the ego of a dead commando.

  He eyed me. “I’d better not. They might come after my family. It’s best if I pass on before I say too much.”

  “No! We can talk about something else.” I suddenly remembered I had more than my own voice to lull him. I reached under the collar of my shirt and pulled out the clear quartz necklace. “What was your favorite TV show?”

  “Child, you are ridiculous, and I—” He stopped when he saw the stone around my neck. “Ah.” The outlines of his violet form smoothed as he felt the gem’s ghost-calming effects.

  “Don’t go,” I whispered. “Please. Tell me how you followed me for so long.”

  Instead he frowned. “I’ve never been seen by a target, not until you.”

  “Is that why you disappeared after we saw you at Newgrange?”

  He laughed. “I didn’t disappear. I kept watching you.”

  Up on the balcony, Zachary made a choking noise, moaning. I started for the stairs, certain he was dying, then heard Martin say, “Dinnae worry yersel’, mate. You only need one lung tae breathe.”

  I stopped and took a deep breath myself. Zachary was counting on me—the world was counting on me—to keep this ghost so he could give us the truth.

  “If you were watching us,” I asked ex-Timian, “why didn’t you save us from those crazy Children of the Sun at Dowth?”

  “All I knew was that you’d entered the megalith, not that anyone was waiting for you. When the girl ran out, I tracked her until she reached her car, then called two of my colleagues to follow her. Next thing I saw was you covered in blood. Then I lost you on the road—your boyfriend’s a crazy driver, by the way—and decided to come straight to Glasgow. I figured you’d end up in Zachary’s hometown, but I thought it’d be last night. You surprised me.”

  “Why were you following us, if not to kill us?”

  “We wanted to ensure that you didn’t enter the UK, where you’d both be out of reach if Zachary told anyone about his treatment at DMP hands.”

  “The DMP sent you?”

  “No, they know nothing of our following you. But the agency has done so much for us and our client, keeping an eye on you was the least I could do.” Ex-Timian stopped. “I should see if I can find my wife, have someone speak to her for me.”

  “Wait! If you show up as a ghost before she knows you’re dead, it’ll destroy her. Believe me, I know.”

  His chin tilted up. “Ah, yes, I read the report of your former boyfriend’s death.”

  “It was horrible,” I whispered. “Listen, there are lots of ways to find peace. Logan found it by doing the right thing. That might be your way, too.”

  “Maybe.” Ex–Agent Timian wavered, his violet light shimmering. “Or maybe not.”

  Behind me a voice shouted, “MI-X! Nobody move.”

  “About fuckin’ time,” one of Zachary’s friends said. “Zachary’s up there bleedin’ to death, and there’s apparently a ghost here wot needs capturing,” he added laconically, as if telling an exterminator where to find the cockroaches.

  “Got it,” said a female agent with an English accent.

  A pure white light filled the dim room—an activated clear quartz summoner. The agent had a ghost-trapping box.

  “No!” Ex-Timian windmilled his arms, trying to escape as his form slid toward the woman. Maybe it was old habit, but I felt a pang of sympathy as I watched him go.

  In a few moments, a loud beep sounded, signaling that the ghost was in the box. As the noise faded, it was replaced by the siren of an ambulance.

  I ran back up the stairs, where the agent whose head I’d bashed was now awake, though glassy-eyed. One of Zachary’s friends, a hulking blond with a neck tattoo of a harp, was guarding him.

  “Thanks,” I said to the boy, who looked at least a year older than us.

  “Nae bother. I’m Niall,” he said, pronouncing it like Neil. “Downstairs is Roland, and Frankie’s the fat one. The ugly one’s Graham.”

  “Oh.” As I moved toward Zachary, I glanced over the balcony edge to see which guys he was referring to.

  “It’s a trick,” Martin muttered, wiping Zachary’s brow. “They’re all fat and ugly.”

  Two pairs of EMTs arrived with gurneys and med kits. I knelt next to Zachary.

  “Get the ghost?” he whispered.

  “We did. So now I can do this.” I softly kissed his unbruised cheek. “Mo anam caraid.”

  He smiled up at me. “Always.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  A week after his emergency surgery, Zachary was moved to a normal, non-intensive-care hospital room, where I could stay by his side for hours instead of staring at him through a window for a few minutes at a time.

  The Nighthawk’s bullet itself had gone through his shoulder and hadn’t hit any vital organs. But the impact had collapsed his right lung and caused a ton of internal bleeding, not to mention cracked his collarbone.

  I’d called Aunt Gina on the way to the hospital, and she’d boarded the first available flight to Glasgow, arriving Christmas morning. Ian himself was released from the hospital that day, so we shared a worried but thankful dinner together—just the four of us, since Martin had gone home for the holiday weekend.

  On Monday, Simon arrived with his supervisor, Minerva Wolcott. Ian had picked her as his successor because they’d worked together—as had their fathers and grandfathers—in the secret paranormal agency that preceded MI-X. She was as tough and wise as her Roman goddess namesake.

  With Simon and Minerva came the secretary of the Department of Metaphysical Purity. To see me. And, surprisingly, not to kill me.

  Between Zachary’s revelations about his time in Area 3A, and ex–Agent Timian’s statements about the role of Nighthawk and SecuriLab in the bombing of Flight 346, things were going to change.

  The secretary outlined his plan to us.

  It included major changes in the implementation of the DMP “selective service,” which Congress might end up repealing anyway. Post-Shifters would still have to register and face heavy recruitment, but the penalties for avoiding the “draft” would be changed from prison and major fines to community service requirements. So if you objected to a job with the DMP, you could work off your “patriotic duty” (as Becca had called it) by volunteering at a soup kitchen or animal shelter, for example. Ghost-related charities would be worth double-time in meeting community service obligations. Not bad.

  The DMP would end its “indefinite detainment” of at-risk ghosts, instead doing an annual review of each case, like a parole hearing. That way, some less dangerous ARGs could be set free to continue haunting—or better yet, to pass on.

  Best of all, Area 3A would be shut down. I would’ve preferred that they let Zachary and me set fire to it ourselves, but it wasn’t a perfect world.

  Two days later, the secretary flew home, announced the changes, and promptly resigned. I might not have brought the DMP to its knees, but I’d made it sit in a corner until it could behave.

  When I arrived at the hospital on New Year’s Eve afternoon, Martin was already there—and so was Niall. Along with all the big-picture benefits of our showdown with Nighthawk, Zachary’s friends were all friends again.

  “Hiya, lass,” the two of them said in unison as I walked in. Zachary’s tired expression grew animated at the sight of the cookies in my hand.

  “Where’d you find dark chocolate HobNobs?” He gazed up at me like I’d turned water into wine. “They’re dead scarce around here these days.”

  “I heard there were some in a shop in Edinburgh, so I took the train.”

  Martin and Niall recoiled. “And how is Auld Reekie?” Niall asked.

  I looked at Zachary for a translation. He rolled his eyes. “It’s what Glaswegians call Edinburgh, because the distilleries used to make the city reek like burnt toast. But that was back
when we were weans. It smells fine now.”

  “It did,” I said. “Edinburgh’s really pretty.”

  This time, even Zachary gagged.

  “The only good thing ever came out of Edinburgh is the train to Glasgow.” Martin snatched the cookies from me. “And now these biscuits.”

  “Hey! Those are for the patient.” I grabbed for the packet, but Martin pulled it out of reach.

  “And the patient’s only got one hand. Just trying tae help.” Martin slid his finger under the sealed plastic. “Possibly take a wee, one-biscuit fee for my trouble.”

  Zachary eyed his sling. “I’ll be in this contraption a while. I’d better learn how to do a lot of things one-handed.” At the sound of his friends’ raucous snickers, he said, “Oh, shut up. Isn’t it time for you lot to hit the pubs?”

  “Past time.” Martin stuffed a cookie in his mouth and handed the packet to Niall. “They’ve been open for hours.”

  Niall dropped the cookies into Zachary’s lap (after taking one). “Sorry you’ll miss your first Hogmanay, mate, but we’ll raise a glass or thirteen for ya.”

  “Cheers.” Zachary looked glum. Even though he wasn’t a big drinker, I knew he wanted to celebrate this rowdiest of Scottish holidays with his friends. “We’ll make up for it next time, right?”

  I realized he was talking to me. “Right.” I took his hand, warming at the thought of us together here next year, and the year after that, and so on.

  “We’ll be back to see ya when we’ve recovered,” Niall said.

  “If we recover.” Martin patted Zachary’s shoulder—the injured one, of course. “Oh, sorry.” He saluted me. “Enjoy your one-handed visit.”

  On their way out the door, Zachary’s friends chortled gleefully, like ten-year-old boys. One of them mentioned something about the “Prince of Wank.”

  “What did they call you?” I asked Zachary.

  “Nothing. So, Edinburgh. It was lovely?”

  I had a feeling I was treading on sensitive ground, like telling a Philadelphian about Pittsburgh. “It was all right. Glasgow’s better.”

  “Good girl.” He took a bite of cookie, then rolled up his eyes in ecstasy. “No, not a girl. A goddess.”

  I wanted to crawl into bed with him, but instead shifted my chair so I could sit and hold his hand. “Aunt Gina’s flying back Sunday morning. Once she’s gone I can stay here with you longer. I feel like I have to take her sightseeing and shopping to make up for scaring her so bad.”

  “When do classes start again at Ridgewood?” he asked without looking at me.

  “Monday. I’ll see if they’ll let me take midterms long-distance. Maybe one of the teaching assistants at the college here can proctor my exams. Basically, watch me take the test and then sign a form that says I didn’t cheat.”

  He traced my thumbnail with the pad of his finger. “And what if not?”

  “Then I guess I’ll drop out. I aced the SATs and sent in all my college applications. They never care what you do the last semester of your senior year.”

  Zachary frowned. “That’s no’ always true, and you know it.”

  “I don’t care,” I said softly.

  “I do,” he replied, even more softly. “Aura, you have to go home. Now that you’re safe from the DMP. Go back with your aunt on Sunday.”

  “No.”

  “You have to finish school.”

  I gripped his hand. “But I promised I wouldn’t leave you.”

  “No, you promised I’d never be alone again. And I’m not alone. I’ve my friends, my parents.” He sighed. “My psychiatrist.”

  “I know, but—”

  “And I have you.” He raised his gaze to meet mine. “Now that we’ve been together—and I don’t mean in bed, though that’s part of it—we’ll never truly be apart again.”

  I hated and loved that he was right. It would be so hard to leave him, especially knowing all he’d suffered. Not to mention what we’d suffered.

  But knowing for certain that we belonged together—a matter I’d lost all doubt about the moment I fell into his arms at the Dublin Airport—would turn our good-bye into a see-you-later. We’d always find our way back to each other.

  Without letting go, I sat on the edge of the bed. “I promise I’ll be back the second I graduate.”

  “I know you will. And I’ll worry every hour. I’ll wish you were by my side where I could watch over you and fight for you and kiss you, a lot.” He touched the clear quartz stone at my throat, then drew his finger down, making my whole body tingle. “And other things.”

  I ached with need for his touch, and with the knowledge that I’d lose it again so soon. “I’ll wish that, too.” I leaned in for a lingering kiss. “Especially the other things.”

  As I pulled away, he looked to his right. His room wasn’t private, but no patient occupied the bed by the door. Only the most serious cases remained in the hospital, since no one would undergo (or perform) elective surgery during the holidays.

  Zachary gave me a wicked grin. “Close the curtain, aye?”

  All my life, whenever I’d traveled to a cool place like Italy or New York City or California, a part of me thought, “Hmm, I could live here.” But then as soon as I’d return to Baltimore and see the long, calm Chesapeake Bay to the east, or the green rolling hills and farmland to the west, I’d feel deep in my gut that Maryland was my home. I belonged here.

  This time, flying across those familiar lands, I didn’t get that feeling.

  Not that I suddenly hated my hometown. Just the opposite—being away reminded me of all the things I loved about Baltimore. The food, the football, the weird and friendly people.

  But it was no longer mine. I’d become dislodged, restless, homeless. I felt like a tourist. Every waking moment—and many of the sleeping ones—I felt a pull across the ocean, to Ireland’s brilliant green fields and Glasgow’s dark, brooding beauty.

  It would be provoked by the stupidest things: like the first time I did laundry after I got back, seeing the shirt I’d worn the day I arrived in Ireland. Or when I ate the last of the packaged cookies I’d brought home (and had to hide so Gina wouldn’t tell Grandmom).

  But I had a job to do, and a story to tell.

  Congress held public hearings on what SecuriLab had done in the name of promoting BlackBox. SecuriLab were the “other interests” Simon had referred to, and who Nicola had meant when she’d said someone else was “calling the shots.” As the sole manufacturer of BlackBox, they were more powerful than either the US or UK governments. And as Simon had put it, they had “both our countries by the bollocks.”

  Hence, Flight 346. It was an inside job, but not by any government agency. Ex–Agent Timian’s testimony led to the uncovering of a horrifying truth. A Nighthawk masquerading as a baggage handler had slipped the bomb into the suitcase of the British post-Shifter boy, turning him into an unwitting suicide bomber.

  The bombing had two missions: ramp up people’s fear of ghosts so they’d buy more BlackBox; and kill Ian Moore, who had pissed off the DMP and therefore SecuriLab—and therefore Nighthawk. I had a feeling their desire to eliminate Ian sprang from more than annoyance. Maybe he’d made these connections and had taken his discoveries back to the UK. Top secret spy maneuvers that even Zachary would never discover (not that he would want to).

  Flight 346 also provided political will to get a DMP draft passed. Nicola had become a whistleblower, taking evidence to the media that the DMP had been secretly pushing for a draft long before Flight 346. Now the agency was on its knees.

  In exchange for my testimony, Gina and her top-of-the-line criminal defense attorneys got me pardoned for obstruction of justice in speaking to ex–Tammi Teller, and the passing of information—none of which was illegally obtained—to foreign operatives.

  In legal terminology, Aunt Gina saved my ass.

  In exchange, I promised to quietly finish high school, stay out of trouble, and never, ever give her fuel for further heart attacks.<
br />
  In late March—a few days after I turned the shades Malcolm and Mary back to ghosts—I received the e-mail I’d been waiting for.

  Gina was still at the office, so I was able to tell Zachary first, just like I’d hoped.

  He’d continued seeing his trauma counselor, now adding three new events to their conversations: his time in solitary confinement, his near death at the hands of the Children of the Sun, and his gunshot wound. He swore the nightmares came only once or twice a month now. I could tell from the absence of dark circles under his eyes that he was telling the truth.

  But today on our video chat, his smile was strained. Something was wrong.

  “Are you okay?” I asked him.

  “Aye.” He focused on my face. “You said in your text you had good news?”

  This would definitely cheer him up. “I thought about forwarding you the e-mail, but I wanted to see your face.” I held up the printed-out message from University of Glasgow admissions. “I got accepted! Woo!” I made the page dance in front of the camera.

  His smile widened, then faded. “That’s fantastic. You’ve got, what, six acceptances now?”

  “Yeah, but this is the only one that matters, right?” I lowered the paper. “Zach, what’s wrong? Is it your dad?” Ian’s cancer was no closer to remission, but no closer to the final stage, either. Zachary had come to an uneasy acceptance of his father’s approaching death, and simply appreciated the time they had left together.

  “It’s not him. I got something in the post today.” He unfolded a white sheet of paper and held it up.

  I squinted to see the bald-eagle logo of a US government agency. “The State Department? What do they want?”

  He dropped his hands and the letter into his lap. “They say my restrictions have been dropped, since I didn’t do anything wrong. I can apply for a student visa now.”

  The world itself seemed to shift. “You mean, you can come back here? For college? When?”

  “As soon as an American university accepts me.”