Dead Light March

by Daniel José Older

  For Cheryl

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  SATURDAY

  ONE

  TWO

  SUNDAY

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  MONDAY

  NINE

  SHADOWHOUSE FALL SNEAK PEEK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  This day, this never-ending day.

  Mina scowled as the train squealed to a halt at 145th Street. This long, impossible day. A moment passed. She stared through the smudged glass, caught a glimpse of a tired-looking businessman. The doors didn’t open. This relentless day. The man smirked at her, eyebrows bouncing once, twice. Mina narrowed her eyes, slowly lifting both fists and then both middle fingers. The man took a step back, aghast. The train doors slid open and Mina shoved past him onto the platform, her heart racing in her ears.

  “Hey!” the guy yelled behind her. “I was just being nice!”

  Mina kept walking.

  This day.

  An uncertain sprinkle of rain danced through the gray sky and misted over the parked cars and empty uptown streets. Mina walked downhill toward the river; the last few bodegas and outlet stores tapered off, and then all that remained were graffiti-splattered warehouses and garages. Her shoulder bag gnawed at the exposed skin beneath her neck and shoved at the small of her back with each step. The combined annoyance of every stupid interaction and all the damn homework she’d been assigned — on a long weekend, dammit! — plus a physics test on Tuesday plus everything everything everything: It all combined into a ragged, dissonant symphony inside her. Up ahead was the abandoned church, though, salvation and sanctuary. She could see its ruined steeple peeking out over a rooftop, like an old friend waiting for her to come home.

  The early September rain, of course, decided to pummel down in earnest now that she was in sight but still not quite where she was going. The day adamantly insisted on continuing to be garbage.

  “Jim Travis McDermont,” Mina said to the rain. “1845 to 1910. Kill count: twelve, mostly farm workers and day laborers. Captured in Monterrey, California, February 15, 1907. Electric chair.”

  The rain was undaunted.

  “Murray Roy Jean. 1906 to unknown. Kill count: unknown, suspected to be in the high teens. Never captured, never convicted.”

  She rounded the corner, caught sight of the elaborate metal gate, and sighed. The rain thrummed and speckled and seethed. Mina was almost home.

  Well, no, not home exactly. Technically, home was a stubby, white, shingled two-story on a trash-pile island a whole train and ferry ride away. But the strange otherworld within the ruins of Mother Immaculate Convent and Rectory, the Sorrows’ warm glow, the centuries of esoterica that seemed to unravel around Mina every time she walked through that gate: It all felt like it had been pulled from her wildest daydreams, ancient and familiar. No dumb boys with their dumb, prying questions, no teachers or assignments, no catty girls with their glares and unspoken challenges. No Grandma Tess. No pressure to perform. Here, Mina could just be herself. Here she was embraced. Maybe even loved.

  “John Gatz. 1901 to 1934. Wiped out four generations of an entire family, one by one. Electric chair.”

  A modern wire fence reinforced the old metal one, but Mina had found a spot where she could fit between the bars and she’d gone to work with a wire cutter, weakening the area just enough so she could push through it to gain entry. She walked toward where the old willow tree drooped over the fence, marking her secret door. Glanced up and down the block — empty as always — and then slid through the fence and into the churchyard.

  A minor to D minor, A minor to D minor.

  Any second now.

  Juan held the last note of his solo in a sustained, static-infused vibrato as the rest of Culebra rattled along behind him.

  A minor to D minor, A minor to D minor.

  The shift to the bridge was imminent, it was any second now. His sneaker hovered over the effects pedal. He was ready.

  Pulpo’s bassline danced in and out of the pulse, gigantic, playful waves that rose and vanished in the sea of noise.

  Old Gordo had some kind of monster synth effect on his keyboard; he sent whole walls of notes cascading across the renovated warehouse.

  A minor to D minor.

  Ruben and Kaz clanged and clacked along beneath. Here it came.

  A minor to D minor.

  Now! Juan stepped on the effects pedal, lengthened his stance, and launched into a speed metal riff, head bobbing up and down in time to … wait.

  Something was off.

  Pulpo’s bass riff still lumbered along between A minor and D minor. Juan stopped playing and looked up. Pulpo was glaring at him, one eyebrow raised, fingers dancing nonchalantly up and down the fretboard.

  “The hell?” Juan said as Kaz, Ruben, and Gordo’s confused vamp ground to a halt.

  “The hell indeed,” Pulpo said. “That was fifteen bars. You couldn’t wait that one extra measure and have things make sense?”

  Juan scrunched up his face, canceled the explosion that was begging to come out. “Pulpo, you know damn well I don’t care if shit makes sense. You didn’t feel it?”

  “I felt it,” Gordo volunteered cheerfully. “But fifteen is a strange number of bars to solo for.” The old Cubano had been everyone’s favorite music teacher in middle school; then he got fired for taking them on a field trip to a bachata bar. He did random jobs around the neighborhood, but mostly he helped Culebra get their sound tight and joined them on keys whenever he had the time.

  “Way to toe the line, Gordo,” Pulpo said.

  Gordo shrugged. “I can’t help it if you’re both right.”

  Juan squinted through another surge of frustration. The change had to come when it was supposed to come, not a bar sooner or later.

  “Look,” Pulpo said, looking down at Juan’s tightened eyes. “You want to solo for fifteen, my dude, that’s on you. It’s weird as hell but we’re Culebra. What we do that isn’t?”

  Juan unclenched the fist that his whole body had become. He squeezed one eye shut, then the other, then opened them both.

  “Man, I hate it when you do that,” Pulpo said. “Lookin’ like ya whole head bouta explode all over the room.”

  “Just gettin’ this temper under control,” Juan said, shaking it off. “Alright! Let’s break, y’all. Imma play with the song and see if I can’t, I dunno …” His voice trailed off.

  “Starts with a c,” Pulpo said.

  “Co … co …”

  Kaz and Ruben rolled their eyes and started packing up their drums.

  “Compose more!” Juan yelled.

  Pulpo shook his head. “Compro —”

  “Compromise! Right, right, my bad.” Juan pulled out his phone. A single email awaited him. It was from his contact at the West Indian Day parade, and it started with the words, Regrettably, we won’t be able to approve Culebra’s performance at Monday’s … Juan threw his phone across the warehouse. He closed his eyes as everyone spun around to stare at him.

  “The hell?” Pulpo yelled.

  “Coño,” Gordo muttered.

  “Yo,” Kaz said. “You need to get that temper handled, my guy.”

  Juan shook his head.

  “What is it?” Ruben asked.

  Inhale. Slow breath out through pursed lips. Just like the school counselor had told Juan two years ago. Except Mr. Brevin always made it look easy: inhale deep, slow release. Easier said than done when the whole world spun in a raging, rising crimson tide. Juan’s breath was shaky, but he managed to get it all out before inhaling again. “We ain’t playin�
�� J’ouvert, fellas.” Four colorful swears happened at once, and Juan found himself smiling. “My feelings exactly.”

  “Damn, man,” Kaz said. “Your bounce-back time is unreal. How you throw-ya-phone mad one minute and literally five seconds later got that wicked smile on?”

  Pulpo reached down and put his arm around Juan’s shoulders. “That’s Juan, y’all. He been that way since he was little. Um … little-er.”

  Juan laughed and flipped him off, then squeezed Pulpo back. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, short jokes. Congrats, on being tall and talented. The rest of us have to work to get the panties tossed our way.”

  “Even the man-panties,” Kaz pointed out.

  “Even the man —” Juan squinted. “Is man-panties a thing?”

  Kaz shrugged. “If we say it is, it is.”

  “Manties?” Ruben suggested.

  “Eso mismo,” Gordo chuckled. “Language is for the people!”

  “I can’t help it if I was born with looks and skills,” Pulpo said. “God made me this way for a reason, I guess. And look, playing the parade was the longest of shots anyway; I’m just surprised they waited this long to tell us. The Parkway’s already blocked off and festivities gettin’ underway.”

  “Why a long shot?” Ruben asked.

  “Think about it,” Juan said. “You ever see a metal band play the parade? Yeah, most of us got Caribbean blood, but they ain’t really lookin’ for what we have to offer. They really more talking about the mad flowery, bright-colored, extra-ass costumes type deal. What?”

  Everyone was looking over Juan’s shoulder and cringing. A slow, sinking feeling swept over him as he turned.

  “Thanks, Juan,” a rare, majestic bird-woman spirit with Bennie’s voice said.

  Juan felt all his insides ball up into one tight clump. “Urhm.”

  It was Bennie, Juan realized, but she had on makeup and a bright blue tiara and … not much else. An explosion of feathers formed a tiny universe around her; it streamed from her armbands and the elaborate bikini she wore. Juan had known Bennie pretty much his entire life, but she’d always been his little sister Sierra’s nerdy friend, not … a shimmering seminude goddess. “What I had meant was —”

  “Keep it,” Bennie snapped, her eyes narrowed into death rays aimed at Juan’s skull. “I was just upstairs getting suited up at Margery’s and I figured I’d swing by and ask y’all what you think of my outfit but never damn mind.” She spun around to leave and a chorus of protests rose up from the rest of Culebra.

  “We think you look amazing!” Kaz yelled.

  Bennie turned around, managed a smile.

  “The outfit is fantastic,” Gordo said. “Una maravilla.”

  “Gorgeous!” Pulpo added, just as Sierra walked through the door behind Bennie.

  “Why thank you!” Sierra said. She was wearing her usual: ripped jeans and combat boots with a billion bangles jangling at her wrists and necklaces peeking out above her old T-shirt.

  Bennie elbowed her. “He meant me, Gargamel! Sheesh. Thank you, Pulpo. And all y’all. Except Juan.”

  Juan gurgled something, or maybe that was his stomach, raised one finger, thought better of it, then said, “I didn’t even know you West Indian!” It came out a little squeakier than he meant it to, but at least he said something.

  “I’m not, jackass. Tee leant me her Caribbean card for the weekend cuz she hates crowds and dressing up but figured someone should go in her stead. And I’ve always wanted to wear one of these — what did you call it, Juan? Oh yeah, flowery-ass, bright-colored, mad extra costume type deals … Did I get that right?”

  “Actually, he said mad flowery and extra-ass,” Pulpo added helpfully.

  Juan growled.

  Bennie shot him a final withering glance and stormed out.

  Sierra rolled her eyes. “What did you do, Juan?”

  “I …”

  “You know what? Never mind.” She headed out behind Bennie. “I’ll catch y’all on the Parkway.”

  “Later!” Pulpo called after them. He shot a sideways glance at Juan. “Bruh, you alright? You can close your mouth now.”

  Juan blinked twice. “I think …”

  “Oh God,” Ruben said. “Look at him; he sprung.”

  “What?” Juan gasped. “No! I’m just … It all happened so fast.”

  “That’s what she said,” Kaz snorked.

  “Guys!” Juan yelled. “No! I just!”

  Pulpo threw his arm around Juan’s shoulders. “This is why they call him the Petite-Seeking Missile, y’all. He’ll be alright. Let’s go play some music.”

  “Huh?” Kaz said. “We don’t have permission to —”

  Pulpo scoffed. “Who said anything about permission? Grab that snare and the strap. Juan and I will rock out acoustic. All we gotta do is post up somewhere or roll the crowd playin’, like the old traveling musicians from days of yore ’nshit.”

  Still staring at the empty space that Bennie had once filled, Juan cracked a smile. “I’m with it.”

  “Sierra, girl, where you at?”

  Sierra blinked. “I’m here! Wassup, B?”

  Early evening settled over Eastern Parkway. Blue police lights swirled at each intersection stretching all the way out toward Brownsville. Vendors had begun setting up their jerk chicken stands and roti spots. Flags from all over the Caribbean were already on full display.

  “You mad spacey, girl,” Bennie said.

  “I’m not! You were saying that musicians ain’t shit anyway except maybe Gordo but that’s only cuz he’s old and it was patently obvious that young Gordo was a problem. ’Cept you said prahblem. Then you mentioned that Robbie probably wasn’t much better, being that painter dudes were basically the same caliber trash as music dudes but without rhythm.”

  “Yeah,” Bennie crossed her arms over her chest. “Five minutes ago.”

  “Oh.”

  “What’s wrong, girl?”

  Sierra sighed. That was a fantastic question. The heaviness had been on her since … Lord, it had been a while now. If she couldn’t see spirits, she would think it was one, so like a physical presence, a haunting, was this weight. But no, that would be too simple. If it was a ghost, she could’ve just told it to leave or talked to it, find out what it wanted, and then it all would’ve been a funny story or sad-sweet metaphor to tell the others and that’d be that. This was much more sinister and mundane: a foul mood that wouldn’t quit. “It’s nothing, just …” She shook her head. No use lying to Bennie. “Same ol’ shit I been going through. I don’t know.”

  Bennie’s shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry, Si. You wanna talk about it?”

  And that was the problem. She did wanna talk about it, but it was like there was nothing to say. The heaviness defied explanation, defied conversation. Negated story. It just was.

  A gaggle of cops walked by, eyeing the two girls with that age-old glare that was equal parts hunger and suspicion. Sierra scowled and turned away from them, crossing her arms over her chest.

  How could something be so heavy and so empty at the same time? When she closed her eyes, all she saw was a darkness that went on and on and on.

  “I just … I think I just wanna be alone,” Sierra said. She didn’t, but she also didn’t want to be with people. Even Bennie. She peered up at her best friend. “I’m sorry.” Then she was already halfway across the street, as if her feet had taken her there without her permission, and Bennie was waving, looking worried, as Sierra descended the stairs to the shuttle train. On the platform, she closed her eyes and waited.

  Where lonely women go to dance.

  Three months ago, Sierra had followed the clues of that ancient riddle to the ocean, where the moon shone out of the darkness, cut the dark waters beneath it. The spirits had lifted her over the crashing waves to that illuminated swirl, and then Sierra’s abuela, a few years dead at that point, had risen and embraced her in golden light and welcomed her to the family legacy.

  Shadowshaping.

 
The Q train rumbled along through the darkness, and Sierra squinted past her memories at the blinking map above her. Avenue M. Not far now.

  Sierra’s family had been shadowshaping for generations. Her grandma and great-grandma and great-great-grandma had all held the title of Lucera — the central spiritual force in the churning universe of darkness and light that the ’shapers worked their magic in, the pulse that surged through all those shadows, uniting them. And now Sierra was Lucera, the mantle passed, and Mama Carmen was nowhere at all. Gone.

  I’m no longer of the living world, Sierra. I held on this long only so you could reach me.

  But that light shimmering across the midnight waters was the only thing Sierra knew that would cut the heaviness inside her.

  The train doors clamored open, revealing the station, the empty sky beyond it. The emptiness in Sierra seemed to expand with every breath. The doors squealed and slammed shut.

  A chilly breeze swept across Coney Island Beach. Sierra stood on the boardwalk, the shadowy carnival behind her, the ocean ahead, and sighed. It was a cloudy night, and if there was any moon, it was hiding. No moon, no reflection. The crashing waves gave way to a darkness so deep it seemed to swallow the sky.

  Sierra’s feet plodded across the sand. A jogger passed, clenching against the cool September night. Tears slid down Sierra’s face before she had time to stop them. “Where are you, Abuela?” she whispered into the wind.

  In spite of being married to the most powerful shadowshaper ever, Sierra’s grandfather Lázaro had managed to convince himself it was a spiritual practice best left to the men. The crew he assembled around him reflected as much, and he’d introduced Juan to it at a young age but kept the whole magic world a secret from Sierra. Mama Carmen had initiated Sierra as a shadowshaper one night while Sierra slept, and the ensuing fight had been what sent her into her ocean exile. And now Grandpa Lázaro was just a shell of himself, mumbling regretful boberías on the third floor of the Santiago’s brownstone.

  Sierra shook her head. There was no one to teach her how to do this, no map, no Yoda. Just the swirling darkness of the sea and the ever-expanding emptiness inside her. She turned and took a step back, gasping. Shadow spirits surrounded her. They formed a semicircle, their darkened faces turned to her. Each pulsed with a gentle blue light that strengthened in time with Sierra’s own breath and the crashing waves.