“What happened?” Bennie asked an ornery-looking paramedic with a potbelly and salt-and-pepper mustache.
“Nothin’,” he grunted, tossing his equipment into the back of his truck. “Another prank call. Stupid kids.”
“What do you mean nothing?” Sierra demanded.
“I mean” — the medic lit a cigarette and glared at her — “some kids called up and said there’s a dead guy in the basement. But there ain’t. So nothing. Nada.”
“Are you sure? Did you check the whole place?”
“Who do you think you are, kid?” the medic growled. “You made the call? Huh? You know it’s illegal to prank call 911, right? Lemme see if I can get one of the cops to come and have a word with you.”
As if on cue, a police officer walked out of the basement. He was young, with startling blue eyes and a severe frown. “What’s the problem?”
Bennie grabbed Sierra’s wrist. “Sierra, come on!”
They fast-walked around the corner. When they made it out of earshot, Sierra threw her hands up in exasperation. “It doesn’t make sense! You think Manny could’ve walked away in the state he was in?”
“I don’t know,” Bennie said, gazing back toward the flashing police lights.
They rejoined the rest of their group in a small park and told them what happened. The late afternoon turned to gray dusk around them as Brooklyn settled into another summer night.
“What do you mean, he wasn’t there?” Izzy demanded. Tee put a calming hand on her girlfriend’s shoulder.
“I mean,” Sierra said, “for the fifteenth time, that’s what the angry EMT guy said. And then some young-ass cop started looking a little too interested in us and we split. What else can I tell you?”
Izzy stood up and paced a small circle around them. “It’s not like he could just stroll off! He was, like, ninety-eight percent dead!”
“True,” Sierra said. The trees around them rustled, and she had to squint to make sure no shadows were loping out toward them. She looked around at her friends’ worried expressions. The smudged faces in the photograph. The shadowshapers. Sierra looked at her hand. Wick had figured out she was a shadowshaper before she’d even known.
“What are we gonna do?” Izzy moaned.
Wick had sent corpuscules after Sierra and Robbie, and they’d failed. He would probably try a shadowshaper he’d be more likely to catch next — someone who wasn’t aware of the danger…. Perhaps a new generation of shadowshapers that must be looked into …, Wick had written.
Sierra stood up suddenly.
“What is it?” Bennie asked.
“Juan!” Sierra threw her shoulder bag on and started heading for the bus stop. “I gotta warn him. Y’all coming?”
On a normal night at El Mar, a few chubby couples would swing around the dance floor to the strains of a local bachata band or some overdressed drunk guy with a keyboard and drum machine. Old-timers would lean against the corny papier-mâché coral reef, sip their drinks, and mutter about the jóvenes. Occasional cops and paramedics would pass through to grab their superstrong cafecitos and flirt with the decadent waitresses. The night would pass with that cool, slow-stepping rhythm that allowed folks to believe for just a few hours that they were still back in the embrace of a warm Caribbean island.
But Culebra was in full swing when Sierra walked in, and instead of the usual laid-back El Mar scene, a sweaty mass of punks, teenyboppers, and hipsters pulsed and churned to the music. The tables and chairs had all been cleared out, and the crowd was throbbing against the coral reefs, hanging from the mounted captain’s wheel, dancing along the hallway to the restrooms. Sierra tried to peek above the swarming bodies and see if there were any corpuscules lurking, but it was too dark to make anything out.
She glanced around, trying to keep sharp while Culebra’s lush sound washed over her. Playing acoustic always freaked Juan out; he’d get unbearably talkative and jittery and then pass out for an hour before the show. But the results were mesmerizing, and tonight was no exception. His old Spanish guitar spat out a series of warm, labyrinthine phrases that wrapped melodic vines around Gordo’s fierce piano hits. As the two instruments wound intricate loops, Pulpo, the tall, dark-skinned bass player and lead singer, unleashed a torrent of feverish, pounding notes from his stand-up, throwing his head forward in an avalanche of braids on each downbeat.
The music grew like a fog around the crowd, and then, with only a sly rim shot for warning, the drums kicked in full thrust. Ruben, a lanky, light-skinned Dominican with a finely trimmed goatee, rained thundering blasts down on the kit, while his brother Kaz came in with a suave tuk-tuk-tuking on the congas. The crowd exploded. Sierra let herself get swept up in it, let go of the fear and sadness that had been haunting her limbs since their visit to the printing press, and danced. Ruben’s driving beat moved inside her, shoved her lovingly into motion.
Sierra closed her eyes, then let them open ever so slightly. There was no mistaking it this time: Tall, long-armed shadows high-stepped in a flowing circle inside the club. When her eyes opened wide, everything went back to normal. She willed herself to calm down, felt the excitement of the crowd, the wild thrash of her brother’s music. Closed her eyes again. Much to her own surprise, she felt safe. The whole room was so full of life, and those shadows — she squinted her eyes open again, gazing through her lashes — they were dancing too.
The whole band moved as one now. All five heads thrashed up and down as the song kept swelling to more ridiculous heights. The shadows spun faster, their long strides reaching over the heads of the writhing crowd. The spirits were protecting Juan, Sierra realized. He didn’t need her warning about Wick; he was safe. She exhaled and let the moment sweep over her. It was like being inside the most beautiful car accident in the world with all your best friends and a bunch of total strangers and knowing you couldn’t get hurt.
Then, just like that, it was over. The room let out a collective sigh of satisfaction and then burst into cheers. Juan looked up from his guitar with that smug smile and nodded at Gordo, and the band whirled into another number.
“We’re going to eslow it down a little for you now,” Gordo’s voice boomed out.
“Thank God!” Bennie gasped, collapsing against Sierra. “Hey, you alright?”
The shadows had retreated some; they stood swaying in the dark corners of the room as the song spun to life. Manny’s face lingered in Sierra’s mind. “Nothing,” She blinked her eyes all the way open. “Just … Manny.”
“We’ll find him.”
“I know. I’m alright.”
“Good for you. I’m a sweaty wack disaster up in this mess.”
“You were doing alright, B,” Jerome said.
“Actually,” Sierra said, “Sweaty Wack Disaster was their first band name.”
“Shaddup,” Bennie panted. “Too winded … to laugh.”
The music wound along gently, a stroll in the park, but occasional drum bursts and off-kilter chimes from Juan’s guitar gave a sinister edge to it. “Cuando la luna llena,” crooned Pulpo in a rich, haunting vibrato.
“I always had a thing for Pulpo,” Sierra said.
Bennie nodded. “Voice like that — who wouldn’t?”
“Mata al sol anciano …”
“Word,” said Tee, who’d come up behind them with Izzy when the music slowed. “I don’t even like dudes, but that dude’s fine.”
Izzy shot Tee a pained face. “What kind of a lesbian are you?”
Tee shrugged. “One that can appreciate a beautiful man with a beautiful voice.”
“… Ven a los cuatro caminos a los cuatro caminos ven …”
“Singing a beautiful-ass song,” Tee continued. “I don’t even know what he’s saying, but I know that’s gorgeous. Who wrote this, Sierra?”
“Juan did, I guess. He writes all their stuff.”
“… Mujeres solitarias …”
“I think it’s on their last album,” she said slowly. “It sounds kinda …”
“… Van a bailar …”
“Wait a minute!” Four sets of eyes swung around to Sierra. “Did he just say ‘mujeres solitarias van a bailar’?”
“Sounded like ‘ban the bar bar’ to me,” Izzy said. “So yeah, he probably did.”
“Ban the bar bar, babe? Really?” Tee laughed.
“What about it?” Bennie said.
“It’s the poem!” Sierra gasped. “The song! ‘Mujeres solitarias’: lonely women. ‘Van a bailar’ is they go to dance!”
“You mean the poem you were trying to figure out at the coffee shop?” Tee said.
“Yes!” Sierra yelled. “The one that tells us where Lucera is!”
“Soy el susurro,” Pulpo sang, “que oyes …”
“I can’t believe it,” Sierra said. “It’s been in my ears all this time. I had it on my headphones while I was painting yesterday. I just couldn’t hear the lyrics, because on the studio version, it’s much —”
Before she could finish her sentence, the band exploded into another thundering onslaught of metal drums and speed guitar. The crowd burst back into motion. Pulpo was still singing, but his words were lost beneath the clashing layers of music. Tee and Izzy had already disappeared into the thrashing masses.
“Something like this?” Bennie yelled into Sierra’s ear. “That would explain why you had no idea what they were saying! We can ask Juan after the show.”
That was true, of course, but those few words, that taste of the answer, was teasing Sierra. She kept perking up her ears, catching little glimpses of phrases here and there and working them through her head. “… mata al sol anciano … cuando las sombras …” A writhing body surfed along the top of the throng up ahead. People pushed and shoved all around. “… como la bala de una pistola …” Like a bullet from a gun.
It wasn’t just a game anymore, Sierra thought angrily, as dancing limbs and torsos slammed against her and fell away again. Manny had vanished. Corpuscules and throng haints were popping out of the shadows. She had to find Lucera if she wanted to stay alive and get to the bottom of all this. And to find Lucera, she’d have to figure out whatall Pulpo was screaming up there …
Something was wrong. People rushed around her, not in the rhythmic chaos of a mosh pit, but in true desperation.
Bennie grabbed Sierra’s hand. “C’mon, space cadet, we out.”
“What happened?”
“Fight,” Tee said, running past with a wily grin on her face. Izzy came next, holding tight to Tee’s hand and cursing out someone behind them.
“Yo, you need us to mash someone up for you?” Sierra said, catching up with Tee.
“Nah, we got that covered,” Tee said. “Let’s just, uh, get some fresh air.”
CULEBRA was scrawled in ridiculously large and colorful letters across the tinted windows of El Mar. The club sat squished in between a barbershop and one of those odds-and-ends stores that sells everything from 3-D Jesus pictures to porn to pogo sticks. A train rattled along the ancient metal caterpillar over Fulton Street and sent a cascade of rainwater onto the exiting crowd.
“What’d you guys do?” Bennie said when they regrouped outside the front door.
“This grease-stain cornball in tight pants thought he was gonna get slick with us,” Izzy said. “Asked us which one was the girl in the relationship.”
Sierra put a hand over her eyes. “Oh lord …”
“Tee told him, ‘You are,’ and broke his nose.”
“Damn!” Big Jerome said. High fives and back pats were doled out lovingly to Tee. She blushed and waved them off, but you could tell she was flattered.
“That’s my baby,” Izzy said, nuzzling her way under Tee’s arm.
“Did you figure out the song, Sierra?” Tee asked.
Sierra shook her head. “I couldn’t hear a thing once it got crazy. I guess I’ll just ask … Juan!”
As if on cue, Sierra’s brother had strolled out of El Mar with a big, tired grin on his face. He looked even tinier than usual next to Gordo’s ginormous lumbering bulk. Sierra ran up to Juan and hugged him as tightly as she could. “That was amazing! I’m so proud of you!”
“Uh … thanks, sis.”
She held him at arm’s length and glared into his eyes. “Now, where’d you get the lyrics to that last song?”
“It’s a poem Abuelo usedta always —”
“I knew it!”
“What’s going on, Sierra?”
“The riddle! Didn’t I tell you ’bout the riddle that says where Lucera is?”
“Uh … no.”
“I must’ve forgot with everything going on. Doesn’t matter. The text of the riddle is in those lyrics! You have them memorized by heart?”
“Yeah, but would you let go of me now? People are staring.”
Sierra didn’t let go. “Tell me, man!”
Gordo was doing what he always did: smoking the same thick, musty Malagueña cigars that Grandpa Lázaro favored and chuckling like a big Cuban Santa Claus. “Donde las mujeres solitarias van a bailar,” he sang softly.
“Yes!” Sierra said, releasing Juan. “That’s the one. You’re the best fourth-grade music teacher ever!”
“Actually, I teach fifth grade now too.”
Sierra pulled a blank sheet of paper from her bag. “Can you write the lyrics out?”
Juan scowled. “Now, sis?”
She got up in his face and walked him forcibly away from the others. “Listen to me,” she growled. “Manny’s either missing or dead or I don’t know what —”
His eyes widened. “What?”
“I got chased by a soul-sucking phantom the other night, in case you hadn’t noticed, and who knows what other creepiness is about to go down. I have no idea where this Lucera is, and she’s the only one who’s gonna be able to get us out of this mess. So if you really came back to Brooklyn to help your little sister, please, Juan, write me out the damn lyrics to the song and stop being Crown King Jackass.”
“What happened to Manny?”
“He was in a coma or something,” Sierra said. “We found him at the printing press and we called 911, but when they got there, he was gone. I think …” How to explain? She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Juan looked pale. “Damn …”
“Please, Juan …”
He nodded. “I’m on it. You okay?”
“I don’t know,” Sierra said as they walked back to the group. “I’m worried. This guy Wick … I’m pretty sure he’s trying to wipe out the shadowshapers.”
“Wipe out like kill?”
“Yeah,” Sierra said. “He’s turned at least two into corpuscules already. That’s what Abuelo was trying to warn me about the other day, and why the shadows sent you to keep an eye on me. We’re in danger, Juan. All of us.”
Juan frowned. “Wow … Alright. Gimme the paper, Sierra.” He furrowed his brow and went back to consult with Gordo. They worked quietly for a while, scribbling little notes. Tee, Izzy, and Jerome were still joking about the grease stain with the new nose job.
“Oh!” Gordo perked up suddenly. “I love this part: ‘Por el carnaval rodeado de agua del destino y chance.’ That’s ‘the water-bound carnival of destiny and chance.’ ¿Sí?”
“The water-bound carnival of destiny and chance?” Bennie said. “What the hell does that mean?”
“No idea,” Juan said.
“It’s your song!” Sierra said.
“Naw, it’s Abuelo’s song. We just turned it into a death metal salsa ballad and threw on some lyrics at the end about a guy who kills his parents, and boom! Hot number-one underground hit in Wisconsin!”
“You’re insane.”
“No,” Juan said. “I’m a rock star.” He passed the paper back to Sierra. She stared down at the full, translated poem:
When the full moon kills the ancient sun
As the one lures the other who in turn lures the one
When the shadows swarm
Take hold in their form
>
And burst through the borough like a bullet from a gun
Come to the crossroads, to the crossroads come
Where the powers converge and become one
See my enemies fall
As my spirit voice calls
And the energy surges like a thousand suns
At the water-bound carnival of destiny and chance
I’m the whisper you hear as you enter the trance
When the lanterns go dead
I’ll light the path ahead
From where lonely women go to dance.
“What’s it mean?” she asked.
Gordo and Juan shrugged simultaneously. “But it sounds hot, right?” Juan said.
“Well, we gotta figure it out,” Sierra said. “This is supposed to tell us where Lucera is.”
“I mean, ‘the whisper you hear as you enter the trance,’ ” Tee said. “Maybe she at the club, listening to trance music, and some hot girl is like, whispering in her ear? Right before she goes into the club?”
“The bouncer!” Bennie yelled.
Tee burst out laughing. “Oh my God, yes! Lucera is a fine-ass bouncer at a dance club. Yo, Sierra, why didn’t you say that before? Let’s go find her!”
Sierra laughed with the rest of them, but she was trembling inside. The shadowy back alleys seemed to be closing in around her, long, clawed hands reaching out from the darkness, that horrible breathing. Manny’s tortured face, his mouth opening wider and wider until it took over the whole world.
“And which crossroads she mean, yo?” Izzy asked. “I’m sayin’, there’s what, eighteen eleven billion crossroads in Brooklyn alone, right?”
“Word.”
The answer dangled in the air right in front of Sierra. She could almost taste it. Come to the crossroads, to the crossroads come / Where the powers converge and become one. But Izzy was right; the crossroads could be anywhere. It might not even mean an actual crossroads.
“I mean, they probably mean where Eastern Parkway hits Atlantic Avenue, though,” Jerome said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Shadowshaper Page 13
