“Sierra,” he whispered.
She stalked over to him, slid her hands around his neck. It would be so easy. Just a flicker of her suddenly ferocious fingers and it’d be all over. She squinted at him writhing in her hands, acutely aware of the huge battle raging on her block, her mami caught up in the midst of it.
But no. Death was too simple an ending for Dr. Jonathan Wick. It left him too much room for some nefarious rebirth in the afterlife. Sierra studied his trembling lips and tearstained eyes. She could do better than death, she decided. She was a surgeon, not a butcher. She concentrated for a half second, and then simply allowed all the spirits churning inside her to surge forward into Wick.
They left memories behind as they passed from her hands. A dizzying collage of smells, moments, emotions, longings sped through Sierra’s entire body. She was on a horse in the rain forest, galloping toward freedom. She was alone in a cell, coming to terms for the four hundredth time with her imminent death and the deaths she’d dealt. She was in the full rapture of love. She was ashamed. Her brain simmered with bursts of lilac, cigar smoke, sweat, the cringe of a missed opportunity, pangs of hunger. Most of all, though, she felt alive. The dead were so alive! They carried their whole lives with them in those tall, walking shadows, brought each second, each thrill and tragedy with them wherever they went.
She looked down at Wick. He screamed as the spirits swarmed through him, burrowing into the most intimate reaches of his soul. Sierra sharpened her mind and allowed her vision to slip alongside the spirits as they thundered through the old anthropologist’s inner workings. Take his powers, Sierra told them, but they were already on it. Little flashes of light blinked out as the spirits sped through his blood vessels and entrails, crisscrossing synapses and cell membranes. All his powers. Sierra could feel the purge, feel the tremendous vacuum as every last echo of Wick’s spiritual power was obliterated like a ramshackle hut in a monsoon.
The vacuum changed him on the outside as well. His skin became ragged and dry, sagged into pathetic folds on top of itself. His mouth hung open, drool trickling out; his teeth turned black and crumbled in seconds. She let go of his neck and stood back. The spirits were leaving him now, shadows flickering off into the thick warehouse air.
Wick slumped to his knees, shriveled and broken. “You’ve … murdered me …”
Sierra rolled her eyes, then closed them to check on her mami. Her block was awash in color. Sierra’s dragon mixed with several of the skeletons and mermaids from Club Kalfour. Robbie’s demons were now paint puddles on the sidewalk, the spirits of the throng haints scattered. María Santiago stood panting beside Robbie and Neville.
Sierra let out a sigh and opened her eyes. She took a last look at the splattered walls, then stepped over Wick’s whimpering body and walked down the stairs. Juan, Bennie, Tee, and Nydia were rising wearily from their hiding places, dusting themselves off. The five friends exchanged hugs, tears, stories, gasps, and laughter, and then walked together to the ground floor.
Sierra could hear the spirits still humming their sacred harmonies, calling out her brand-new name. They strode in slow circles around her, breathing in and out like the summer breeze. She smiled for what felt like the first time in a long while, and then she and her friends all walked out together into the dark blue Brooklyn morning.
“How I look?” Sierra asked.
“Fit to become one with,” Robbie said.
“Whoa! Easy there, playa.” She felt like her smile was about to explode off her face. She wore a flowing white strapless dress, and her matching white shawl flapped around her like wings in the ocean wind. Robbie took her in with a mix of hunger, awe, and curiosity, as though he might either pounce and try to make out with her, or drop down on the sand and kiss her bare feet. Wasn’t a bad look at all for him, as a matter of fact.
“Sorry,” Robbie said. “I just … you look really beautiful.”
“Ah, there, that wasn’t so hard, was it? A straightforward compliment! Thank you.”
Robbie didn’t look so bad himself. He’d pulled his locks back into a slick ponytail and wore linen slacks under a white guayabera.
“Your ancestor tats are coming back!” Sierra said, running her fingers along his arm.
Robbie smiled. “They always do.” He put his hand over hers and then wrapped her arm around his elbow, and together they promenaded down toward a secluded area of Coney Island beach by the edge of the water. “How’s Lázaro?” Robbie asked.
Sierra shook her head. “I haven’t been back up there yet. I don’t know if I can face him. I don’t even know what to … say? I will, though. I will.” She took a long breath. “But whatever: Today is for celebrating. C’mon.”
María stood on the shore wearing a lovely white dress of her own. When she saw Sierra and Robbie coming down the dune, she offered the saddest, most genuine smile Sierra had ever seen on her mom. Juan was there too, and Tee, Bennie, Jerome, Izzy, and Nydia, all dressed to the nines. Jerome and Izzy had heard the story of the battle from Tee, and called to make up afterward. They all stood in a half circle, facing the ocean.
“Go ’head, Sierra,” María said. “You asked us here.”
The shadows rose up in the dimming light and began dancing their soft circles around the arc of the living.
“I brought you all here today,” Sierra said, “to honor the memory of Mama Carmen Siboney Corona, my abuela, may she rest in peace. I didn’t know my grandma that well, really. But she still showed me a lot about life, taught me a lot about what it means to be who I am. And for that, I honor her.”
There was a pause. The spirits’ steps grew wider and their hum stretched across the open sky, filled Sierra’s soul with a melancholy contentment. They were mourning Lucera too. Mourning one and welcoming another. Everyone seemed lost in their thoughts and memories for a few moments.
“We’re also here to honor Manuel Gomez,” Sierra said, “aka the Domino King.”
The bodies had been recovered, and the past few days had seen a swirl of funerals and tributes to Manny and the other shadowshapers. María wrapped her warm hand around Sierra’s. Tears rolled down her face, but she still had on that sad sweet smile.
“I’m here today,” Bennie said, “to honor the memory of Vincent Charles Jackson, my brother. May he rest in peace.”
“Today,” Robbie said, “I come to honor the life and spirit of Papa Mauricio Acevedo, my mentor and friend.”
They went around the half circle, each calling out the name of one or several loved ones who had passed. The spirits swirled faster around them, flitted this way and that through the darkening sky. Sierra watched them. She was beginning to see subtle differences in how each spirit moved — the clenching of shadowy fists on an upward flush into the sky, the curve of a spine from a life of hard labor. Their stories, the same stories that had flashed through Sierra just a few nights before, still lived with them, made up the fabric of who they were.
When all the names had been called out, Sierra looked into each of the faces around her. Bennie smiled through her tears. Juan had his hair slicked down and was wearing one of their dad’s white uniform shirts; his smile was serene for maybe the first time ever. Tee just grinned like all this was the most natural thing in the world. Nydia’s eyes were wide, like a little kid on the first day of school, and Jerome and Izzy gaped in amazement. María and Robbie stood smiling on either side of Sierra.
Each of them nodded at her and joined hands. Above them, the spirits began pulsing gently as Sierra took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She could feel each of her loved ones, their passions and fears. They registered as flashes of color in her mind’s eye. She exhaled and sent a ray of power out from her center, felt it blitz along beneath her skin and then enter her mom on one side, Robbie on the other. Their colors brightened. Bennie and Nydia were next, and then the brightness worked its way to Juan, Tee, Jerome, and Izzy.
“It’s done,” Sierra said. “My shadowshaping friends, it begins anew.”
She felt her mom squeeze her hand. They smiled at each other and then looked up to where the spirits danced wild circles across the darkening sky.
I am hugely grateful to Cheryl Klein for lifting this book out of the slush pile, believing in it, and bringing it closer to its true heart with every single edit. Thanks also to the whole team at Arthur A. Levine for making Shadowshaper the book it is. Many thanks to my agent Eddie Schneider and the whole team at JABberwocky for all their fantastic work. Nathan Bransford was patient and brilliant as he helped me through many early drafts; his kindness and creativity still echo in the pages. Thanks to all the brilliant folks who read Shadowshaper and gave their thoughts, doubts, and encouragement, including but not limited to: Ashley Ford, Anika Noni Rose, Justine Larbalestier, Dr. Lukasz Kowalic, Sue Baiman, Troy L. Wiggins, Marcela Landres, and Emma Alabaster. To Bart Leib and Kay Holt at Crossed Genres and my Long Hidden co-editor Rose Fox.
Thanks to my amazing family, Dora, Marc, Malka, Lou, and Calyx. Thanks to Iya Lisa and Iya Ramona and Iyalocha Tima and my whole Ile Omi Toki family for their support; also thanks to Oba Nelson Rodriguez, Baba Craig, Baba Malik, and all the wonderful folks of Ile Ase. To the many teachers who inspired me, encouraged me, and sharpened my skills along this path, especially Connie Henry, Inez Middleton, Charles Aversa, Ron Gwiazda, Lori Taylor, Mary Page, Tom Evans, Brian Walker, Orlando Leyba, Warren Carberg, Gloria Legvold, Michael Lesy, Lara Nielsen, Vivek Bhandari, Yusef Lateef, Roberto García, Alistair McCartney, Jervey Tervalon, and Mat Johnson. Huge shout-out to the whole VONA/Voices community. Stefan Malliet is the Internet wizard who made my website awesome, many thanks to him. I’m grateful to Nisi Shawl and Andrea Hairston and the whole Carl Brandon Society for their support. And thanks to Aurora Anaya-Cerda and the team at La Casa Azul Bookstore in East Harlem.
I am deeply grateful to two amazing writers who found room under their wings for me: Sheree Renée Thomas, who believed in my voice from the very beginning, and Tananarive Due, for her guiding wisdom throughout.
To Jud, Tina, and Sam for many strolls and good meals along the way. To Sorahya Moore, the best mentee and friend a writer could ask for. To Akie for long talks with cigars and making great music. To Nina for always demanding I stop writing and play with her just when I’m getting into the swing of things. To Lenel Caze, Carlos Duchesne, Rachelle Broomer, Rudy Brathwaite, Walter Hochbrueckner, Derrick Simpkins, and all the EMTs, medics, supervisors, nurses, doctors, and staff at the ERs and ambulance stations at Brooklyn Hospital, Beth Israel, Montefiore, and Mount Sinai, as well as the good folks at FDNY EMS battalions 57 and 39.
To the Pattie Hut & Grill for the best jerk chicken in Brooklyn and A&A Bake & Doubles Shop for the best doubles in Brooklyn.
To all the hilarious, brave, outrageous, incredible folks on Twitter who’ve been there to challenge me, cheer for me, and keep me on point and laughing during those hours when I felt stuck and didn’t know how to move forward.
To Nastassian, my heart and soul, woman of my life, dream come true. Thank you for being you.
I give thanks to all those who came before us and lit the way. I give thanks to all my ancestors; Yemonja, Mother of Waters; gbogbo Orisa; and Olodumare.
DANIEL JOSÉ OLDER is the author of the Bone Street Rumba adult urban fantasy series and the short-story collection Salsa Nocturna. His nonfiction writing on race, power, and publishing has appeared on Salon and BuzzFeed, and his short stories have been published in many science-fiction and fantasy magazines and anthologies. He also writes music and plays bass in the soul-jazz band Ghost Star.
Daniel lives in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York, where Shadowshaper is set. You can find his thoughts on writing, read dispatches from his decade-long career as a New York City paramedic, and hear his music at www.ghoststar.net and @djolder.
Text copyright © 2015 by Daniel José Older
All rights reserved. Published by Arthur A. Levine Books, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC and the LANTERN LOGO are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Older, Daniel José, author.
Shadowshaper / Daniel Jose Older. — First edition.
pages cm
Summary: When the murals painted on the walls of her Brooklyn neighborhood start to change and fade in front of her, Sierra Santiago realizes that something strange is going on — then she discovers her Puerto Rican family are shadowshapers and finds herself in a battle with an evil anthropologist for the lives of her family and friends.
ISBN 978-0-545-59161-4 (alk. paper) 1. Magic — Juvenile fiction. 2. Hispanic Americans — Juvenile fiction. 3. Puerto Rican families — Juvenile fiction. 4. Paranormal fiction — Juvenile fiction. 5. Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.) — Juvenile fiction. [1. Magic — Fiction. 2. Occultism — Fiction. 3. Puerto Ricans — New York (State) — New York — Fiction. 4. Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.) — Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.1.O45Sh 2015
[Fic] — dc23
2014032311
First edition, July 2015
Cover photo © 2015 by Michael Frost
Cover art and design by Christopher Stengel
e-ISBN 978-0-545-59162-1
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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