Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  “Do you know who my father is?” I asked Ian, though I doubted I’d get a straight answer.

  He quirked his chin, not quite a nod or a head shake. “We have our theories. Some are outrageous, to say the least.”

  “Like what?”

  “Even if I were allowed to tell you, you wouldn’t believe them. And until we know for sure, we can’t have you going off on a wild-goose chase.” He adjusted his dark blue tie. “It could lead to questions that are too big for amateurs to answer.”

  I frowned at his warning. I wanted to be the first to know who I was, not the last. I was determined to find out, even if I had to unravel the mystery of the Shift in the process.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Zachary’s hand rest on the seat between us, two of the knuckles still bandaged. I reached out to take it. Maybe I didn’t have to be alone in my quest.

  As my hand moved, I caught sight of my watch. “I’m supposed to have dinner with my aunt soon.”

  “Where?” Ian asked.

  “In Little Italy.” We had just driven onto President Street, verging on the freeway. “Turn right here.”

  The driver didn’t turn right. In fact, he didn’t turn at all.

  My pulse quickened, thumping in my throat. “Where are we going?”

  Ian pulled out his phone. “Someplace quieter.”

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  I gaped up at the front windows of the redbrick row home on Amity Street. The dark green shutters were locked tight.

  Beside me, Zachary let out a low whistle. “I told you MI-X has been around a long time.”

  “Don’t worry, Aura.” Ian knocked on the white wooden front door. “I’ve been assured it’s no longer haunted.”

  “The ghosts are probably too scared to come here,” I muttered. I couldn’t reveal, of course, that no ghosts would come near Zachary anyway.

  The front door opened, and an old man appeared. To the surprise of my runaway imagination, he wasn’t hunched over, wheezing, and carrying a lantern. He wore a flannel shirt, khaki pants, and a Ravens cap.

  “Come on in.” The man grinned as he backed up so we could climb the porch stairs and enter. “Ever been to the Poe House before?”

  I shook my head. My life was creepy enough without spending any of it in the home of America’s Bizarrest Dead Writer.

  “Dining room’s in the back.” He led the way through the dim, narrow living room, which was filled with exhibits like china, crystal, and artwork—and a lock of Edgar Allan Poe’s hair. Ick.

  As we passed the fireplace, Zachary stopped in front of a portrait of a young woman.

  “She was beautiful,” he whispered, and I got a little chill at the way his mouth released that word.

  “She was his cousin,” I told him, “and only thirteen when they got married.”

  “Her death at age twenty-five affected him profoundly,” the old man said. “Many of Poe’s later works feature the demise of beautiful young women.”

  Young, I thought. At least she made it to her twenties. Logan only got seventeen years and a few hours. I massaged the sudden sore spot on my chest, the one that hadn’t ached for weeks. This place was already glooming me out.

  “Pizza should be here soon.” The museum guy showed us into a small, dark dining room, where an antique table was set, oddly enough, with paper plates and napkins. Its surface had been covered in protective plastic, like the kind that was on my grandmother’s sofa.

  Pizza at Poe’s house. Just when I thought my life couldn’t get weirder.

  I sat at the table, facing a narrow, twisted staircase. Despite the house’s spookiness, I was dying to explore.

  “Feel free to look around,” the old man said to me. “It’s all public except for the basement.” He pointed to a door with a red NO ENTRY sign, then winked at Zachary. “That’s where we keep the bodies.”

  He disappeared into the living room, shutting the door behind him.

  Zachary sat beside me. “Well, Dad, I can’t wait to hear how you pulled this one off.”

  Ian gave a self-satisfied smile that reminded me of his son. “Back in the nineteen thirties, the city wanted to tear this house down for public housing projects. It was haunted at the time, so we and a few other paranormal organizations intervened and saved it on behalf of the Poe Society.” He spoke directly to me. “Our philosophy dictates that if ghosts can’t or won’t pass on, they should at least be placated. A contented ghost is a harmless ghost. That’s one reason why BlackBoxing is less common in the UK.”

  Zachary shifted his feet under the table. No wonder he didn’t want his father to know he had such an obsidian-like vibe. It didn’t exactly fit with MI-X’s ghost-friendly mission.

  “Anyway,” Ian continued, “in return for our past assistance, the Poe Society lets us use this place during the off-season as a short-term safe house. Mr. Pomeroy here has been a good friend to the agency.”

  A muffled knock came from what sounded like the front door, and I heard Gina’s voice in the living room.

  “Aura, thank God you’re okay!” she said as she swept into the dining room.

  “I told you I was fine on the phone.”

  She gave me a too-tight hug. “For all I knew, your kidnappers were making you say that.”

  Ian came around the table to greet her. I made quick introductions.

  She shook Zachary’s hand first. “It’s about time, young man. I’ve been nagging Aura to bring you by the house.”

  Ian shook her hand and gave a warm nod. “A pleasure to meet you. We have a wonderful thing in common, so we do.”

  “Oh.” She smiled like he’d just told her she won a prize. No one was immune to that accent. “And what’s that?”

  He pulled out her chair. “Seventeen years ago today, a bonnie child entered each of our lives.”

  Gina’s mouth dropped open, and she hit the chair harder than she should have. “It’s your birthday too, Zachary?”

  “It is.”

  “And you’re turning seventeen. Small world.” Her voice twisted the last sentence.

  “It gets smaller,” Ian said. “My son is a minute older than your niece.”

  Aunt Gina stared at Ian, as if she would nab me and make a run for it.

  “Zach was the last one born before the Shift,” I told her, “and I was the first one after.”

  “Wait—what do you mean?” she stammered. “The very first? And how do you know for sure?”

  A knock came from the front door.

  “Thank God,” Zachary said. “I’m starving.”

  He and his dad helped Mr. Pomeroy bring to the table three large white pizza boxes, a bottle of red wine, and a pair of soda cans.

  Ian handed one of the boxes to our host. “Be sure the agent in the car outside gets some, and you as well.” He placed a hundred-dollar bill in Mr. Pomeroy’s palm. “Some utensils for the boy and me would be brilliant.”

  I hid my smirk, having seen Zachary in the school cafeteria eating pizza the British way, with a knife and fork.

  When we were settled with our dinner, Gina turned to Ian, looking flustered but determined. “So Mr. Moore, how do you—”

  “Please, call me Ian.”

  She didn’t. “How do you know so much about us?”

  “I’m a special agent with MI-X. That’s the UK—”

  “I know what MI-X is. What’s it got to do with Aura?” Her voice was strained, as if she already knew his horrible answers.

  “Aura is of special interest to all of us.” He pointed his fork at his son and chewed as he spoke. “As is Zachary, to a lesser extent.”

  Zachary narrowed his eyes, then set aside his utensils with a clatter and picked up the slice of pizza with his hands.

  “I’ve done my best,” Ian continued, “to deflect the DMP’s attention from Aura. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been assigned here in the States.”

  “Forgive my cynicism,” Gina said, “but why do you care?”

&nbs
p; Ian drained his glass of wine. He coughed as he refilled it. “Before Aura was born, I was with her mother, Maria.”

  My spine went cold. “What? You told me you never met my mom!”

  “That was the truth.” Ian rotated his glass on the table. “We were once in the same place together. The circumstances of our children’s births, I believe, are connected by an event that happened to us—an event I cannot, for security reasons, elaborate upon. Much to my regret.” Avoiding our eyes, he lifted the glass to take a sip.

  I spoke before I could lose my nerve. “You were at Newgrange.”

  Ian froze with his glass to his lips. He and Gina stared at me.

  “Something happened there,” I rushed to tell them, “a year before I was born. Mom kept pictures and a journal, but most of the pages are missing.” I looked at Gina, my throat lumping. “Did you tear them out?”

  “No, hon,” she said quietly, “your mother tore them out.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I think she destroyed them. Those memories brought her a lot of pain, so I assume the pages had something to do with your father.”

  I twisted the napkin in my lap, trying to hide my raging disappointment over the missing journal pages, apparently gone forever. “Why wouldn’t she want me to know who he was?”

  “Aura … whoever your father was, he certainly wasn’t around. Not when you were born, and not when your mother got sick.”

  “If she was mad at him, then why didn’t she destroy the whole journal? She left me pieces, and she made it sound so mysterious.”

  “Of course she did,” Gina snapped. “She wanted him to be an enigma, not a deadbeat. Please don’t fall into that same trap. And please stay out of my closet.”

  “I’m not giving up on this puzzle.” I looked at Zachary, who was valiantly battling the oozing cheese on his pizza. “We’re not giving up. Neither is Eowyn Harris.”

  Ian stared at me in disbelief. “You know Eowyn Harris?”

  “I got her name from Mom’s box of photos. I think my mother contacted her once a long time ago.” The temperature in the room seemed to drop. “Is she important?”

  “ ‘Is she important?’” he murmured to himself. Ian picked up his utensils, then set them down, as if too overcome by shock to eat. “I can’t believe you know her.”

  Zachary raised his hand. “I know her too, if it matters.”

  So Zachary had kept our project a secret from his father. I wondered where he’d told Ian he was going on those nights.

  “Eowyn’s our adviser for our history thesis,” I told Ian. “It’s not specifically on Newgrange. I sort of broadened the topic so no one would know exactly what I was looking for.” I threw Zachary a sheepish glance. “Not even you. Sorry.”

  He gave me a smile that warmed my toes. “I’d started to guess.”

  “What have you found out?” Ian’s voice held a hint of thunder.

  My gut churned, and I knew I had to answer carefully. “Just that Newgrange marks the winter solstice sunrise, and that it was an ancient burial tomb. I’m trying to decipher the markings on the walls of the solstice chamber.”

  “Why?” he demanded. “Surely it’s more than general curiosity.”

  I smoothed my hair back from my eyes, trying not to squirm. “That place and time seemed so important to my mom. She blew off a semester of college to stay there for three months after winter break. And the fact that she was at Newgrange on the solstice, exactly a year before I was born, seemed like too much of a coincidence to be … well, a coincidence.”

  “And what about Eowyn Harris?” Zachary asked his dad. “How is she involved?”

  Ian picked up the wine bottle and filled Gina’s glass, though it wasn’t empty yet. “Eowyn Harris was at Newgrange with your mum and I,” he told me, “the year before you were born. Along with ninety-seven other randomly chosen people from around the world.”

  I said, “Do you have all their names memorized like you do Eowyn’s?”

  “Aye, I do.” He picked up his knife and fork. “And that, my friends, must end this conversation, or I will get sacked.”

  After an uncomfortable moment, Aunt Gina cleared her throat. “So how about this weather? So bitter cold the last few days.”

  I looked at Zachary, and his eyes reflected my frustration with the aborted discussion.

  Gina opened the pizza box for another slice. “At least tonight I know I’ll be going home to some warm flannel sheets.”

  I started at her last words, especially the way she emphasized them. “Flannel sheets already?” I asked, hoping my eyes didn’t look as wide as they felt.

  “It’s almost Christmas,” she said. “I usually put them on our beds around Thanksgiving, but this year it’s been so warm.” She raised her eyebrows at me and took a sip of wine. “Now we’ll both be cozy and ready for winter.”

  My pulse racing, I dropped my gaze to my half-eaten pizza slice and picked at the crust.

  She knew. She’d seen my non-red sheets. By now they were probably in a Dumpster, or given to Goodwill. My nights with Logan—the few we had left before he passed on—were done. On my birthday, of all days.

  Beside me, Zachary shifted in his chair. My coconspirator in sheet buying. If I looked too upset, he’d take it personally. But did he expect me to break up with Logan now that he and I had kissed? Was it even possible to break up with a dead person?

  Zachary leaned over and said, “Did you want to see the rest of the house?”

  I nodded at him in gratitude—and with admiration for distracting me from thoughts of Logan. He wasn’t backing down.

  “Go on,” Ian said. “It’s fascinating.”

  Zachary and I climbed the narrow stairs, stepping carefully as they curved to the left. He put his hand on my back as he followed—to steady me, no doubt, but it had the opposite effect.

  On the second floor, two small bedrooms were decorated in lace and feminine colors. In one of them, an even narrower staircase led up to the attic. I climbed it, though the light was so dim I could barely see my feet.

  The tiny room at the top of the house was empty except for a low bed and a desk by the window. Beside the desk hung an electric lantern, one that simulated a weak flame. It cast shifting shadows on the bare, off-white walls.

  “Ow.”

  Zachary held his head, which he’d hit on the sloped ceiling. He moved to stand in the center, though his hair still grazed the surface.

  Even I had to duck on my way to the attic window, the only one in the house not shuttered. In the vacant lot across the street, the ghost of a man in a raincoat wandered, examining the mud using his own violet light. I wondered if he’d lived in a house torn down long ago, like this one almost was.

  “I don’t suppose we’re allowed to sit on the bed,” Zachary said.

  “It doesn’t look much softer than the floor, anyway.”

  We sat cross-legged facing each other on the thin area rug. “Thank you for getting me away from them,” I said.

  “I’m sorry your birthday has been such crap.”

  “Not totally.” I slid my finger along the grain of the ebony floorboard, picturing a telltale heart lying underneath. “And it’s not over yet. It could become more crap.”

  “My dad can be a real bastard sometimes. Always about the mission, nothing else matters.”

  “Can’t be fun for you, either.” I worked up the nerve to take his hand. “Is it true what you told me about your mom leaving?”

  “Partly.” The wall lantern cast shadows where his eyelashes brushed his cheeks. “She wasn’t happy, but that wasn’t why she left. My dad sent her away somewhere for her own protection when things started to get dodgy.”

  “But not you?”

  “I chose to stay. I wanted to find out who I was—why I was—and I couldn’t do that from a safe house in some godforsaken English village.” He ran his thumb over my knuckles. “When I met you, I knew I’d made the right choice.”

  “What abou
t Becca Goldman?” I asked, only half teasing. “Hasn’t she been a good ambassador?”

  “Becca.” Zachary rubbed his reddening face. “I should explain about that.”

  “Did you hang out with her because she’s older and wouldn’t see you scare off ghosts?” I cursed the pathetic hopefulness in my voice.

  “That’s part of it. But the main reason was for reconnaissance.”

  “Huh?”

  “You wanted to know who started those rumors about you.”

  “It was Becca?” Rage surged up my throat, almost making me hiccup.

  “No. But by joining that group, I heard all the gossip and eventually figured out the truth. It was Brian, just like Megan suspected.”

  “Why would he do that? Does he hate me?”

  “No, but he did it for someone who does hate you. Nadine, a girl from Logan’s school who liked him. Liked Logan, that is. Brian wanted to shag Nadine like mad.” Zachary spit out the words with a grimace, like they tasted awful. “Making you miserable was their little project. Something they could bond over. That’s what Brian was hoping.”

  I brushed my fingers over the bandages on his knuckles. “When did you find out for sure?”

  “At Becca’s party last week.”

  “So it’s true, you went. How was it?”

  “It was brilliant. The Goldmans have the most blinding collection of single-malt scotches. And a hot tub.”

  My pulse sped up at the thought of him and Becca wet and nearly naked.

  “Nothing happened beyond a bit of soaking.” He tilted his head. “Well, no’ between us. Some of the others, I could tell you stories.”

  “Stories about who?”

  “Ah no, you won’t get that for free. You have to be nice to me for two minutes straight.”

  “I am nice to you.”

  “I mean, really nice.” He nudged my knee with his foot. “Father Christmas might call it naughty, but he’s a filthy old bugger.”

  My insides quivered. I wanted to be very, very nice to Zachary, for longer than two minutes. But first I had to clear up a few things.

  “Why wouldn’t you tell me your favorite song when we were standing at the porthole? Why did you wait until we were in the dark?”

  “With you being so serious about music, I was intimidated.” He traced the lines of my palm with his fingertips. “I thought maybe it wouldn’t be cool enough.”