Shadows Grow

by Kara Jaynes

  He rolls up and over, shoving a hand in his mouth to smother his keening cry, but it bubbles out anyway as he crouches on the pavement, rocking back and forth.

  “Come on.” The words surprise me, but I don’t hesitate as I turn and step into the shadows. “We need to go before dawn rises.”

  “We?” the boy manages through his choking tears. “You want me to follow?”

  I scowl over my shoulder at him. “Are you stupid or deaf? Let’s go. I know a place where you’ll be safe.”

  He scrambles to his feet and darts over to me, slipping his hand in mine.

  I snatch my hand away. “What are you, six? Don’t touch me.”

  He flinches violently and shies away. “Sorry,” he says.

  We walk down the streets, back to the abandoned house I’d been staying in for over a week. I inhale deeply as I cross the threshold. No one had been here. We’re safe for now.

  “Is this your house?” The boy asks. He’s followed me inside but stands by the door, as if unsure whether or not he should stay or run. He looks at me with an expression of hope and fear.

  “It is, now,” I reply. I gesture at him to follow. “I get the master bedroom, but there’s a side room with both a bed and a closet. You can sleep there.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you doing this?” he asks. “Why are you being kind?”

  He’s confused and rightfully so. It doesn’t pay to show kindness, not in Liberty. The boy believes I expect something in return.

  After some thought, I shrug. “I know what it’s like to be alone and abandoned. I know what it feels like to be unwanted.”

  I walk into the bedroom, rolling my eyes at the words that follow me. “Thank you, sir. I won’t forget your kindness.”

  It’s not until I’ve settled myself under the bed, an old quilt wrapped around me, more for comfort than for the cold, that I realize I never asked the boy his name.

  16

  Eldaren

  My head hurts. I rarely get headaches, so it’s always surprising when I do.

  It’s nearly spring, and we’ve experienced a few more earthquakes. It’s immensely frustrating not to know how they are being caused when our wards set about the city seem to do nothing. What is going on?

  I’m in my office. This isn’t any different from any other day, but Stella has taken to stopping by to study more often than not, a fact I love as much as I find it maddening. I enjoy being in her presence, but mere thoughts of her are already distracting, let alone when she’s in the same room with me.

  Her mood seems to darken every day, though not toward me, specifically. She’s taken my request to discover the whereabouts of a gaia seriously and has started reading through books, rather than flip through them—books on magic, the structure of enchantment, and where it crosses to meld with science.

  Magic is science in a way, but little is known of it, and what knowledge we do have of it, often proves to be based on misunderstanding, even by the elves. Despite that, we’ve learned much; enough to expand our reach and to help other worlds.

  I assume Stella is learning much, too. She craves knowledge like air, and from recent discussions, seems to retain much of what she reads, though little good it will do her, poor girl. She’s a human and without magic. Even if she could use enchantment, like her brother Quinn, she would never learn to wield it like an elf. Humans lack the emotional balance needed to control it to its full potential.

  She’s in my study now, her face hidden by a long curtain of dark blonde hair. She has a particularly thick book open in front of her, but with the spine obscured from view, I can’t see what it is. I had a side table and chair brought in for her, but Stella prefers to read sprawled on the rug.

  I’m sitting at my desk, rubbing my temples as I study a report. Gawynn has managed to find all but a handful of the wayward vampires. He even has a list of names.

  Five vampires have eluded our grasp.

  Wilder is one of them.

  He’s written the report in our elvish tongue, but the names are in English. I glower down at them, wishing that crumpling this paper and tossing it into the hearth would be enough to extinguish the man who’d captured Stella’s heart.

  I hate him.

  I don’t hate many people, and I don’t use the word or take the emotion lightly, but I hate Wilder. I still remember his arrogant grin, his eyes glittering with malice, when he taunted me. Regardless of what you’ve done to her, know that she’s thinking of me. Always.

  My face flushes at the insinuation. He thought I’d acted dishonorably. And that despite that, Stella still—

  My face heats further, and I blink, gazing down at the report, now torn in two and crumpled. My breathing is ragged, rage and hurt slicing like the edge of a knife.

  “Are you all right?” Stella looks up from her reading; head cocked to the side. “You look upset. Did you get bad news?”

  No matter what you do, know that she loves me like she’ll never love you.

  “An irritating report is all,” I say as smoothly as I can manage. “It’s of no consequence.”

  Stella arches an eyebrow at the destroyed paper. “I hardly believe that.”

  It is like she can sense that even a report of Wilder is of some significance. I know it has to be a coincidence, but I am too flustered to be thinking rationally.

  What would Mother think of all of this? She’s an emotional whirlwind, to put it lightly—that’s what Father says—but she’s very, very good at reading emotions. Maybe if she studies Stella, she’ll be able to see things that I cannot.

  The thought alone makes me shudder, and I shake my head once. That’s a terrible idea. Mother is the absolute worst person in which to confide. She throws secrets around like fistfuls of confetti.

  No, I can’t tell her. But I need to visit Mother, soon, or risk having her come here. She’ll only have to see Stella once to know that the human girl means so much to me.

  “You look tense.” Stella is standing there, beside me, and embarrassment courses through me. I hadn’t even notice her move. I’m being a disgraceful elf at the moment. But it’s not like the other elves are dealing with a Kenelky bond that isn’t working properly.

  “Here, let me help you.” Stella is standing behind me. Pale hands grip my shoulders, slim fingers kneading my skin through the fabric. “Wow, you’re tense,” she says. “Relax your shoulders.”

  I can’t breathe. Pleasure skitters across my arms at the contact, heat surging through my veins. I close my eyes, biting my lip to keep in any awkward sounds.

  “You don’t seem to mind,” Stella laughs. “Am I really that good?”

  I open my mouth to speak, and a garbled yes comes out. Face flushing, I nod.

  “Huh. That’s pretty cool,” she says. Her fingers continue their kneading. I didn’t know I was carrying so much tension. It’s not something we elves think about. We just do what must be done, and that is that.

  But feeling the gentle pressure, the circular motions, I feel somehow calm. At ease. The pressure in my head releases, and I sigh, letting my head droop.

  “There you go.” She sounds pleased. Her hands move up to the back of my neck, brushing my hair off to one side. “You have gorgeous hair, by the way,” she says.

  I should acknowledge her compliment, but then her hands are massaging my neck, and I lose my ability to think.

  Stars in the sky, this feels good.

  My fingers relax, and the paper pieces slide to the floor. I sit there like an idiot, eyes half-closed, reveling in the sensation of my hopefully-soon-to-be-mate massaging my neck, shoulders, upper arms, lower back. I will never tire of this.

  “There.” All too soon, her hands release me, and she pats me on the head. “Feeling better?”

  I blink, my mind trying to pull out of its sleepy haze, and Stella laughs, rumpling my hair. “You look like you’re feeling more relaxed. I’ll have to do that for you again.” />
  “That—” I swallow. “That would please me very much, Stella, mine.”

  “I bet it would,” Stella smiles. She shakes her arms out. “You’re muscular. That was actually a bit of a workout for me. Wilder wasn’t as—”

  She bites her lip, color rising to her face.

  I keep my face impassive, but anger stirs in my soul. Wilder got back and shoulder rubs, too, and the thought of Stella’s fingers being anywhere near that loathsome vampire makes me want to rage.

  That is not Stella’s fault, of course. She was a poor, lonely girl scraping a living off the devastation that is Liberty.

  And I need to do my best not to be jealous of the past she shared with Wilder. Wilder was not a vampire, then. Maybe he was even a good man, at the time.

  He did, however, choose the drugs over her. What kind of person did that make Wilder? A self-serving infidel?

  Or a desperate boy who stumbled and fell down a destructive path? Admittedly, it’s easier to believe the former. I want to believe the former.

  Stella is watching me cautiously. I don’t smile. I usually guard my smiles, and I don’t fake them. I’d have to fake one right now. She looks genuinely worried, and I know my reaction—or lack of one—has her on edge. I don’t want her to feel sad.

  “I’ll give you one, next time,” I say, standing. I stretch. Stars, but I do feel better. “If you’d like.”

  Stella nods, carefully ignoring her earlier slip-up. “I’d like that.” She turns and motions to the book that’s lying open on the rug. “I still can’t find any information on the gaia. There’s lots of other stuff, about sylphs and other such nonsense, but no earth magic.”

  “I appreciate your efforts,” I reply. “Even if your search has provided me nothing.” Women like compliments, right?

  Stella sniffs and shoots me a look so sharp I’m surprised I’m not bleeding. “Well, excuse me, prince.”

  “What’s wrong?” I tilt my head, puzzlement flickering.

  “Oh, nothing,” Stella says in a voice that indicates she means the opposite. “Just that I’ve been spending hours upon hours of my time trying to find this gaia for you, nevermind what the results are.”

  I blink, doing my best to hide my surprise. “That’s what I said, Stella. I appreciate your efforts.” Why are humans so confusing?

  Stella tucks her chin and mumbles something incoherent. I only catch ’forget it,’ ’anti-social’ and ’skills.’ I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “I’m going to check the main library,” she says and leaves the room. I stand where I am for a few moments, staring at the door.

  I can still remember the feel of her hands, roving over my shoulders and back.

  17

  Wilder

  Night falls. I push the quilt aside and crawl out from under the bed. I know most humans would find it peculiar to find someone slept under their bed rather than in it, but I’m hardly human anymore, am I?

  The lust for blood is still there, thrumming through me. Will it ever be sated? If it never relents, if it’s never slaked, what will happen to me? Will I become mad? Will I become a monster?

  “You’re already a monster,” I growl softly as I pad across the floor and enter the main room.

  I blink, taking in the boy who’s crouched in the short hallway. He’s looking at me with an emotion I can’t read.

  “You’re still here,” I say. In truth, I’d forgotten about him until now—the boy who’d followed me home last night like a lost puppy.

  “My name is Cecil, sir.” He’s still watching me with those large red eyes. He flinches violently.

  I shrug. “Okay.” Stalking past him, I enter the kitchen. I’m not hungry, not for real food, but I head there anyway, out of habit. I used to be a nighttime snacker. Popcorn with lemon pepper was a favorite of mine. Stella used to tease me about it—“butter and salt is the only way to go, you weirdo”—but there wasn’t a flavor I liked better.

  “I wonder what popcorn with blood would taste like,” I muse.

  “Sir?”

  “I have a name,” I say, annoyed. “It’s Wilder.”

  “Yes, sir.” He shudders.

  I roll my eyes but don’t reply. After being a gangster-underling for months, it feels good to be shown some respect, though why the boy’s so polite is beyond me.

  “You want . . . popcorn, sir?”

  I sigh with impatience and run a hand over my face. “Sure,” I say. “I do. I want a human snack.”

  I turn around, and Cecil flinches where he’s still huddled on the floor. “Why do you keep doing that?” I say.

  “Do what?”

  “This.” I flinch in an exaggerated manner. “It’s annoying.”

  “Sorry, sir.” He pauses and then continues in a rush. “I have food back at . . . back at home.”

  “Are there any humans there?”

  He swallows and shakes his head, and flinches again. Maybe it’s a nervous tic.

  “Great. Let’s go.” Maybe it’ll be a better place than this house. I don’t like the idea of settling down, anyway. I haven’t forgotten that both elves and vampires are trying to track me down. Fortunately, Liberty is vast.

  Cecil nods and scrambles to his feet. “I’ll show you.” He sounds eager, excited, even. “It’s not too far from here. An hour, maybe.”

  “Lead the way,” I say, and we leave the house.

  “How did you become a vampire, Cecil?” I ask, several minutes after we’d left.

  “I got attacked by a stranger. I was walking home one night, with a bag of groceries and I was jumped. Next thing I knew, he’d bit me.”

  “Huh.” This doesn’t surprise me, but it makes me wonder who bit him. A once-dream vagrant? Or a vampire from elsewhere? My mind drifts back to the vampires who tried to get me to join them. Were they biting humans for the purpose of turning them, maybe for a gang of sorts?

  I have no idea, but I realize I don’t find the idea as appalling as I should. It’d be nice to have a group of sorts, where we could look out for each other’s backs.

  I discard the idea as soon as I think it. I couldn’t turn someone in good conscience. The existence that is my reality is its own special kind of hell.

  What about Stella? What if she became a vampire? Then we could truly be together. We could hunt together, live together, laugh together. Love together.

  Would that really be so bad?

  The idea is tempting, even as my soul shudders at the thought of inflicting that sort of future on the woman I love. And to make it worse, I doubt I could stop. I haven’t yet been able to stop drinking a victim once I start.

  Cecil is eyeing me sideways, pushing a forelock of hair out of his face. We’re jogging, and after several minutes of this, neither of us are winded.

  “What?” I say.

  “You’re scowling,” he says. “Did I say something wrong?”

  I ignore the question with one of my own. “So, the vampire just bit you and left?”

  “No,” Cecil says. “An elf attacked him. I escaped in the battle that followed. I don’t know who won, but I didn’t stick around to find out. I suspect either of them would have killed me.”

  “You guessed rightly,” I say. “Stay away from other vampires, but that goes double for the elves. They’ll kill you on sight.”

  “Why aren’t vampires friendly with each other?” Cecil asks. “Aside from you?”

  “I’m not friendly,” I snort.

  “You let me drink that dead guy,” he said.

  “Yeah, after I murdered him,” I growl. Stars, it sounds awful when I say it that way. “He had it coming, though,” I add. And he did. He did. “I don’t think all vampires are hostile to each other,” I continue after a moment. “I think we’re all just scared. Some of us are a result of an elven experiment gone wrong.”

  “Stars in the sky,” the young man breathes. “You’re serious?”

  I nod mutely, my stomach churning at the memory.

&
nbsp; “My mom was right,” he says, his voice thickening. “She said the elves were invaders. Like the aliens in stories. They’re evil.”

  I’m not sure turning dream vagrants into vampires had been the elves’ intent at all. But I sure don’t agree with their idea of fixing a problem, which in this case, equaled them slaughtering the dream vagrants who were turned.

  Cecil is sniffling, and I eye him with some irritation. “Maybe going to your Mum’s house isn’t such a good idea.”

  He rubs his nose and sniffs loudly. “No, it’s okay,” he says. “If we’re going to get supplies, that’s as good a place as any to get them.”

  I follow him down a side street. “We’re almost there,” he says over his shoulder. His steps are quickening, as if he’s eager to arrive, or wants it over with.

  We come to a wide street with houses lining both sides—a residential area. Most of the homes look abandoned, the windows boarded up or gaping, the glass long since shattered.

  Cecil strides down the street, coming to a halt in front of a pale blue home. It’s empty. Its windows have boards over them, like bandaged eyes. The lawn grass is overgrown, and there’s a general air of emptiness about it.

  “Anyone home?” I ask, even though I think already I know the answer.

  Cecil shakes his head, his expression sad. He steps up to the door and opens it, inhaling deeply. “No one has been here,” he says.

  We go inside and I close the door behind us.

  The house smells of dust and the faded scent of a woman’s perfume: probably Cecil’s mother, poor soul.

  Cecil walks down the entry hall and into a small kitchen. I try not to look at the bloodstains on the faded wooden floorboards. The woman’s scent is stronger here.

  “Mom died here.” Cecil’s tone is rough. He begins opening cupboards and pulling out canned and dried goods. “What did you want, again? Popcorn?”

  “What kind of food do you have?” Can I even eat normal food anymore? I know I don’t need it, or I’d already be dead. I’ve been feeding off the blood of stray dogs and cats, and the very occasional human. I haven’t needed anything else, not even water.