Shadowshaper Legacy

by Daniel José Older

  “Ah …” Sierra said. “Uh-oh.”

  Tío Angelo drew a long machete. “Is that a Sorrow, María? You’ve brought a Sorrow to my house? I don’t think so, mi amor.”

  Inside Los Angelos, beer ads and saint statues decorated the walls. At the far end, an impressive wooden bar stood before a cabinet of various liquors. “Look,” he said gruffly, “there’s a lot neither of us understand about what’s happened on each other’s ends. I respect that.” Outside, the rain came down in earnest; it pounded on the tin roof overhead and ricocheted off plants and flowers, wetting the tables at the edge of the bar. Sierra tried to ignore the flickering golden glow that was Septima, waiting silently and somewhat pathetically out in the elements. “And María has been updating me with the basics of what’s happened, which I appreciate.”

  Sierra looked at her mom. “You never told me that.”

  “Just the basics,” María said. “I wrote to him after everything that went down on Halloween, kind of hinting at what was happening, and turned out he knew more than I’d realized about all this.”

  “Pero, por supuesto, nena.” Tío Angelo released a cigar-stained chuckle.

  “I have learned that there is no such thing as of course when it comes to spirit legacies in families,” María said. “Look at Rosa. Or me, for instance.”

  Angelo nodded. “Mm . . . true, true.” He turned a furrowed brow to Sierra. “And I must say, my deepest congratulations, Lucera. It gives me great hope and joy to know that the legacy continues, and I see that it shines within you very brightly.”

  “Thank you,” Sierra said, trying not to hurry him along, needing desperately to hurry him along. “And —”

  “But the point remains. I cannot help you as long as that monstrosity is with you.”

  “She —” Sierra started, but Angelo cut her off again.

  “Do you know why I live here, in this remote corner of the world, Sierra?”

  This sounded like a rhetorical question or a test, and Sierra had time for neither. “No?”

  “Because the mother of that creature you brought here still lurks within the shadows of those ruins. And it is the tradition of our family to keep her contained. It is our role. Has been passed on for generations, just like the role of Lucera, hm? It’s not that she’s trying to escape. No. She doesn’t need to, of course, because her web stretches out into the world and her foul stench pervades along with it, including and especially in the form of the Sorrows.”

  “Yes,” Sierra said. “And we’ve come to end all that.”

  “And furthermore,” Angelo continued without even pretending to listen. “It is to protect the realm from those who would come to see her, pilgrims so to speak, who want to embellish their foul powers. Just two months back, in fact, we caught three of those ones who call themselves the Bloodhaüs, trying to reach out and find themselves face-to-face with La Contessa herself, and probably in some quest to destroy you.”

  “Oh?” Sierra hadn’t heard about any of this.

  He scoffed. “Now they rot beneath the earth.”

  “Oh. Wow. But, Tío —”

  “This is the role we have always played and —”

  Sierra slammed her hand on the wooden table they sat at. “Tío!”

  Finally, he stopped talking and looked her in the eye. Bullheaded men only understood brute force. It was a shame so many of them ran the world, Sierra thought briefly. How much further would we have progressed if — whatever. She rounded on her uncle, letting that flicker of her shadow and light magic seep out around her to remind him of exactly who he was talking to. “Maybe you’ve fallen so in love with your tragic traditions that you’re terrified of what might happen if you didn’t have to uphold them anymore, hm?”

  Angelo blinked at her.

  “Or the idea that you might have to do something else with your life. I thank you for all you’ve done to combat the influence of La Contessa. I really do. And we’ve come here to destroy her and end this forever. All of us. And —” She placed some glowing cards on the table, facedown. “We brought these to help us do it.”

  Tío Angelo’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

  “She has a point, Papá,” a voice said from the far end of the bar. Sierra looked up. A young man, maybe twenty-five, stood just under the awning in soaking-wet jeans.

  “Ay díos mío,” María exclaimed, running over to him. “Is that Angelito?”

  Los Angelos, the bar was called, Sierra realized. Plural, not possessive. Of course, because Spanish. She hadn’t thought about it, though, and she’d forgotten completely that Tío Angelo had a son.

  “Hey, Tía María,” he said, laughing and accepting her cheek kiss. “And look, Papa, if they brought the cards, they mean business. And if this Sorrow is with them, then it’s here to help. That’s it. You know I hate the Sorrows as much as you do, but Sierra, our new Lucera — she crushed the House of Light, La Contessa’s own daughters. Damn near wiped them out. If she trusts this creature, or thinks she needs her help anyway, who are we to say she’s wrong?”

  Tío Angelo grumbled something and blinked a few times, rocking his head back and forth.

  Angelito turned to Sierra. “Look, cuz, don’t worry about it. If the old man won’t take you, I will.”

  That thickness. That heavy shroud. A chill swept through the air, but it still felt heavy over the crowd, like a muggy day. The gray sky, the gray, gray sky. The bustle below.

  Up, up, up and over and around. The force field they’d explored yesterday formed a kind of egg around the event. Invisible to the normal eye, invincible to even the tougher power players on the scene. It had to be the Hierophants holding it together. Fortress and the River — it smelled of their filth: very old, ill-maintained and ill-mannered, weighty with whole epochs of discontent and malnourished, slippery dimness. A crawling, festering kind of power. Almost unstoppable. Almost.

  The Hierophant Air was something altogether new. They probed the intricacies of this invisible wall, as they had yesterday, slid their amorphous, barely there matter into its cracks and crevices, the fault lines of its thick fabric. And then they expanded, filling them, filling them, braiding through the tiny seams, growing and growing, and seeping farther, deeper, colliding against molecules and then rupturing them, collapsing cross-stitches and clumsily fused together notches, disfiguring half-broken moldings.

  A tremble: The Hierophant Air felt it bristle through the steadily decimating lining of the force field. They paused the work, breathing in and out, expanding and contracting, reenergizing and aware, suddenly, deeply, acutely aware, and ready.

  Another shudder, more bristling. They knew now, the other two Hierophants. They felt the disruption in their beings, the unraveling of what they’d made.

  Good. It was bound to happen.

  Down below, the two towering figures on either side of the crowd leapt into action, hustling with gigantic, pounding steps toward their respective power points to find out what went wrong.

  It was too late, though, deliciously too late. And they were too obtuse to realize how they were about to become the keys to the final unraveling of their creation.

  The Hierophant Air chortled as they sprang back into action, blasting full-throttle through the newly widened ravines they’d carved through the near-catastrophic shield wall.

  They split into two streams of current, shrieked through tunnels down either end of the shield, and then each sped into a breathless, unstoppable torpedo blast of air directly into the power centers that Fortress and the River had hurried to check on.

  For a moment, there was nothing, just the December wind shushing past and the murmur of the crowd. Then, with a ferocious tremble that few if any could actually feel except the Hierophants, the shield split entirely and disintegrated into nothing.

  “My friends!” Dake’s voice blasted out over the loudspeakers. “My friends! My brothers and sisters!” A cheer went up. The event was beginning. The web trembled and spasmed. “Welcome!”


  Wherever Sierra was, she better hurry.

  “Go ahead,” Dake said, glancing back at Juan with a nasty grin on his face. “You can play beneath me while I talk, boys.”

  Juan didn’t like the way this white kid said boys. Or beneath me while I talk. Or anything else, for that matter. Dake spoke like someone who had worms just waiting to pour out of his mouth at any given moment. And it didn’t help that he was wearing a fur coat and a metallic crown. Culebra was usually the most freakily adorned at any event, but now they were all just in puffy jackets and scarves to stay warm, and this Hitler Youth–loser was dressed like some world wrestler’s busted nephew.

  “What do you call it?” Dake said slyly, like he was in on some joke no one else got. “Vamping?”

  “Uh, sure,” Juan said.

  “Don’t act surprised that I know a thing or two about music!”

  Juan shrugged. “I wasn’t.” He definitely was.

  “I used to be in love with a musical theater fanatic, you know.”

  “That is somehow unsurprising to me.”

  “She didn’t … never mind.” Dake shook his head, momentarily lost, then gathered himself, snapped his head back to the roaring audience as Juan rolled his eyes and signaled Kaz — poor Kaz, who had no idea what the hell was going on but gamely showed up to this ludicrous, satanic gig anyway — to get things started.

  “Friends!” Dake boomed.

  Kaz ripped into a fierce march, alternating between his snare and toms.

  “Yeah, just like that,” Dake said creepily. “Alright now.”

  Juan already hated this dude, but he had the stage presence of a lecherous gynecologist doing karaoke at a high school, and that just amped the hate all the way to twenty.

  “We have gathered today for unity!” Cheers. “For oneness!” Cheers, even though that meant the same thing as unity but whatever. “For victory!” Cheers.

  Pulpo climbed the scale, smacking low notes with his thumb and plucking octaves with his pointer, as Kaz circled back to the one. They landed on it together, and Pulpo launched into a double-time walking bass line amidst Kaz’s sparkling cymbals.

  “We have a new enemy in our midst, and it’s not one of the houses. It’s not the now-defeated Iron House or even the treacherous, soon-to-fall House of Shadow and Light.”

  Boos from the crowd. Juan rolled his eyes, chiming into the thunderous progression with some wistful arpeggios. Who the hell were all these wannabes anyway? Dake had invited every house vying for power in the tristate area, supposedly, which from the look of things amounted to about a hundred very random, mostly white people of all ages and no particular fashion sense. Some were dressed in all-green jumpers, others had on pointed hats. A few wore capes and cowls, trying to look as edgy and grim as possible. But many were just indescribably plain: collared shirts and V-necks, slacks, some business attire, some army jackets. How did this cross section of mediocrity stumble onto the magic of the Deck? Juan wondered.

  Did it really matter, though? It did not. All that mattered was that Dake ended up incapacitated when all this was over. Preferably permanently.

  “Are we happy to be here?” Dake yelled, choking up on the mic and getting too close to it in a way that spoke of someone with too many rock-star dreams deferred. “Are we ready to change the world?”

  Juan obliged the moment by transitioning from the overlapping tinkled notes to full, thrasher power chords, and Pulpo responded in kind, doubling down on his already heavy riff.

  “Yeah! I like that!” Dake said punchably. “Okay, look, everyone. As most of you have heard, I gave Lucera and her Shadow and Lighters a few days to do what is right and hand over the Deck to the people! Because we, the people, are who deserve the Deck! Am I right?” The crowd seemed to agree. “Because it’s ours! Am I right? Yeah! It belongs to the people, and we, we are the people. We deserve the Deck! We will use it to change the world for the better, and finally, finally, those of us who wield it can take control as we’re supposed to, yes?” Wild cheers. Wild, terrifying cheers. “Because we’re the greatest nation on earth! What’s to stop us once we have the Deck, hm?”

  Juan looked out across the many angry, enthralled faces. Any moment, their rage and ecstasy could boil over and they could just swarm over the stage and tear him to pieces.

  “And anyway,” Dake yelled, “that time period is up! And so let’s have it! I know there are members of her house with us today, in fact, some of them are right here onstage providing the musical entertainment! Give it up for Culebra!”

  Butchered the name, somehow managed to make it rhyme with cholera, but that was no surprise. People cheered, which was a surprise. Juan severely hoped Sierra knew what the hell she was doing so this nightmare would be over soon.

  “But I don’t … Hmm …” Dake made a show of gazing out into the crowd, one hand blocking the nonexistent sunlight out of his eyes. “I don’t see this Lucera-slash-Sierra character they love so hard.”

  Juan decided Dake could mention his sister being loved hard exactly one more time before the whole play-nice thing would be over and he’d have to beat the paste out of him. Judging from Pulpo’s face, he’d at least have a tag-team buddy in that endeavor.

  “I guess she decided not to show up!” Dake said, amidst hisses and jeers from the crowd. “I guess we’ll wait a little bit for her and see if she decides to make an appearance, huh? And until then, please enjoy this lovely entertainment from the band.”

  Dake turned around just as Juan was amping up the song. The guy looked completely different, his face suddenly shrouded in rage. “She better hand over that Deck,” Dake snarled in Juan’s ear. “Or you know what’ll happen.”

  “I can’t hear you!” Juan lied, playing harder. “The music is too loud!”

  Dake shook his head and stormed to the back of the stage, where his over-the-top Iron Throne awaited. He eased languidly into it and watched Culebra burn through their spontaneous power anthem.

  Juan was just gearing up for a solo when someone tall came running up the back steps to the stage. Juan abruptly stopped playing. Juan had thought Sierra’s drawing of the River had been, you know, a caricature. She hadn’t seen the guy herself either, after all, and was just going from what the others told her. But … the man — was it a man or some kind of horrible deadlike creature? Juan didn’t know — the thing that came barreling up the stairs, it looked exactly as horrific as Sierra’s rendering. Long, long fingers and a long, scraggly beard and drenched black clothes and a greenish pale face, mouth hanging open with water constantly dribbling out and eyes with no pupils and ugh!

  The River hustled over to Dake, who sat up immediately. They traded words, frantic ones from the look of it, and then Dake yelled at someone behind the stage — a short bald guy who came running up with a laptop in hand. Juan played a few cursory chords so no one would notice he was barely paying attention. Pulpo seemed to understand, glancing between Juan and Dake and then dropping some overly fancy, show-offy riffs on the bass.

  The computer guy was at it now, sitting on the floor beside the Iron Throne and clacking away frantically, Dake looking over his shoulder. Juan knew exactly what that asshole was doing. The crew had said Dake was connected to all kinds of fiends on the nasty end of the web, that that was who he was planning to set loose on the shadowshapers’ loved ones. And whatever had just happened, it clearly violated Dake’s sense of safety and the bullshit deal he thought he’d made. Which meant that this little freak was probably disseminating everyone’s personal information on message boards all over creepy nazi forums.

  Right now.

  Still strumming, Juan started backing up toward the throne. He figured he could take that computer out with one well-placed swing of his Stratocaster. After that, well, he’d probably get trounced and thrashed, sure, but the Blood and Iron tech guy would be shit out of luck and their families safe, for the moment anyway.

  He got a little closer, trying to weigh how fast he’d have to run to make it
in time to cause maximum damage. Was this part of Sierra’s plan? She’d said they’d have to fight like hell, that they’d know when, but Juan had no idea if this was that? Shit.

  That satanic River demon had vanished, which was good in a way but also terrifying, because — where the hell was he?

  He was gonna do it. He stopped playing. Fingers found the metal nub where his strap was secured to the guitar, got ready to slide the fabric over it. And then another tall figure flickered past behind the stage, but this one wasn’t solid: It was a shadow. Juan blinked. There was Bennie, halfway up the stage stairs, swinging her hands nonchalantly in a way that Juan realized wasn’t nonchalant at all: She was directing spirits. The tall shadow swooped through Bennie and then flashed forward across the stage, and then sparks flew up from the computer guy’s laptop, and he leapt away screaming, as Dake jumped to his feet and glanced around.

  And then the air changed ever so slightly in that way Juan knew meant that spirits weren’t just nearby, but everywhere, and sure enough, those tall walking shadows began pouring in from all sides.

  They’d breached the spirit barrier! Somehow!

  And then a voice came over the loudspeakers, booming out over Culebra’s wild vamp. Sierra’s voice.

  “You wanted the Deck of Worlds?” she yelled with a triumphant kind of chuckle. Juan signaled Culebra to stop playing, then glanced at Bennie. She’d turned her attention to the sound board, and he could see she was still concentrating, techshaping. She was amazing. “You wanted the cards for the people?” Sierra’s voice taunted. “Well, here you go!”

  Out in the audience, everyone was looking around, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. He could tell their interest was piqued. They did want the cards, all to themselves, in fact. Of course they did. They just hadn’t expected to get them today. They’d expected to grumbly accept the dominance of yet another cutthroat house and hope to get close enough in its favor to one day backstab the right person and get their hands on the Deck so they could be the ones throwing massive ridiculous parties in the middle of the New Jersey wilds.