by C. A. Gray
The strange part, however, was that neither of the robbers ever saw Lily at all. Apparently, they had not intended to kill, because they panicked and fled without taking anything – but not before they had looked around wildly for the fastest route of escape. At the very moment that their eyes ought to have fallen upon Lily, she saw it.
Standing between Lily and the assassins was a creature, glowing but almost invisible, with pointed features and legs like a goat. Its back faced the two men as it cowered protectively over her, and Lily looked up into its wide, ageless eyes that seemed to sparkle with tears of understanding. It put a finger to its thin lips, telling her to be very quiet, until the robbers fled and left Lily in the desolate safety of her shattered world. She did not have to call the police: the neighbors had done it, hearing the shots fired. When the police arrived, Lily was able to choke out a full description of the attackers. One of them was apprehended later that night. The other was caught months later.
Ever since that fateful night, Lily had seen the specters everywhere. But she seldom saw glowing specters, like the one that had saved her life that night. Most of them were ugly shadows, and they were always attached to a person, or else the person was always attached to it – she wasn’t sure which.
The court placed Lily in the foster care system after her parents’ murders. None of her foster families kept her for very long, because they all thought Lily was mentally unbalanced. The trouble was, half the time Lily would respond not to humans, but to their specters, which gave her foster parents (and everyone else) the impression that she was clairvoyant or somehow touched in the head. When they confronted her about this, Lily told them frankly about the specters. In no time at all, she invariably found herself back at the agency. Social Services counselors completed reports suggesting that her wild imagination was simply a manifestation of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and predicted that she would eventually return to normalcy.
Once Lily realized the problem, she tried not to tell people about the specters so readily. She tried to behave like everybody else, but it was very difficult to have a normal conversation when she could hear the soft, seductive words that the specter murmured to its human host: words that the host evidently interpreted as his or her own thoughts, and often repeated a second later. Two of the families had been concerned enough to refer her for counseling, but neither attempt had lasted long, since there were no clinical diagnoses for Lily’s condition. When she didn’t improve, she went straight back into the system.
After years with no change in her condition, her social worker in London finally recommended complete relocation, hoping that the absence of familiar triggers would speed her recovery. “Maybe you just need a change of scenery,” the social worker said to Lily soothingly, patting her knee with a sympathetic smile. Lily knew that ‘you need a change of scenery’ was really code for ‘we want you to become someone else’s problem,’ and she said so. Her social worker, of course, responded with a very eloquent disclaimer (which Lily had promptly informed her was also complete bunk).
Privately, Lily had also hoped for a fresh start, but she hadn’t really expected anything to be different in Norwich.
“You must be Lily Portman,” said the teacher, a round woman with no neck and splotches of color on her cheeks. Lily tried to look at her face and smile, but it was hard not to stare at the specter sitting on top of her head. It was a squat little gnome-like creature, and it watched Lily with dull, stupid eyes, a trickle of drool dangling from its jutting lower jaw.
“I am Mrs. Randalph,” said the woman with a bland smile. “I understand you are joining us from London.” She wore the same expression as the specter-gnome, minus the drool.
One step shy of completely enmeshed, Lily thought, and started to grimace before she caught herself and bit her lip instead. People had accused her before of having a twitch for that habit.
“There’s a seat for you over by the window there, dear,” said Mrs. Randalph, and pointed to a seat next to a very handsome curly-haired boy whom Lily thought she remembered seeing earlier that morning. His eyes appraised her, and then he looked away, obviously unimpressed.
Reluctantly, Lily hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder and approached the desk, trying not to look at the specter that entwined around the boy’s midsection. It was a dazzlingly beautiful woman with flame-colored hair that floated in brazen defiance of gravity, an unpleasantly ageless pixie face, and hollow, dead eyes. This didn’t surprise Lily in the least. Most teenage boys’ specters took a similarly feminine form. The specter-woman coiled around the curly-haired boy in a serpentine fashion, and she was whispering in his ear.
Puppet, Lily thought, and made a face. But he was the closest student to where she was sitting. So she whispered, “Can I borrow your notes from the last few classes? It’s my first day.”
The specter-woman slithered around his midsection. Oh, look, the repulsive thing thinks she’s good enough to talk to you! she said, looking at Lily’s plain brown scarf in disgust. Ignore her. She’ll give up and learn her place.
“Actually I won’t give up,” Lily said pleasantly. The specter-woman looked startled. “And I already know you think I’m not pretty enough to warrant your attention, so let’s just take it that we’re all clear on that point. But I really do need those notes.”
Brock blinked at her, somewhere between confused and alarmed. “What are you… like a mind-reader or something?”
“Or something,” Lily shrugged, and extended her palm towards his notebook, waggling her fingers. He obediently plunked the notebook into her palm, looking perplexed and angry that he’d obeyed her against his will. “Thank you,” said Lily sweetly, and winked at the specter-woman, who bared her teeth at Lily in response.
Ordinarily she didn’t find puppets this much fun. But today was different. Today she had hope, because for the first time in her life, she had met not just one, but two people who did not have specters at all.
***
“So,” said Bruce pointedly, the moment he saw Peter that night.
“What did Mr. Stone say about the lab?” Peter interrupted, before his dad could finish his thought.
“Tell you in a minute,” said Bruce, distracted. “Did you talk any more to Lily?”
Peter’s expression darkened. “Yeah, about that,” he growled.
“Well, what did she say? What did you say? Tell me about her!” said Bruce, tossing his blazer in the general direction of the coat rack without taking aim. He missed, and the blazer fell to the floor, where Newton sniffed it.
“She’s….” Peter searched for an appropriate descriptor. “Weird,” he said finally.
Bruce laughed. “I’ll bet!”
“Do you mind telling me why you’re so interested in Lily?” Peter asked, annoyed.
“For the same reason she’s so interested in you,” Bruce said with a shrug, and plopped onto the chintz sofa in their living room. He crossed one knee on top of the other, revealing his atrocious lucky socks. “Am I right in saying she’s interested in you?”
Peter’s face burned and he looked away. “No,” he said quickly, and then mumbled, “Not like that, anyway.” He sat down on the other end of the sofa and Newton leapt onto his lap. Peter absently stroked his long white fur.
“She was curious about you, though?” Bruce persisted.
Peter shrugged. “I guess so.” The truth was that he couldn’t think of a single motive to explain Lily’s behavior. On the surface, however, he had to admit it appeared that she had a certain fascination with him.
“That’s because she’s a Seer,” Bruce said matter-of-factly.
Peter stared at him, not understanding what he meant for a second. It had been years since he had heard that term – seven years, to be exact. When he was little, he had only ever heard it in the context of legends. He leaned forward, forgetting that Newton was still reclining on his lap. The cat yelped in protest and leapt to the floor, tossing him a dirty look. “You’re telling me that sh
e can see … the penumbra?”
“The nimbi, too, although there aren’t as many of them hanging about, of course,” said Bruce.
Peter shook his head, too incredulous to know whether he was more amused or annoyed. The word penumbra, he remembered from his childhood, meant shadow, or eclipse. It was a word that Bruce used as a general term for all the wraith-like creatures of darkness that populated the versions of the Arthurian legends that he had told Peter as a child. Nimbi was the plural of nimbus, meaning ring of light. They were like the penumbra in essence, but they were good, and they fought against the penumbra on King Arthur’s side. Bruce had earnestly assured Peter that the stories were true, and Peter had believed them until he was about five, when doubts began to crowd out the fairy tales. By the time Peter was seven, he had convinced himself that they were only stories after all, and it was time to grow beyond such childhood fantasies. He wouldn’t let his dad tell him the stories after that, but Bruce still alluded to them from time to time, as if he were testing a boundary which Peter always held firmly intact.
“You can’t be serious,” Peter managed.
“Of course I’m serious. I should know – I’m a Seer myself. I told you that when you were little –”
Without knowing what he was doing, Peter stood up and began to pace the room.
“Did I say something?” Bruce asked.
“No,” Peter said, but not in response to Bruce’s question. “No, no, no. They don’t exist.”
“Why not? Just because you can’t see them?”
“Because… because you’re a scientist, for crying out loud! How can you possibly believe –”
“As a scientist,” Bruce countered patiently, “I have been well trained to highly regard the evidence from my senses. I can see the penumbra and the nimbi, which means, as far as I can tell, that there are two possibilities. One is that I am insane. The other is that they exist. And since I know a great many other people who also can see them, I must conclude that the latter hypothesis is correct.”
“You… know others?” Peter repeated, but Bruce didn’t answer right away. Peter kept pacing for a few moments, and then said defensively, “That still doesn’t explain why Lily was so interested in me. If she can see a bunch of shadow creatures, so what? What have I got to do with it?”
Bruce paused for a moment. “Remember in the stories, Peter, what I told you about the penumbra?”
Grudgingly, Peter said, “Each one attaches itself to one person and tries to influence him.”
“Yes. And remember who the exceptions were? The only people who didn’t have one of the penumbra following them around all the time?”
“The Seers,” Peter muttered.
“Exactly. The Seers aren’t going to be fooled by them, because obviously, they can see what’s going on. So Lily doesn’t have one, and I don’t have one. But here’s the strange part: you don’t have one either.”
Peter snorted. “Ha! That’s convenient.”
“Not really,” Bruce shrugged. “Even if you did, you wouldn’t know it. I’m willing to bet, though, that Lily has never met another Seer before, which means she’s never met anybody who wasn’t at least partially under the influence of the penumbra. Until she met you and me,” he added, and grinned.
“So if everybody else has one of the penumbra, why don’t I?” Peter challenged.
“I think there are several answers to that question,” Bruce said thoughtfully, “but I’m not allowed to tell you the most important one yet.”
“Not allowed?” Peter interrupted, exasperated. “Who won’t allow it? Isdemus again, I suppose?”
“I can tell you, though,” Bruce continued, as if he didn’t hear the question, “that whenever one of the penumbra has tried to attach itself to you, even as a little boy, their words had no effect on you. Eventually they got frustrated and gave up.” He stifled a laugh and said with a faraway smile, “It was pretty funny, actually.”
Peter sank heavily back into the sofa again. “All right. So let’s just… say this is true. I’m not saying it is,” he added quickly.
“But if it is,” Bruce nodded, “then your new friend Lily has probably spent most of her life thinking either that she’s insane, or else that she is the only person in the entire world who sees things the way they really are. That gets pretty lonely, let me tell you.”
“Okay, fine,” Peter said. “So what do you want me to do about it?” He stood up and crossed to the fireplace for no apparent reason, too restless to sit still.
“Have her over for curry take-away night!” said Bruce cheerfully. Then he added more seriously, “She has a right to know the truth, don’t you think?”
“The truth?” Peter said, raising an eyebrow.
“Sure,” said Bruce. “When it seems like everybody around you is influenced by one of the penumbra, it feels like the whole world has been taken over by aliens except for you. You feel helpless and alone. But she’s not helpless, and she’s not alone! I want her to know that she has a great purpose to fulfill, and incredible power!”
“You mean like speaking photons into existence?” said Peter sarcastically.
“Laugh if you want,” Bruce shrugged good-naturedly. “Just know that in the not-so-distant future, I will be in the enviable position of saying, ‘I told you so!’” He stood up and pushed his sellotaped glasses further up his nose. “Ask her tomorrow,” he commanded as he left the room, and then added as a mischievous afterthought when he was halfway out the door, “If you don’t, I will!”
Peter groaned when he had gone, imagining a painful scene in which his father tried to explain to Lily that King Arthur was not just a legend, that the world was overrun by dark creatures that sought to control anybody who would let them, and that there was an ancient language of power that he would be more than happy to teach her. If Peter’s classmates made fun of him before, it was nothing compared to what he would face after that.
He made up his mind then and there that Lily, one way or the other, would not be coming over for dinner. Ever.
Chapter 5
Henry Jefferson crossed the threshold of the Jefferson mansion first. “Wipe your feet,” he said shortly to his son behind him. Brock stopped short and resentfully pounded his football cleats on the doormat, dutifully untied and slipped them off his feet, and left them on the doorstep, entering the house in his sweaty socks.
“What did I tell you about passing, Brock?” Henry continued reproachfully. “You had the ball. You were unstoppable.”
“There were three guys on me, Dad,” Brock muttered.
“So you double back. You fake right and break left if you have to. But for heaven’s sake, you know McClellan can’t shoot to save his life.”
“It wasn’t his fault. O’Malley is just a good keeper –”
“Are you talking back to me?” Henry demanded.
“No, sir.”
“You are going to make team captain in a year, because why?”
“Because I’m the best,” Brock muttered.
“Damn right, you’re the best. You’re going to be Man of the Match this year if you don’t screw it up with too many foolish decisions.” As he said it, he loosened his tie, walked over to his mini bar, and poured himself a drink.
Henry told Brock from the time he was little that he was better than other kids in every way, and expected him to live up to it. Brock thoroughly disappointed his dad academically, but to Henry’s delight, Brock’s gift for sports made up for it – unlike his younger brother Cole, whose poor depth perception and lack of coordination practically caused him to run into walls. As a result, Henry had almost no interest in his younger son.
From Brock’s perspective, Cole had the better deal.
“Dad!” cried Cole in surprise when he came in. Usually Henry only came home on weekends.
“Hi, Cole,” his father muttered without so much as looking up.
Nonplussed, Cole said to his brother, “What’s up with you? You look like Englan
d just lost the World Cup.”
Brock risked a sullen look at his father and then glowered at the floor, but said nothing.
“Do I hear my boys?” called a voice like a streak of sunlight, immediately followed by a plump, bouncing blond woman who kissed all of them on the cheek in almost a single motion. Henry shrugged her off irritably without a word, and Brock wiped her lipstick off his cheek. Cole was the only one who greeted his mother cheerfully, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Where’s Peter tonight, Cole? I thought he was coming over.”
“Peter Stewart?” said Mr. Jefferson, looking up from his drink with mild interest. “You still hanging out with that boy?” he asked, gesturing to Cole.
“Yeah, he’s my best friend. But he said he had something to talk to his dad about tonight, Mum. Dr. Stewart was trying to get him a research spot in a physics lab at the university.”
“Very impressive!” said Henry, looking pointedly at Brock when he said it. “Now there’s a boy who’s going to make something of himself. Already headed to the university at fourteen, eh?” He raised his glass, as if he were making a toast, and added disapprovingly in Brock’s direction, “You’d do well to take a page out of Peter Stewart’s book.”
If possible, Brock’s expression grew even darker. He felt like making an obscene gesture at his father’s back, but he would never actually have the guts to do it.
“The maid left dinner in the oven,” said Mrs. Jefferson, oblivious as always. “It’s your favorite, Brock: shepherd’s pie! Mmmm!” she intoned, rubbing her belly for effect as if she were speaking to a small child.
