Shade 01 - Shade

by Jeri Smith-Ready

  He mo­ti­oned for her to sit. “I sho­uld get back to Kath­le­en and the kids.” He pat­ted Me­gan’s sho­ul­der. “Ple­ase, the next ti­me you co­me over, bring Aura with you.”

  She watc­hed him shamb­le to­ward the front of the co­urt­ro­om, then slid past me as I mo­ved back in­to the se­at be­si­de the ais­le. “I just tal­ked to Mic­key,” she sa­id. “Mr. Ke­eley and Si­ob­han think they won, but Mic­key and his mom are su­re they’ve lost.”

  “What abo­ut Dylan?”

  “He didn’t say.” She sat with a sigh. “He lo­oks al­most as fre­aked as you.”

  Of co­ur­se. Dylan knew that if the Ke­eleys didn’t win, and Lo­gan co­uldn’t pass on, the Ob­si­di­ans wo­uld lock Lo­gan up fo­re­ver.

  I slum­ped down in the se­at so I co­uld rest the back of my he­ad. The fe­ar was suc­king all the oxy­gen from my bra­in.

  A hand smo­ot­hed my ha­ir. It was Aunt Gi­na, who had just re-ente­red the co­urt­ro­om thro­ugh the re­ar do­ors.

  I sat up stra­igh­ter. “Did they do it?”

  She nod­ded. “Lo­gan’s sub­po­ena tag was ta­ken off. He’s a free man.” The cor­ners of her mo­uth tur­ned down. “He ne­eds so much to be at pe­ace. If we lo­se this ca­se, I don’t know how I’ll li­ve with myself.”

  A do­or in the front cor­ner of the co­urt­ro­om ope­ned, and the jury be­gan to fi­le back in af­ter less than an ho­ur’s de­li­be­ra­ti­on. Gi­na squ­e­ezed my arm, then hur­ri­ed to her tab­le.

  My musc­les wo­und them­sel­ves in­to do­ub­le and trip­le knots as the co­urt pro­ce­eded thro­ugh its fi­nal for­ma­li­ti­es. By the ti­me the de­fen­dant sto­od to re­ce­ive the de­ci­si­on, I was on the ver­ge of a full body cramp.

  The fo­re­man ope­ned the en­ve­lo­pe.

  Li­ab­le.

  As in, gu­ilty.

  Lo­gan was free.

  I sank for­ward, he­ad in my arms, and wept. As the co­urt­ro­om erup­ted with sho­uts of won­der and jubi­la­ti­on, Me­gan wrap­ped her arms aro­und my back and roc­ked me, the way she had when Lo­gan di­ed.

  It was over, al­most. Lo­gan wo­uld es­ca­pe this world, es­ca­pe ever­yo­ne who wan­ted a pi­ece of him. And we wo­uld all be­gin to he­al.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Lo­gan zo­omed up to me the mo­ment I hob­bled thro­ugh the do­or of the pac­ked and ra­uco­us Gre­en Derby pub.

  “We did it!” He en­ve­lo­ped me in a vi­olet-bright hug. “Dylan told me you we­re ama­zing on that wit­ness stand.” Then he whis­pe­red, “And now they won’t put me in a bo­ring lit­tle box for the next sixty ye­ars.”

  I rol­led my eyes. “Don’t even joke abo­ut that. I was so sca­red.”

  “Me too. Talk abo­ut a fa­te wor­se than de­ath. But it’s over now, and ti­me to party.” He wa­ved to Me­gan as she ca­me thro­ugh the do­or. “Hey, they’re sel­ling fi­ve-dol­lar pitc­hers of Harp.”

  “My aunt is he­re,” I told him, “so I bet­ter stick to so­da.”

  Me­gan pus­hed over to us. “Lo­gan, lo­ok at you, all bright and shiny.”

  “Do I lo­ok dif­fe­rent?” He stra­igh­te­ned his shirt. “I fe­el dif­fe­rent. He­re, we sa­ved you guys se­ats up front with my fa­mily.” We mo­ved to­ward the ot­her end of the bar, the crowd par­ting for my crut­c­hes.

  “How do you fe­el dif­fe­rent?” I as­ked him.

  “Li­ke so­met­hing is cal­ling me.” His vo­ice so­un­ded ol­der and de­eper than be­fo­re. “I just ho­pe-” He cut him­self off and scratc­hed the back of his he­ad. “I ho­pe it’s so­met­hing go­od.”

  His ima­ge sho­ne al­most pa­in­ful­ly bright, des­pi­te the flic­ke­ring lamps on the walls and tab­les of the pub. Se­e­ing him li­ke this, it was hard to be­li­eve he had ever sha­ded. “I’m su­re it’ll be go­od,” I told him.

  On the sta­ge, Mic­key sat tu­ning his aco­us­tic gu­itar and Si­ob­han her fid­dle.

  “So you con­vin­ced them to play,” I sa­id to Lo­gan.

  “It’s go­od ex­po­su­re. See the flyers pe­op­le are pas­sing aro­und? The­ir first gig will be so jam­med.” He watc­hed his brot­her and sis­ter for a few mo­ments. “I’m glad I co­uld do so­met­hing go­od for them, af­ter all the pa­in I ca­used.”

  I de­ci­ded not to de­ra­il his self-inflic­ted gu­ilt trip. I stop­ped next to an empty cha­ir at the end of the front row. “What’s yo­ur last song?”

  “You’ll see.” He knelt be­si­de me as I sat. “It’s not the one I wro­te for you. I wan­ted that to be for us and no­body el­se.”

  “You knew I was awa­ke, didn’t you?”

  He smi­led and shrug­ged. “I wo­uldn’t was­te a stel­lar per­for­man­ce on an un­cons­ci­o­us girl.”

  Si­ob­han tap­ped her bow on the si­de of her cha­ir. “Is Lo­gan he­re? We’re re­ady whe­ne­ver you are.” She bit her lip. “No rush.”

  “I bet­ter go,” Lo­gan sa­id to me. “I don’t know how long be­fo­re this pe­ace-thro­ugh-jus­ti­ce thing ex­pi­res.” His fa­ce mo­re so­lemn than ever, he lo­oked at me li­ke we we­re the only two pe­op­le in the ro­om. “I al­re­ady sa­id I’m sorry a mil­li­on ti­mes, so now I’ll just say thank you. For everyt­hing you ga­ve me, in li­fe and de­ath.” He brus­hed his hand over mi­ne. “Wha­te­ver hap­pens, I’ll al­ways lo­ve you. You’re gon­na be okay.”

  “Pro­mi­se?”

  He sho­ok his he­ad. “I can’t pro­mi­se, be­ca­use I can’t ma­ke it hap­pen. But you can ma­ke everyt­hing hap­pen, star­ting now.”

  I co­uldn’t spe­ak. I wan­ted to grab him and tie him to this world. But all I co­uld do was put my hands aro­und his no­ne­xis­tent body in the clo­sest we wo­uld ever get to an em­b­ra­ce.

  “I lo­ve you, Lo­gan.” Mo­re te­ars spil­led over my che­eks.

  “I still can’t watch you cry.” He le­aned in. “Kiss me, one last ti­me.”

  I cal­led up the dis­tant me­mory of his lips aga­inst mi­ne. But this ti­me, I kept my eyes open.

  When he pul­led back, Lo­gan pas­sed his hand over my ha­ir. “Don’t for­get me, okay?”

  He mo­ved to the mid­dle of the sta­ge, a small ra­ised plat­form in the cor­ner of the pub. Me­gan ca­me and sto­od off to the si­de, re­ady to trans­la­te for the sa­ke of the pre-Shif­ters.

  “Hey!” she yel­led, snag­ging ever­yo­ne’s at­ten­ti­on. “Lo­gan’s le­aving now, so tho­se of you who aren’t he­re for the che­ap be­er-well, not just for the che­ap be­er-co­me say go­od-bye.”

  A swell of ap­pla­use went up, and the crowd shif­ted down to our end of the pub. One by one, fri­ends and fans ca­me to the mic­rop­ho­ne and pa­id the­ir fi­nal res­pects or ma­de jokes at Lo­gan’s ex­pen­se. Cell pho­nes and ca­me­ras ca­me out, re­cor­ding this his­to­ric mo­ment.

  I’d se­en vi­de­os of ot­her pas­sings-tho­ugh no­ne qu­ite li­ke this-so I sort of knew what to ex­pect. When he was abo­ut to mo­ve on, Lo­gan’s ima­ge wo­uld brigh­ten un­til he tur­ned the pa­le yel­low co­lor of the sun. The tho­ught of it clo­sed my thro­at.

  Dylan to­ok the empty se­at be­si­de me. “I didn’t want to do a pub­lic go­od-bye ons­ta­ge,” he sa­id. “We tal­ked in pri­va­te be­fo­re you got he­re.”

  On im­pul­se, I re­ac­hed over and pat­ted his hand. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fi­ne.”

  “How do you know?” He pul­led his hand away and fol­ded his arms.

  Be­hind me, my aunt squ­e­ezed my sho­ul­der, but thank­ful­ly sa­id not­hing. I co­uldn’t hand­le anot­her ro­und of sympathy.

  Fi­nal­ly Lo­gan, flat­te­red and bat­te­red by the fa­re­wel­ls, step­ped up to the mic­rop­ho­ne. “Thanks, ever­yo­ne. I got­ta say, this is pretty co­ol.” He ges­tu­red to Mic­key and Si­ob­han. “I’ve
al­ways wan­ted my own per­so­nal ka­ra­oke mac­hi­ne.” He ec­ho­ed the la­ugh­ter of the crowd. “Best part abo­ut be­ing a ghost? You can call yo­ur big brot­her a do­uc­he bag and he’ll ne­ver know.” Lo­gan and Me­gan sha­red a cons­pi­ra­to­ri­al grin as she fa­iled to trans­la­te his last sen­ten­ce.

  “But se­ri­o­usly.” Lo­gan re­ac­hed for the mic­rop­ho­ne, then flic­ke­red when he re­ali­zed he co­uldn’t to­uch it. “I didn’t be­li­eve I co­uld be set free, re­ady to pass on, just by win­ning a co­urt ca­se. Se­ems kin­da ri­di­cu­lo­us. But I do fe­el mo­re at pe­ace now, so thanks.” He po­in­ted at my aunt and then his pa­rents. “To the pe­op­le who ma­de it work.”

  After a long ro­und of ap­pla­use, Lo­gan cle­ared his thro­at. “It’s bet­ter to le­ave a crowd wan­ting mo­re than to bo­re them to de­ath with a spe­ech. So I’ll just say, I lo­ve you. I’ll miss every one of you. At le­ast, I think I will.” He ga­ve a ner­vo­us la­ugh and rub­bed his mo­uth. “I ac­tu­al­ly ha­ve no clue what’s go­ing to hap­pen when I le­ave. But I do know it’s ti­me.”

  Me­gan fi­nis­hed re­pe­ating Lo­gan’s words, then sig­na­led to Mic­key and Si­ob­han to start pla­ying. The int­ro was slow and short, and then Lo­gan’s vo­ice jo­ined in:

  O, all the mo­ney e’er I had,

  I spent it in go­od com­pany.

  And all the harm that ever I’ve do­ne,

  Alas it was to no­ne but me.

  And all I’ve do­ne for want of wit

  To mem’ry now I can’t re­call.

  So fill to me the par­ting glass

  Go­od night and joy be with you all.

  I clo­sed my eyes and let his vo­ice wash over me one last ti­me. Des­pi­te be­ing a go­od-bye song, it was spi­ri­ted rat­her than sad. By the end of the se­cond cho­rus, my te­ars had dri­ed.

  The last ver­se was abo­ut the girl he lo­ved, and Lo­gan sang most of it stra­ight to me. Then he drag­ged his ga­ze over the crowd to wish them aga­in, “Go­od night and joy be with you all.”

  When he fi­nis­hed, Mic­key and Si­ob­han pla­yed the last bar, then let the no­tes fa­de.

  To the so­und of ap­pla­use, Lo­gan step­ped back from the mic­rop­ho­ne, win­ked at me, and bo­wed his he­ad. So­me­one dim­med the lights un­til not­hing glo­wed but the emer­gency exits, scat­te­red cell pho­nes, and Lo­gan.

  The si­len­ce was bro­ken only by a few sobs. Not­hing hap­pe­ned for se­ve­ral mo­ments, and my he­art chil­led with fe­ar. Had the­re be­en a mis­ta­ke? Had Lo­gan wa­ited too long af­ter the ver­dict?

  Then his vi­olet out­li­ne pul­sed and brigh­te­ned. I put my hand to my mo­uth, muf­fling a gasp.

  A gol­den light ap­pe­ared at his co­re and ra­di­ated out­ward. A smi­le spre­ad ac­ross his fa­ce as he was en­ve­lo­ped in the glow.

  The post-Shif­ter audi­en­ce ho­oted and che­ered, the pre-Shif­ters jo­ining in af­ter a mo­ment. In the cen­ter of the front row, Mr. and Mrs. Ke­eley hug­ged and roc­ked each ot­her, and ons­ta­ge, Mic­key and Si­ob­han did the sa­me. Be­hind me, Gi­na whis­pe­red a bre­ath­less pra­yer of thanks.

  And then Lo­gan chan­ged.

  Black sparks shot in­ward from the ed­ge of his body, lic­king at the yel­low glow li­ke a hund­red hungry sna­kes.

  “Oh God,” Dylan sa­id. “I knew it.” He grab­bed my spra­ined wrist, but I ba­rely felt the pa­in.

  Lo­gan’s eyes flew open, vi­olet tor­na­dos swir­ling wit­hin them. His lips mo­ved in a si­lent pro­test. The post-Shif­ter che­ers tur­ned to gasps of hor­ror.

  Aunt Gi­na whis­pe­red, “What’s hap­pe­ning? Is so­met­hing wrong?”

  The word “sha­de” rip­pled thro­ugh the crowd.

  “No…” I sto­od, ig­no­ring the pa­in in my knee, and stag­ge­red to­ward Lo­gan.

  “Aura, stay back!” Gi­na cri­ed.

  Cho­king out Lo­gan’s na­me, I re­ac­hed the front of the sta­ge. He stumb­led back, thrus­ting out his palms.

  “Don’t to­uch me,” he cri­ed. Black light­ning flas­hed bet­we­en his fin­ger­tips.

  The pa­le yel­low glow shrank to a pin­po­int, then flic­ke­red out. Lo­gan was ghost-vi­olet aga­in, with sha­dows rip­pling thro­ugh his form. I felt my bra­in and guts tilt from the shady energy. Aro­und me, post-Shif­ters clutc­hed the­ir he­ads, mo­aning.

  “I am not gi­ving up!” I stretc­hed out my hands. “I don’t ca­re what you are.”

  Lo­gan bac­ked in­to the far cor­ner. “Aura, I fuc­ked up so bad. Just let me go.”

  “He’s not go­ing anyw­he­re,” sa­id a fa­mi­li­ar, chil­ling vo­ice.

  Agent Falk and his anony­mo­us part­ner had crept up the si­de of the ro­om and now sto­od be­hind Gi­na’s cha­ir. Slowly Falk ra­ised his hand. In his palm a cle­ar crystal disc ref­lec­ted Lo­gan’s vi­olet light and ad­ded a sil­ver glow of its own. His part­ner pul­led out a black box the length of his hand.

  They wo­uld trap Lo­gan in that box fo­re­ver, un­less he pas­sed on now. Or be­ca­me a sha­de.

  Lo­gan wa­ve­red and sho­ok, trying to re­ma­in a ghost-the one thing he co­uld no lon­ger be and stay free.

  “La­di­es and gent­le­men, do not pa­nic,” Falk sa­id. “We’ve got it all un­der cont­rol.” The two agents mo­ved for­ward.

  “No!” I threw myself at them. I lun­ged for the disc in Falk’s hand, jam­ming my so­re wrist in­to his chest. The pa­in ma­de me yelp.

  Dylan se­ized the ot­her agent by the front of his shirt. “You’re not ta­king my brot­her!”

  The agent sho­ved him asi­de, sen­ding him spin­ning. I clutc­hed Falk’s uni­form to hold me up and tri­ed aga­in to re­ach the qu­artz disc.

  When Falk pus­hed me, I fell to my hands and kne­es next to my cha­ir. He mo­ved to­ward the sta­ge, so I lif­ted one of my crutc­hes and swung it in­to his ank­les. The ot­her agent se­ized my sho­ul­ders, then drag­ged my arms be­hind my back. I kic­ked out, my scre­ams of ra­ge ec­ho­ed by the crowd.

  And by Lo­gan.

  “LE­AVE HER ALO­NE!” His vo­ice ke­ened and scre­ec­hed, stab­bing my he­ad with dag­gers of no­ise. I ra­ised my chin to see the black light­ning crack­le and spark over his fra­me. The vi­olet fa­ded as it was de­vo­ured by dar­k­ness.

  On the flo­or in front of me, the qu­artz disc dim­med, no lon­ger de­tec­ting a ghost. Lo­gan was free.

  Free as a sha­de.

  “Go.” Dylan craw­led out of the pi­le of fal­len cha­irs, gag­ging. “Lo­gan, go!”

  In the ne­ar dark­ness Lo­gan was in­vi­sib­le ex­cept for a few vi­olet tend­rils sna­king thro­ugh his fra­me, pa­in­ting one fe­atu­re, then anot­her. The body, the hands, the fa­ce I wo­uld ne­ver for­get.

  “AURA,” he whis­pe­red. “DON’T WA­IT FOR ME.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I sto­od out­si­de the Gre­en Derby, watc­hing the red and blue lights of a po­li­ce car pa­int the whi­te fa­ca­de of the li­qu­or sto­re ac­ross the stre­et. The two guys wor­king the­re had the­ir fa­ces pres­sed aga­inst the glass do­or, gaw­king at the crowd po­uring from the bar.

  For on­ce, Me­gan was qu­i­et. We all we­re, ever­yo­ne but Aunt Gi­na, who was hol­ding a hus­hed, ur­gent con­ver­sa­ti­on at the curb with a cop and a rep­re­sen­ta­ti­ve from the DMP fi­eld of­fi­ce.

  I was too wrec­ked to ca­re whet­her I spent the night-or the rest of my li­fe-in ja­il for as­sa­ul­ting a fe­de­ral agent. I wo­uld ha­ve do­ne it aga­in, to ke­ep Lo­gan out of that lit­tle black box. Whe­re­ver he was now, at le­ast he was free.

  Which was mo­re than I co­uld say for tho­se he left be­hind. Mr. Ke­eley had star­ted ha­ving chest pa­ins and was on his way to the hos­pi­tal. The pa­ra­me­dics hadn’t tho­ught he
was ha­ving a he­art at­tack this ti­me, but they wan­ted to play it sa­fe. Mrs. Ke­eley ro­de with him in the am­bu­lan­ce, and Mic­key and Si­ob­han dro­ve the fa­mily’s SUV to me­et them at the hos­pi­tal.

  Dylan had to gi­ve his sta­te­ment, with Gi­na’s help, be­fo­re he co­uld le­ave-li­ke me, he wo­uld pro­bably ha­ve a mark on his re­cord.

  He wa­ited alo­ne ne­ar the al­ley, his fo­re­he­ad prop­ped aga­inst the brick wall. His arms hung lo­ose but en­ded in tight fists.

  I ma­de my way over to him, my crutc­hes drag­ging on the slo­ping si­de­walk. “Gi­na’s al­most do­ne, then she’ll dri­ve us to the hos­pi­tal to see yo­ur dad.”

  He didn’t reply, just twitc­hed his jaw.

  “I think the de­al will be that the DMP won’t press char­ges if we won’t.”

  Dylan sta­red at the si­de­walk at his fe­et. I won­de­red if he was abo­ut to be sick.

  I shif­ted clo­ser to him. “How did you know?”

  He swal­lo­wed. “Know what?” he as­ked ho­ar­sely.

  “When Lo­gan star­ted to sha­de out, you sa­id, ‘I knew it.’ How did you know?”

  He pla­ced his palm on the wall next to his he­ad. “Lo­gan felt wrong. He told me be­fo­re you got he­re. He sa­id all that sha­ding had ta­in­ted him.” Dylan glan­ced at me. “That’s his word, not mi­ne.”

  My sto­mach felt li­ke I’d swal­lo­wed a chunk of ice. “But he sa­id he was re­ady.”

  “He sa­id that be­ca­use ever­yo­ne wan­ted to he­ar it.” Dylan put his ot­her hand on the wall, as if he was hol­ding up the who­le bu­il­ding. “He told me he’d al­re­ady ca­used eno­ugh pa­in.”

  I tri­ed to spe­ak, but no so­und ca­me.

  Then Dylan whis­pe­red, “He fi­gu­red it wo­uldn’t hurt to try.”

  I sag­ged aga­inst the wall, ta­king my we­ight off my bad knee. “The Ob­si­di­ans ga­ve him no cho­ice. They war­ned us that if he didn’t pass on, they wo­uld de­ta­in him.” I re­ali­zed the worst of it. “And we ga­ve him that mes­sa­ge.”