Ignite the Shadows. Ingrid Seymour
Slowly, I take a step back.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.
My heart slams against my chest and adrenaline ripples through my body. Run or fight?
A flame comes to life in front of the man’s face, illuminating his features. A pair of gray eyes shine for a quick second. James!
James comes away from the wall. The lamppost casts a dim light on him. He lights a cigar and speaks with it hanging from his mouth. “Looking for someone, Marci?” He takes a deep drag and turns his head my way. His movements are controlled. He looks me dead in the eye, and I’ve no idea how he can see me wrapped in these shadows.
To hide my fear, I walk forward, staying as close to the opposite building as possible. A low buzz starts in the back of my head.
“Not very smart going into dark alleys like this, don’t you think? You might get yourself killed one day.” His voice is a deep rumble, like stones washing down a landslide. He wears a lopsided smile. If his comment is meant to be a joke, it isn’t funny. There’s enough edge to his tone that it feels more like a threat. I sidestep, keeping far from him, inching my way out while ignoring the insistent hum inside my cranium.
Swathed in shadows, I feel vulnerable. I want to move into the light and erase the possibility of being forced into the back of the alleyway, never to be seen again.
When I’m parallel with James, I look him up and down. He’s wearing jeans, square-toe boots, a black t-shirt and leather jacket. Something about him looks too clean-cut for his own clothes, like he doesn’t belong in them. I figure my chances of outrunning him are pretty good. I could get to my bike faster than he could get to his, which I now notice is parked on the corner. He looks to be in his mid-forties, probably too arthritic to catch up with me. At least that’s what I tell myself, because the vivacity in his gray gaze and the latent power in his lean, muscular build don’t give me much comfort.
Before I run, though, there’s something I have to know. “How’d you do it? How’d you break into my computer?”
James draws on his cigar, holding it between thumb and forefinger. Then, with a careless flick, he throws it on the ground, not even halfway spent. He runs a hand over his bald head.
“Those things will kill you,” he says. “They’re nasty, but whatever helps keep the fog away, right? I’m sure you have your own tricks.” He stretches his lips in a smile that doesn’t travel to the rest of his face.
The fog? Tricks? Maybe his strategy is to overwhelm me with snippets of information that’ll make my questions multiply like horny rabbits.
“So, you got my attention,” I say. “I’m here, what the hell do you want?”
James runs a lazy hand over his jaw and sighs, as if disappointed. He watches me through a squint, analyzing me, seeming to ponder a million question of his own. I hold my breath, waiting for the result of his appraisal, mad at myself for caring whether I pass or not.
My patience dwindles. “Why did you want me to watch President Helms?”
“You know why.”
James’s certainty is disconcerting. Why is he so sure? What does he know?
“You’re wondering how come I know what you are,” he says.
Great, he’s a mind reader. He’s got to be, because how the hell could he know? James stretches his neck, tilting his head from side to side, just like President Helms, just like me.
He takes a deep breath. “I know because … I’m like you. That buzzing in the back of your head, I feel it, too.”
Surprised, I take a hand to the base of my skull, where a steady hum hasn’t let up since I got too close for comfort.
He rubs his own head. “Annoying, isn’t it? But that’s how I know. I felt it last night as you drove away from here.” He points a finger toward the spot where I waited for Xave atop the idling motorcycle. “You were struggling with it, under attack. Weren’t you?”
I nod once, speechless. Never in my wildest hypotheses did I imagine there were others who knew about the shadows.
“Ever been shadowed?” he asks.
“Huh?” It’s all I can manage.
He waits, eyes locked on mine. Shadowed?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—”
“You sure?” he presses. “I know you’ve seen the world through eyes that should have been yours. But have you ever lost total control? Have you been blind, mute, dumb? Have you been shadowed? Trapped within yourself?”
My horrific discovery of just yesterday comes back to me, pouring its paralyzing shock into my limbs. My throat goes dry, my mouth bitter. The numb, life-without-parole certainty returns with a vengeance.
James knows about the shadows. Truly.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, tilting his bushy eyebrows.
My helpless expression has given him the answer he wants to hear.
“Very few ever come back.” His voice is low and menacing. I feel as if I’ve dodged an eternity in hell. “Good, that means I can trust you. You’re strong.” James takes two steps toward me and looks me straight in the eye. “We have the answers you’ve been looking for. If you’re interested, follow me.”
James doesn’t wait for me to agree. He straddles his Harley and rides off. It takes me a moment to come out of my trance. When I do, I hop on my bike and gun it. The voice of reason screams in my head. No sensible girl would follow a stranger like this. But what choice do I have? All I’ve ever wanted is to know what’s wrong with me.
I would risk everything to find out.
A bar?!
He has brought me to a bar? Does he realize I’m only sixteen? I follow James, looking all around me, expecting someone to jump in front of the door demanding an ID. No one does. In truth, the whole area looks like a ghost town. There’s a gas station across the street. Its sign flickers. The gas prices flash with askew numbers. The large metal building on its right looks as if it sprouted out of the weeds that surround it.
The bar itself is the nicest-looking building on the street, and that’s not saying much. A blue neon sign of a wolf howling at the moon shines on top of the door, illuminating the cracked sidewalk. James pulls the door open.
“Welcome to Howls,” he says, showing me in with an extended hand.
I hesitate, then step inside. The back of my skull—which hasn’t stopped humming since James appeared in the alley—vibrates a little harder. I wince and throw my head back a few degrees.
James watches me intently. I feel like he notices everything—reading me as if I was a simple “hello world” program—and filing everything he learns about me inside his bald, shiny head. I can’t blame him. I’m doing the same. I’m a lost sock that’s just found its match. He rolls his neck to indicate he knows my head feels like it’s being assaulted by a million frantic hummingbirds.
“C’mon, Clark and Xave are here, if it makes you feel any better.”
I’d already noticed Clark’s bike outside. And no, it doesn’t make me feel any better. Clark’s a punk, and with the way Xave’s been acting lately … well … let’s say I’d rather drink antifreeze than endure all that drama.
The smell of cigarette smoke mixed with sweat and stale beer makes me wrinkle my nose. A few men sit at the bar, staring at their drinks or at empty space. They ignore us as we walk in. The patrons look like they belong on the bikes parked