Ignite the Shadows. Ingrid Seymour
on the rocks,” he tells the bartender.
The guy doesn’t even give me a second glance. After James gets his drink, he heads to the back of the building. We walk through a narrow door and go down a flight of stairs. Posters of women in skimpy bathing suits line the walls.
Before crossing a doorway with a bead curtain, James stops. “Not all in there are like us. I trust you won’t say anything about our earlier conversation,” he orders, then walks through the curtain.
I bristle. I don’t like orders. In fact, I’m tempted not to obey just on principle. But who am I kidding? I’m not about to start telling anyone that shadowy specters live inside my head. I crack my neck and cross the threshold. Behind the curtain, I find myself in a dimly lit room and the center of attention to five distrustful pairs of eyes.
“Crew, this is Marci,” James says, then takes a sip of whiskey and makes a face as if the drink isn’t good enough.
No one says anything. They just stare. Xave sits on a shaggy sofa to my right, his expression unreadable. My body tightens in response to what feels like open hostility.
A pale woman with jet-black, freaky hair stands up. “Another one?” she asks in an angry voice. “What are we now … babysitters?” She looks me up and down, as if I’m here to force her to give up hair-styling gel. Because really, how else could she have accomplished that Medusa-looking mess on her head? I narrow my eyes and return her gaze, unwavering. I swear she looks like she jumped out of a Resident Evil video game, all tight black leather pants and knee-high boots with more straps than an electric chair. A see-through black top rests over a red camisole that stops midriff. She even wears studded arm warmers and it’s not even Halloween.
James introduces her. “This is Blare. Spelled B-L-A-R-E, mind you.”
She gives James a nasty look. He ignores her.
“Relax, Blare. Marci has skills,” James offers.
“You mean unlike this dimwit, here?” She gives Xave a patronizing look.
Somehow Xave manages to limit his anger to a glare and a jaw twitch. No Dumpsters to kick in here, huh? Not in front of his big brother, anyway. He’s always had anger management issues that might stem from being the middle child. I keep hoping he will grow out of them, but maybe I should give up.
“What kind of skills?” a guy as pale as Blare and with hair just as black asks.
He’s wearing dark slacks and a blue button-up shirt. His tone is forced as if he really doesn’t want to know. A tie hangs around his neck, the knot loose. James seems out of place, but this guy clearly is. He’d do better behind a cash register at the local bank. He makes my head hum. We exchange knowing glances and both nod imperceptibly, the way two lions might nod at each other in a den full of tigers. I take a quick look around. He’s the only other one making my head feel like a bee hive.
I turn my attention back to James, wondering what skills he’s talking about. He opens his mouth to answer, but Blare interrupts him.
“Do they include wiping her own butt and feeding herself?” She barks out a laugh.
I don’t know what her deal is. Maybe she feels threatened by other girls. Either way, I’m not putting up with it. “Hey Medusa, herself is standing right here.”
If you don’t stand up to bullies from the start, you’re doomed to become somebody’s punching bag. I learned that in the first grade when Will Hooper thought it was funny my dad had died and figured pushing me around was a nice way to remind me I was fatherless. Sick little bastard. I brought his bullying days to a halt before he could do any real damage to someone vulnerable.
“What did you call me?” Blare says, her pale face growing noticeably red.
“Ooooh, catfight,” Clark says, pushing himself to the edge of his chair and rubbing his hands together.
“You heard me,” I tell her in a steady tone.
James sits back, the twinge of a smile resting on his lips, as if he knows something no one else does. I get the feeling that’s often the case for him.
Blare marches toward me. When she’s two steps away, her hand comes up, ready to shove me. Lightning quick, I step aside, grab her wrist, and pull it behind her back, then wrap my free arm around her neck. She yelps in surprise. I hold her in a lock for a fast beat, then push her away from me.
Xave’s eyes twinkle with something like pleasure. When he sees I’ve noticed his reaction, he looks away. It appears Medusa’s been busting his chops, too. But he needs to do his own shoving if he expects to gain her respect. Besides, I would hardly do any shoving for his benefit, not after he told this bunch of misfits where to find me on the net.
He’s supposed to be my friend. Some friend.
“Look, I didn’t come here to fight,” I say.
Blare is fuming, rubbing her wrist and neck and trying to hide her embarrassment.
“I don’t even know why I’m here.” I turn and step backward to be able to see everyone at the same time. “So unless you’ve got something to say, I think I’ll leave.”
“We have something to say, all right.” A muscular man sitting next to Bank Teller guy stands up and extends a hand my way. He’s of average height, but his torso looks like it belongs on a much taller man. He cracks a wide grin, as friendly as I’ve ever seen. Our handshake is a firm, brisk squeeze. “I’m Walter, but everyone calls me Oso.”
The simple sound of his nickname fills me with a strange sadness. From somewhere in the depths of my brain I conjure the meaning of the word “oso.” Amazing how ten years of disuse haven’t erased the knowledge that Dad so zealously tried to ingrain in me. Oso is Spanish for bear and, given this man’s bulk and hairy forearms, it’s easy to understand why they call him that.
“You’ll have to excuse Blare,” Oso continues. “She can be a bit … feisty sometimes.”
Clark rolls his eyes. “To say the least.”
“That one is Clark,” Oso says, “and that’s his little brother Xave.”
I try not to laugh. Xave hates being referred to as Clark’s little brother.
“We’re neighbors, you oaf,” Clark says.
Oso frowns, then hits his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Oh, she’s that Marci. I get it now. Anyhow …” Oso turns and points at Bank Teller guy. “This white-collar dude over here is Aydan.” The comment makes Aydan self-conscious, and he loosens his tie further and gives me an indifferent nod. This time I notice his casually mussed hair and the purple half-moons under his dark eyes. He looks like he needs some serious sleep, and probably a transfusion or some sun. He’s way too pale.
James points at the chair next to him. “Sit, Marci.”
I pull the chair away and sit. My muscles are taut, ready to spring. They may be trying to make me feel comfortable, but psycho Medusa’s still staring a hole into my forehead, even as she reclines against the wall, looking nonchalant. Maybe she’s trying to turn me to stone.
“Apparently you have more skills than I gave you credit for,” James says, eyes darting a quick, mocking glance toward Blare. She crosses her arms and shifts her weight from one foot to another.
“She’s been doing karate since she was four,” Xave says, sounding proud and amused at the same time. I give Xave a don’t-do-me-any-favors look. He rolls his eyes and shifts position in his seat.
“Has she?” James asks.
“My dad wanted me to know how to defend myself.” I don’t know why I feel the need to explain. So this is how it feels being the center of attention? No wonder I’ve always avoided it.
James appraises me with a knowing expression. “I’m sure it’s taught you much more than that.”
I