Ignite the Shadows. Ingrid Seymour
I try not to look inside the alley. It’s dark. Creepy dark.
Really, I don’t know what I was thinking when I let Xave slink in there to spy on his brother. He walked between the two buildings until shadows devoured him.
Shadows …
Crap, Marci. You know better. Don’t think of shadows.
Sunny days. Think of sunny days.
So I think of my dad and me at the beach all those years ago—his broad hands under my arms as he threw me toward the sky and caught me on the way down. A sad smile spreads across my lips. I push thoughts of Dad aside. I don’t want to get depressed remembering him, so I concentrate only on the sand, the ocean, the palm trees. As hard as that is to do in the middle of February in freakin’ Seattle, I force the images to stay inside my head. Without Dad, the beach colors come out lackluster, but it’s the best I can do.
My hands sweat inside rubbery gloves. The black cloak that fell over Xave’s figure as he disappeared inside the alley is imprinted in my mind and fights the sandy haven I’m trying to recreate. He’s been gone too long. What if something happened? Clark can only be up to no good on this side of town, and he won’t like it a bit if he catches his little brother spying on him.
I wait in the empty street under the cover of night. It’s cold. The motorcycle purrs against my thighs, ready for Xave. My rapid heartbeats feel like a drum roll. I don’t need this kind of stress. It will trigger me.
No, it won’t. Stop thinking about that.
Bright things. Pretty things. Think of that.
The alley looks like a tomb of indefinite depth. I’m trying to tear my eyes away from it when my hands begin to shake. Crap. Not now. There’s never a good time for an attack, but right now has got to be the worst. Fear floods my chest, paralyzing my racing heart.
My eyelids grow heavy with that familiar force that always threatens to banish the light. I fight it, biting the inside of my cheek, clinging to the image of that beach. I take a deep breath, trying to stay in control. My best friend’s in the dark alley. He’s counting on me. I have to—
The attack comes at once.
Shadows form inside my mind, scurrying like teeming spiders. In an instant, they climb one another, forming massive black giants that obscure everything. As they swarm, my very thoughts are scattered like bricks in the path of a wrecking ball. Quickly, the giants break apart and flock to each broken thought, ready to destroy them, like hungry locusts.
I fight to form a new thought, a simple one.
Breathe, Marci.
I inhale. A new specter rises inside my mind. It’s amorphous, but my fear gives it a jagged mouth and empty sockets for eyes. It devours my thought to breathe, killing the impulse to fill my lungs, spreading over my consciousness like a whirling oil spill. In the next second or minute—I don’t know which—I’m gasping for air, trying to remember why I’m not breathing. Then it comes back to me. I’m under attack!
Breathe, I think once more. I need to let the thought bounce and morph. If it stays in the same place or shape, the shadows will destroy it. Breathing is important. Random thoughts are important.
Air. In and out.
My gloved left hand squeezes the clutch without my permission. I struggle to release it, while trying to hold on to the thread of my precious thoughts.
Stay calm. Don’t lose it. Steady. Controlled. Breathe!
With unblinking eyes, I see my hand shaking, torn between gripping the handle and letting it go. The two conflicting commands clash inside my brain, neither of them winning or losing. My hand is in the limbo between the shadows and my will to fight them off. My eyes burn like hell. Tears spill down my cheeks, but I don’t blink. I need the light. I need to stay grounded or I’ll be lost in the shadows and their ravenous gloom.
I hear slapping footsteps. They echo against the alley’s walls, splashing in shallow puddles. I want to turn toward the sound, but the idea is swallowed by a black shroud. Xave’s coming, and I’m paralyzed by my demons.
Get a hold of yourself.
“Go, Marci, go, go, go,” Xave says as he sprints out of the alley.
More steps echo behind him, heavy and menacing. “Hey, you. Get back here!” a booming voice cries out.
Xave jumps on behind me. The motorcycle lowers a few inches with the added weight. Now that I need to work the clutch, my hand fights back. It stiffens,