Ignite the Shadows. Ingrid Seymour
strong shudders down my spine, totally freaking me out. My eyes dance around the yard, but there’s no one else here. It makes no sense. I only get this creepy feeling in crowded places, like the mall or the movies. That’s the reason why I hate crowds. But I’ve never felt it at home, at school with my friends, and certainly not with Xave’s family.
I stare at Clark. He’s watching me with sudden distrust.
“You should go home, Marci,” he says. “My little brother and I have some serious talking to do.”
It is then that I sense, more than see, a dark shape moving behind Clark. I take a step back, eyes darting, adrenaline pumping.
Xave spooks at my behavior. “What?!” he asks, looking at me like I’m crazy.
He hasn’t noticed the dark shape behind his brother. The shadow advances without making a sound, hidden by Clark’s bulky frame, who shows no sign of suspecting something lurks behind him.
I’ve finally gone crazy.
The shadows don’t only live inside my head. They’ve figured out a way to break free and stalk me in the night. My heart beats in my clenched fists as I dissolve into fear.
Something stretches out of the darkness, reaching for Clark’s shoulder. Words of warning rise in my throat, but they die down when a thin ray of moonlight falls upon the shadow, revealing a flesh and blood man. He steps next to Clark and pats him on the shoulder. I’ve never seen him before. I would remember, because he makes my head drone with a thousand bees. I want to run, but I’m glued to the sidewalk.
“Wow,” Xave says, startled by the sudden appearance of the stranger.
“Clark, is this your brother?” the man asks in a deep purr that makes me think of an idling motorcycle engine. His bald head reflects what little moonlight there is. He’s several inches shorter than Clark and Xave, maybe five-eleven. He’s also leaner, but I have the feeling he could beat up both of them if he wanted. Something in his confident and powerful stance makes me suspect that. I wish I could see his eyes. I’ve got a feeling they’d tell me a lot, but they’re hidden under the shade of his strong brow.
Clark nods, never taking his eyes off me. “Yep, that’s him.”
The man removes his hand from Clark’s shoulder and extends it toward Xave. “Nice to meet you, Xavier. My name is James McCray.”
Xave stares at his hand. James’s mouth twists into a crooked grin, as he waits for Xave to make up his mind. In the end, he shakes it, encouraged by a nod from Clark. James hasn’t looked directly at me, but I feel watched, evaluated like an open book.
“So you were … spying?” James’s speech is calm and reassuring, but I don’t trust him at all. “I take it you’d like to know what your brother’s up to?” James asks. He smiles, but his voice sounds like a dare, hinting at something dangerous.
Xave puffs up like a bullfrog. “Yeah. Yeah, I would.”
Clark called him a sissy. I guess he thinks this proves he’s not. It doesn’t. The panic that flashes in his eyes gives him away. I don’t blame him. Something’s going on here. Maybe Clark got himself in a real mess this time. I don’t think I want any part in it. Xave shouldn’t either.
As if James could read my thoughts, his eyes settle on me. “What about you, Marci Guerrero?”
He knows my name?! Why would freakin’ Clark tell him my name?!
“No, thank you,” I blurt out. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying it.” I take two steps back, look straight at my friend. “Xave, you should stay out of it, too.”
“Who says he’s got a choice?” Clark puts in. “Not after wrecking my bike like that. No, he’s got a debt to pay. Besides, he has a right to know what’s going on in our neighborhood, our country. Hell, our fucking world!”
What is Clark talking about? And why is James looking at me like I’m to blame for world hunger? There’s no way Xave doesn’t see through this weirdness. Besides, I’m not a joiner and this sounds too cult-ish for my taste.
“Xave.” I pull on his sleeve. He pulls his arm back.
I jerk my head to one side. “Come talk to me for a minute.”
“Get lost, Marci,” he says.
“Don’t be stupid. This—”
“I said get lost.” His eyes bore into me with anger. He can’t stand to be challenged, much less in front of the “guys” and by a girl, no less. God, he so needs to grow up.
I resist the urge to scream and let him go get brainwashed if that’s what he wants. Instead, I give it another try. “Please, Xave.” I give him big, pleading eyes. His expression softens, but he quickly tries to hide the shift.
He motions with his head for me to follow and walks out of earshot. “Why don’t you just go home?”
“Look,” I start, but my head drones so loudly I’m having trouble thinking straight.
“What is it you want to say?” he asks.
I focus on his hazel eyes. “Look Xave, I don’t think you should go with them.”
“And why is that?”
“Do you have to ask?”
“What do you care what I do?” he asks, thick brows pinched in that way that always gives him two creases above his nose.
“I … I don’t want you to get in trouble,” I say.
“Right, that’s why you wrecked Clark’s bike and got the cops on our tail.”
“Please.” I take his hand. “Don’t go.”
He looks deep into my eyes. “Why?” His tone suggests that if I find the right words, he’ll stay.
I struggle to figure out what he wants to hear. “Because … I think Clark is up to no good, and you’re, um, my friend. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Xave drops my hand. Clearly, I’ve said the wrong thing. Our almost-kiss of three weeks ago flashes through my memory. I pulled away from him that day, surprised and confused. The sudden closeness between us had been an accident. We’d both turned at the same time and ended up nose to nose without meaning to. But accident or not, there’d been something there, hadn’t there? And I, not Xave, pulled away. Since then he’s been getting mad at me for no reason at all. He’s always been too tough, too proud to say what really bothers him. In spite of that I was fluent in Xave, up to a few weeks ago, but after the non-kiss, the Tower of Babel has nothing on us.
“Go home, Marci. Go hide in your dungeon. I’ll see you later.” He walks to James and Clark. I stand there feeling vulnerable and lost. Maybe our friendship won’t survive our teens, after all. Red wagons and skateboards may be the only type of rides that’ll ever bring good memories back. Frustration floods me.
Fine! He can go get brainwashed for all I care. I spin on my heels and speed-walk home. The droning in my head dies down as I put distance between me and them. I cast glances over my shoulder every few steps.
The first time I look back, all three are staring at me. For an instant, James’s eyes reflect the light, putting the image of a wild cheetah inside my head. Ice crawls slowly up my neck, then I realize I’m just imagining things. The second time I look back, James has an arm around Xave and seems to be talking him up. I’ve got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, but what can I do about it? Xave’s a big boy. He can take care of himself. I’ve got my own problems to worry about.
I trudge up my front steps and look back one last time. Xave is walking up the road toward two parked bikes. They look like big Harleys. He climbs on the back with Clark as James straddles the second bike. The engines roar to life in unison. The poor, wrecked Yamaha is left behind by the sidewalk, all battered and broken.
It