Shadowman (13 page)

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Authors: Erin Kellison

BOOK: Shadowman
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Grown-ups didn't believe her, and she didn't believe them. Which is why she stole the knife. She could take care of herself.
Layla's gaze flicked over the room, then stopped. There.
She went tight and cold, and clutched the backpack closer. Joyce had told her something about the boys, but she hadn't heard. Her heart was beating too loud and making it so she couldn't breathe right.
'Cause one of the dark people was right . . . over . . . there. In the big triangle of shadow made from the lamp and a chair.
Which meant the dark people were here, too, in Joyce's nice house. The dark people were everywhere.
The shadow man crouched, dark, dark, dark, his long hair shining like a slick waterfall, as he watched her. But he didn't have greedy meanness in his tipped-up eyes. His eyes were sad.
“What happened here, Layla? Will you show me?”
The dream folded in on her, rolled into a muddle of color, darkening into the night. Walls fell and switched around and stood back up again so that Layla was in a bedroom, still clutching her backpack, but dressed in a nightgown, the cold from the floor twisting up her calves. The messed-up covers where she'd been lying had princesses all over, which was dumb because no one ever really got to be a princess. A new teddy bear was on a kid-sized desk that Joyce had gotten just for her.
“I thought you said she was nonviolent,” Joyce argued from way far off. “I can't keep a violent child in the same home as an autistic one. He's making so much progress. I can't help them both.”
No, that wasn't right. Mama Joyce had said that later. After the blood.
The room went scary quiet, and Layla made her breathing even quieter. Her heart did that running-away thing that always happened when the shadows came close, but her heart was trapped inside, like her.
Layla's throat hurt to call out for help, but she bit her lips. At the last home she'd called out and got slapped for waking the other kids. And then she'd still had to stay in bed anyway, the dark ones touching, scraping, pulling. She hadn't even been able to hide in the bathroom until morning like she usually did. That was a bad night.
Shhhhh.
Layla stood stone still. Her heart stopped, too. The dark people were coming.
Whispers filled the air—
should be dead
—the words all on top of each other.
Already dead.
Why did they say that?
Dead, dead, dead.
Something brushed her cheek.
She could turn the light on herself, run for the doorway, flip that switch, but the dark people would just come back tomorrow and the tomorrow after that and forever. She shook when she thought about it, scared and mad and tired and all by herself.
Tonight she'd show them that she could be mean, too. Even meaner than them. She'd cut them if they reached for her. Then they'd leave her alone.
Layla backed to the window and into the squares of soft starlight. The crisscrosses of the windowpanes' shadow left x's all over her. The floor was even colder there.
Greedy tipped-up eyes gleamed from the closet. From the corners. From under the bed.
Layla unzipped her backpack and reached inside. Found the handle. Drew out the knife. “Stay back!” she said, pointing the blade into the room.
The dark ones smiled and moved forward, their shadow bodies wavering like black water. Closer and closer.
“I said stay back!” Layla jerked her outstretched arm so they'd see what she'd brought.
They laughed.
Can't hurt us.
She bet she could. She had to.
Layla squeezed her eyes shut, made herself brave and mean, and slashed the knife through the air.
More laughter.
She slashed again and again. “Never come back! Never, never!”
She slashed for them to leave her alone.
She slashed until the laughter broke with a cry of pain.
And then she opened her eyes.
“. . . down the knife, honey,” Mama Joyce was saying. Her face was all red.
The light was on. Blood ran from one of Mama's arms. She was kneeling, her good hand out as if she wanted Layla to stay, like a dog.
Layla let the knife clatter to the floor. “I'm sorry . . . Mama.”
Mama grabbed for the covers and pressed them to her arm. “Not your fault, honey.” Tears ran down her face, so it had to hurt bad. “Not your fault.”
Yes, it was. But Layla didn't say that.
“You saw something scary?” Mama asked.
Layla nodded. Bad things. Tears fell down her face, too.
“Are they gone now?”
Layla nodded again, even though she knew they'd be back.
Mama nodded herself. Her face had a worried look on it, the red of her cheeks going splotchy. “Do you know how to call nine-one-one?”
And that's when Mama Joyce gave her back. She had wanted to save the world, one kid at a time. Just not her.
 
 
Khan watched from Twilight, the dream shadows of the fae creeping by him into Layla's childhood bedroom. The colors of the dream were bright and harsh, like the intensity of her dread. She was trapped in an old nightmare, one that had the sense of recurrence. Layla had been here many, many times before.
He lifted a hand and cast Layla's mind deeper into sleep, beyond the reach of memory.
Same spirit, same will as Kathleen's. And now, also, the same ability to see through the veil and into Shadow. Or she had once. And here he'd thought that Shadow was a revelation to her. Deep down, she'd known. Deep, deep down, she'd known all along. Of course she had. She and Kathleen had the same soul.
But where Kathleen had seen fairy tales in Shadow, Layla received nightmares. His fault. The ability to see beyond the veil often attracted the attention of the fae, who would divert themselves by driving the mortal mad. If he'd been in Twilight, where his duty lay, he'd have surely found her. He'd have spared that child her loneliness and pain.
Instead, she'd overcome and found him.
Chapter 8
“I'll meet you there,” Talia said.
Layla agreed and hung up the phone. Library, first floor, half an hour. With Talia Thorne. Wow. Layla still couldn't believe it.
Her couple hours of crappy sleep were not enough to clear her exhaustion, but the appointment gave her a jacked alertness.
Talia had been the shock of a lifetime—a kindred spirit. Until now, Layla had believed those were a myth. But as she thought of last night, her heart gave an off-rhythm, double-beat glub. She'd never felt like this before.
More difficult to face was the idea that wraiths might have a viable paranormal explanation after all, rather than the science-based origin she'd been pulling for since day one. Personal bias might have slanted her articles, which made her wince. And here she'd thought she was being so scrupulously neutral. She'd have to ask her editor to hold that last article.
Layla was hoping to see some case files, but Talia said she'd have to be set up on the view-only interactive tablets that accessed Segue's database. So, for now, she'd be going old school and browsing the texts amassed on the library shelves behind her, then later doing some staff interviews with those who felt comfortable sharing their findings. Dr. Sikes's work on wraith cellular regeneration was very high on her wish list.
She intended to get started any minute, but she couldn't rip her gaze from the painting over the library's fireplace mantel, not even to enjoy the fire licking below, though the room was cold.
Trees and more trees, craggy with age and glowing with magic, filled the canvas. The artist's execution gave the forest an uncanny, realistic depth, yet the paint had the texture and surface immediacy of brushstrokes.
As Layla stared into the boughs, her breath grew short, her body hummed, and her nerves crackled. These were Khan's trees, the ones in his mirror, the ones she'd glimpsed when she'd passed through Shadow in his arms. But more than that, she'd seen this place, time and again, though mostly darker, over the course of her life. Thank God, someone else had seen it, too. The proof was right there.
Layla cocked her head. A child was crying close by. Had to be one of Talia's kids, but with each squall, the leaves on the magic trees rustled. The painting, like Khan's mirror, was alive.
She glanced at the corner of the canvas.
Kathleen O'Brien
was written in a loopy script. Talia's mother. So that's why it was here and not in some gallery proving to the world that Layla wasn't crazy. Talia kept her mom close.
Layla stepped back and forced herself to turn away; otherwise, she'd stare all day.
The library was old-fashioned, with dark wood bookcases, thick and deep. Books lined the shelves, their covers faded, the old paper smell prevailing over the wood burning in the fireplace. Three neat cubby desks had laptops ready for use. And centered in the room were two large tables for spread-out work.
Better get started.
As she skimmed her fingers over the first row of spines, an old guy stepped out from among the deeper shelves, a short pile of books in his hand. He was white bearded, disheveled, with a bit of a belly hanging over his pleated slacks. He moved his reading glasses down his nose as he approached, his gaze sharp on her face.
“You'll want to begin with these,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Layla had to keep from looking behind her to see if he addressed someone else.
“For background. One of them is mine. It has the most comprehensive review of what you'll be looking for. The bulk of what's out there is just sloppy work.”
He handed her the books, and she glimpsed the titles:
The Soul of Man in Philosophy and Social Anthropology
and
Relativism and Rationalism in Paranormal Linguistics
. Talk about taking her work in another direction.
“Um, thank you.” She hated initiating introductions. “I'm Layla Mathews, by the way. New here.”
“Not so new, from what I've heard.” He held out his hand, and they shook. “I'm Dr. Philip James. Talia asked me to get you started. Colic keeps her busy with her children.”
Disappointed, Layla turned back to the painting, from which she could still hear the faint cries of a baby. She was used to seeing things, not necessarily hearing them. “You mean they're not down here?”
“No, but I'd not be surprised if you could hear them scream. Their mother, after all, is a—”
A chair went skating across the room.
Goose bumps swept across Layla's body. Oh, crap. Not another one. “Ghost.”
Dr. James frowned into his jowls as his gaze darted around the room. “Ms. Mathews, you need to do a lot more reading if you believe a spirit did that.”
Layla remembered what Marcie had said. “Ghosts can't act on the world.”
“Correct.”
“Then what?” She knew of wraiths and now angels, both of whom she'd seen with her bare eyes.
“You, more than anyone, should know. You brought him here.” Dr. James crossed himself and took a backward step toward the door.
“Khan? Fae can be invisible?” If it
was
he, there was no need to bolt. Sure, Khan was intimidating, especially with his shows of magic, but as a person, he wasn't that bad.
The light in the room darkened so that not even the fire cast a glow. Okay, that was eerie.
“The fae don't need to be invisible. They exist in Shadow, which is everywhere,” Dr. James murmured, then louder, to the room, “My apologies. I meant no offense.”
“Khan, knock it off and come out.” Way to scare away a great potential source of information.
“No.” The sharpness of Dr. James's tone brought her head about. “No,” he repeated. “I don't want to see him.” He took another step back and gave a slight, but respectful nod toward the room. “I'm not ready.”
“But . . . ?” Now Layla was completely confused.
“Call me when you've finished with those.” His gaze flicked to the books in her hand, and then he left, footsteps hurrying down the hall.
Layla was alone. She waited a beat, looking into the murk of the room. “Okay, he's gone. Come out. I have a lot of questions for you.”
After everything Talia had told her last night, Layla had decided to start from scratch. She needed a deeper understanding of the underlying processes at work within the framework of the three worlds, and how the wraiths fit into the scheme. And Khan still had some explaining to do about the gate.
He didn't show.
“Khan?”
The chair, of its own accord, returned to the table, but slightly pulled out, for her to sit.
“Okay, fine.” She'd just ignore him then. Eventually Talia would be down, and she was far more forthcoming with answers than anyone else had been. Working with her would be a pleasure. Besides, Layla had no patience for games, especially as tired as she was. In fact, with all this paranormal business, she was shocked she got any sleep at all last night.
“I am not strong enough for your world right now,” Khan said.
Layla whirled back to the painting. Khan stood in the trees wrapped in his cloak, dark and pale. His appearance had the same brushstroke quality, the fine ridges of texture, that comprised the rest of the work. The painting, like his gilded mirror, was a window, a passage to another world. She understood that now. But when she put her hand to the canvas, all she felt was the surface slickness of the dried oil paint.
“Will this do?” he asked.
She'd seen Khan in his vampire pose before—yesterday, when she'd been attacked and knocked unconscious. She'd had a ridiculous princess dream. His look had been the same: solemn, so dark as to be mistaken for shadows, his eyes full of power and feeling.
And come to think of it, he'd been in her nightmare last night, too.
“You were there,” she said. He'd been a presence when she was all alone. Because of him, for once, the dream hadn't been as bad.
He gave a rueful smile. “I've been many places.”
He was dodging again. “How about in my dreams? If you're not strong enough for my world, are you strong enough for that?”
She held his gaze until he answered.
The smile faded. “I should have been there to protect you.”
So he
had
been there in her head. “You can read minds, too?”
“No.” He walked forward, shifting the motley daubs of color over the canvas as he moved, then crouched in the foreground nearer to the canvas barrier. This close she could see the brushstrokes on his skin, the fine lines that created his hair, and the swirls of paint that were his shadows. “That is for the angels. But I can sense what you feel—your loneliness, your isolation, even among people.”
The soft rumble of his voice was getting to her, and the color smudges of his appearance gave him an old-world romantic cut, though he needed no help in that department. He belonged in those trees, and something about their rustling sway made her want to join him. It was a fantasy, and the accompanying yearning was mixing her up. Again.
“Well cut it out.” Her feelings were her own. “All these superpowers are going to give me a nervous breakdown. And by the way, I happen to prefer my isolation.”
He lifted a brow, not mocking exactly, but telling her he knew better. “Emotion penetrates Shadow, so I sense the truth. And if you don't want me in your dreams, shut me out. You have the power.”
Emotion penetrates . . . ? Well then he had to know she was irritated. “I just say, ‘Go away'?”
“That will do.”
“Then—” She stopped herself. She'd have made a definitive statement blocking him, but the Joyce nightmare had haunted her for years. The possibility of a good home. The encroaching dark ones. The blood. She just couldn't shut him out.
Layla was shaking again. Better to change the subject.
She floundered to gather her thoughts, then focused on what was right in front of her. “Is the painting under a spell? Or is it another way to your world?”
“You know about my world?” His gaze went very, very serious. And not a little scary.
Layla squared her shoulders. “Talia told me. She said that you were fae and that your kind exists in the Shadowlands, a world between mortality and the Hereafter.”
His gaze grew darker still. “Is that all she said?”
“Yes,” she lied. It was also much better to stay away from volatile subjects, like the suggestion that she and Khan had been something to each other. “Now about the wraiths—”
“Layla.” Khan's voice lowered. “What did she say?”
She winced. Okay, fine. Might as well get it over with. They had to reach an understanding about this, too, if she was going to get any work done. “She said that, um, you and I . . .”
The tension in his eyes relaxed. Then the man smiled, big and dangerous. “Yes.
You and I.
Exactly.”
Something about the way he spoke sent a fever burn over her skin. Had to be exhaustion, or she wouldn't be reacting so strongly.
“We were bound together with those words,” he went on.
Layla choked. “Like married?”
“That's right. You're mine.”
No, no, no. The closest she had come to marriage had been Ty, and she'd known from the beginning that it wasn't right. She went to fidget with the band of her engagement ring, but it wasn't there. Just that white stripe of skin. “I'm not married.”
“What passed between us might be lost to your memory, but nonetheless, I swear we came together, made vows in our own way, and created a life
.
”
She shook her head. No. Although, if she was going to be honest with herself, her body had been remembering from the first moment he had her pressed up against that awful gate. And Talia had confirmed as much last night.
“A life?”
Something clicked in her mind. Talia had said,
Welcome to the family
. Layla had thought that Talia was being kind, putting her at ease. Was there more to it than that?
If so, Layla didn't want it. All her life
family
had been a dirty word, an empty promise. A joke. She was all grown up now and still hadn't been able to find her way into one.
Cold anger replaced disbelief. She was so stupid. How had she let herself be conned? All the weird shit yesterday, then Talia's compelling explanation. Now she was related? No. Suggesting it was cruel and twisted. Take an orphan and pretend she's long-lost family, except some upside-down creation where the lost one was the mother? Come on. She wasn't falling for it. What were they trying to do?
Manipulate her and her story. Had to be.

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