The Shadow Society (27 page)

“I find both very hard to believe. Fire makes Shades insane. It’s an instinctive, primal fear. You—” he glanced at me.

“Yeah, I know. It unhinges me. But I’ve gotten used to it, a little.”

He continued, “As for Shades wanting
equality
with humans, that’s a fairy tale. The Society has never valued human life or human anything. There haven’t been any attacks since Ravenswood, true, but that’s because of the IBI’s vigilance.”

“Savannah said that’s what the IBI would think.” I set aside the turpentine-soaked IBI jacket. “Why is it so hard to believe that the Society—well, most of the Society—wants a truce? It’s not like it’s in our DNA to hate humans.
I
don’t.”

Conn loosely folded his hands and rubbed a thumb against the opposite palm. “You’re the reason I want to quit.”

“Me?”

He looked up. “The Society is the IBI’s enemy. You’re a Shade. I can’t … I can’t handle being part of something that makes you my enemy.”

I almost reached across the short distance between us. “Then don’t. Don’t be a part of it. But you don’t have to quit the IBI. You could change it.”

“Change it?” Conn said incredulously. “Change the way the IBI feels about Shades? What the IBI feels is pure, cold, unadulterated hatred. I know. I’ve felt it. And you think I could wish
that
away from the hearts of hundreds of people? I don’t have that kind of power, Darcy.”

Part of me couldn’t believe I was trying to convince Conn to stay in the IBI, yet I still said, “You could try.”

“Impossible.”

“Consider it,” I insisted. “You said you would do anything I asked, tonight.”

Conn grew quiet. “I’ll consider it.”

I’d said those same words earlier, when I promised to think about taking Conn as backup to meet John Kellford, but I hadn’t meant them. Conn, though, wasn’t me. There was an earnest set to his jaw that made me believe him, and so I raised my brush and tried to paint that expression into his face—something daunted … and yearning.

My brush slowed, stroked the contours of his face as I wondered if I was painting what I saw, or what I wanted to see. It was hard to know, as hard as it would be to say,
I’m not your enemy, but I need to be more than that, more than your friend, and more even than that, and more, and more.
It was easier to paint and not talk, and not look at him again. I began to rely completely on my memory of his face. A silence grew, one so solid and looming that it seemed larger than us.

I left Conn’s eyes for last. They weren’t gray or green or blue but somehow all three, and yet none of them. I doubted I could do it. I couldn’t capture the light and fragility of his eyes.

Still, I painted.

Then it happened: recognition. It flared inside me, and when I stared at the canvas I saw that I had painted the right color. I had no name for it. But I had found it.

I tore my gaze away from the canvas and dared to look at Conn. Yes, it was true.

My heart was a cage that swung wide open, and I saw, I knew.

“Darcy?” he asked softly. “What is it?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.” I wiped my brushes on the IBI jacket and packed them in their box.

“You’re finished?”

I avoided his gaze. “For now.”

“You’re not leaving, are you?”

Then I did look at him. “You’re tired,” I said, and he was. Beneath the unreadable emotions rippling across Conn’s face was weariness, the kind of bone tiredness that comes from many nights without sleep. “You should go to bed.”

“I
am
in bed.”

“Conn.” I closed the paintbox. “You should go to
sleep
.”

He stood, took two steps, and drew aside the canvas and stool. I stood, too, so that he couldn’t tower over me and make me feel smaller than I already felt. Yet that didn’t change the way Conn gazed down at me. That didn’t change how inescapable he suddenly seemed. “All right,” he said. “I will. But I want my one thing from you.”

I paused, and wondered how something I longed for could be so terrifying. My heart thrummed in my throat.

“I’ll go to sleep,” he said, “if you stay.”

“What—what do you mean?”

“Stay with me.”

His hand slipped to my waist. Nestled there, large and warm, his fingertips touching the skin of my spine below the edge of my shirt.

Somehow I said yes, and somehow our feet slow-danced to the bed, somehow the lamp switched off and I lay tight against the heat of Conn’s body in the dark, feeling the scratch of his sweater against my face, smelling the wool of the blanket pulled over us, and the sweet piney scent of crushed basil rising from Conn’s hands as he stroked my hair away from my cheek. His hand slid down my back, and I bit my lip against the feeling. He gathered my hair into a rope and gently held it. “You’ll stay?” he asked. His breath fluttered against my throat.

“I will,” I whispered.

Conn’s cheek grazed across mine, and his lips hovered close for a second, only a second before my heart kicked with fear and I pulled away.

I remembered. Conn holding a knife. Broken glass handcuffs, and my hands full of fire. Him shoving me onto the bed.

I turned away from him, onto my other side. I would have slipped from the mattress, but Conn’s arms held me, drew me to him so that my back pressed against his chest and his knees were tucked up underneath mine. “Darcy, please listen.” I felt his words against the nape of my neck. “When I came over to your house to finish our project, I didn’t know what to do. My orders were clear: I was supposed to arrest you the moment I saw an opportunity. But I couldn’t imagine doing it. I had begun … dreaming about you, when I was able to sleep. Dreaming about you, even when I was awake. When you kissed me, it was like you had ripped the world away and all that was left was the only thing I wanted. And
that
was the moment I decided.
That
was the moment I betrayed you. Because the intensity of what I felt scared me.” There was a long pause. “Please forgive me.”

I sighed. I said, “I forgive you.” But forgiveness doesn’t heal everything.

“Don’t leave.” His arms tightened.

“I won’t,” I promised. My eyes traced the shape of his small apartment, saw through the window that the snow outside was coming down hard now, reflecting the city light so that it glowed into the dark room.

Conn’s body relaxed. I felt him burrow his face into my hair and breathe deeply, breathe me in. Then his breaths grew longer, and slower, and deeper. His arm became heavy around me. A lovely weight.

He was asleep.

My eyes found the unfinished painting resting against the stool in the snowy light cast by the window. Anybody who saw that painting would see. They would see what I saw. They would know what I knew.

I loved Conn.

There were many reasons not to. They didn’t matter. They crumbled like sand under a wave.

Then why wasn’t it enough? Why was I still afraid?

Maybe,
some part of me whispered,
you’re afraid of yourself. Of what Conn might do when you do something unforgivable, something that won’t let him forget what you are.

I remembered what I’d said to him,
You think I had something to do with Ravenswood.

He’d denied it, and he could have meant it, but as I lay in his arms I realized that
I
thought I had something to do with Ravenswood, that
I
was almost sure of it, and if I hadn’t found evidence to that effect it was because I’d been asking the wrong questions. Why hadn’t I asked Savannah if she knew something about a dead girl in 1997? I could have come up with a reason to ask that, even if it was a strange question. If Orion hadn’t been willing or able to tell me about the Shades who’d planned Ravenswood, why hadn’t I turned to Savannah for the truth, or even tracked down Zephyr?

I hadn’t wanted answers. I hadn’t wanted anything to tie me to Ravenswood. Yet John Kellford did. John Kellford, whom I recognized. Who had been kicked off the Vox Squad so soon after the attack.

Conn shifted in his sleep.

I had to talk with Kellford. I had to know.

Now.

I slowly turned so that I could see Conn’s face. His closed eyes with their dark lashes. His mouth soft, somehow fuller with sleep. He seemed to stir, and his hand closed over my shoulder.

I vanished.

38

John Kellford lived in a three-bedroom apartment north of Conn’s place. I ghosted up to the top floor of the building and through Kellford’s apartment until I found the master bedroom, and him sleeping next to his wife.

My feet hit the floor, my body manifested by Kellford’s side of the bed, and I took stock of the room. Then I said, “Wake up.”

His wife made a small noise and rolled onto her side. Kellford slept soundlessly, his head tipped back on the pillow, his strong, brutal chin raised as if in defiance.

“Wake up.”
I switched on a lamp.

Kellford winced against the sudden light, his wife murmured, and then Kellford’s eyes snapped open and he saw me. He jolted upright, head slamming back against the headboard. He swore and scrambled for something in his nightstand drawer.

“Don’t bother,” I said, waving the flamethrower I’d taken moments before.

Now his wife was up. Her eyes went wide, and she sucked in her breath. Just before she screamed, Kellford clamped a hand over her mouth. “Laurie, no.” He glanced meaningfully at the door.

“The kids are sound asleep,” I said. “I took a peek at them a minute ago. You don’t want to wake them, right? Let’s keep things quiet.”

Laurie whimpered behind Kellford’s hand. Tears trickled down her cheeks and over his knuckles.

“They’re fine,” I said wearily. “I didn’t do anything to them.”

She made a muffled sob. She didn’t believe me.

I sighed. “Go check on them yourself. But Kellford’s staying with me, and don’t even think about calling the IBI, or…” I paused. I was a monster. What would a monster say? “I’ll kill him.”

Laurie glanced at her husband, who nodded. She burst from the bed and ran from the room, her bare feet pounding down the hall.

I was watching her go, but I still caught a glimpse of Kellford’s leg slipping from the covers, down to the floor, ready to spring. “Stop.” I pointed the flamethrower at him.

“You can’t use that,” he sneered. “You don’t have the guts to turn it on.”

“All I have to do is keep it away from you. I can do that.”

The fight didn’t go out of him, but it retreated. I had to hope things would stay that way. Despite what I’d boasted to Conn about facing Kellford on my own, I wasn’t ready for a Shade-versus-Human throwdown. But Kellford—beefy Kellford, with decades of IBI service under his belt, plus a talent for torture—probably was.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“I want to talk.”

He scoffed. “Right.”

Then we both heard it: the sound of the front door whining shut and several sets of feet clattering down the wooden staircase outside. Kellford relaxed, and his face grew bold.

I was a fool. I should have played the vicious Shade until the end and held his family hostage until I’d gotten what I’d come for. Now it was too late.

He stood up from the bed, broad and threatening.

I forced myself to hold my ground. If I showed an ounce of fear, it was over. I said, “Do you know me?”

Uncertainty altered his face. He squinted at me like he
almost
saw something,
almost
thought something. Then he bit out, “How the hell would I know you?”

He advanced, and I couldn’t help it: I stepped back. This might be my last chance to ask, so I spoke quickly. “On February 16, 1997, I was left outside the West Armitage firehouse in the Alter. I was five years old. How did I get there?”

Kellford halted, rubbing at his brow like he’d walked into a spiderweb. A new expression dawned on his face.

I gathered the shreds of my courage and put some backbone in my voice. “Soon before that, I was arrested by the IBI. Do you know why? Tell me. Tell me,
please
.”

Kellford sagged. He shuffled to an overstuffed chair in the corner and lowered himself into it. He was too big for it, and he let his arms hang down over the chair’s sides as he looked up at me with resigned eyes.

Sad eyes.

“You,” he said. “It’s you.”

“But who’s
me
?” I cried. “Who am I?”

He gave a gusty sigh. “You were arrested, along with your parents, for the murder of 763 people at the Ravenswood Medical Center.”

His words poked a hole deep inside me, and some feeling began to slowly leak out. Something that felt like poison. It was filling my lungs. I was drowning in it. “No,” I whispered.

Yes,
said my memory.

“Who were my parents?” I said. “Tell me their names.”

He gave me a strange look.

“I don’t remember,” I said. “I don’t remember anything.”

“Mistral and Hart.”

Yes
.

“Who am
I
?” I begged again.

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Your name is Skylark.”

That strange feeling gushed through me. “Yes.” The word spilled past my lips. “But everybody calls me Lark.”

And I remembered.

39

“But I want to go, too!” I shouted at my parents.

“You can’t,” said my mother.

My father sank to his knees and looked straight into my eyes. “Lark.” He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “Wild girl. You need to learn patience. Someday we will be proud to take you with us, but right now you’re too little.”

“I’m almost
five
.” My birthday was in a few days.

“Lark, you can’t even ghost.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Stop pouting,” my mother told me. To my father she said, “We need to leave, Hart. We don’t have time for this.”

“But…” I wanted to wash that look away from my mother’s face. Hard and bright, the way she stared at me whenever she brought me cold, chewy little squares of human food called ravioli. My favorite. I would almost swallow them whole, I was so hungry, and then she would look at me and the food would get stuck in my throat because I knew what she would say, and she did: “You’re too old for food.”