Shade (19 page)

“We can stay until the set’s over. I don’t want to ruin your night.”

I made for the door before she could stop me. “Too late.”

Logan was sitting on my bed when I got home.

I shut the door softly and went to him, brushing my hand through his in our new routine greeting. “I’m so sorry for leaving you.”

“It wasn’t your fault. And Dork Squad was better than ever. Lionel kicked ass.”

So I’d spent all night feeling guilty for nothing. “Who?”

“The bass player, the one who was in that motorcycle accident? He had this one solo where he was just wailing.” Logan held his hands in a perfect mime, his fingers slapping the thick strings of an invisible bass. “
Bow-didda-bow-didda-bow-bow.
But he had to be kinda propped against the speaker for the last couple songs, and they cut the set short.” He shifted to “his” side of the bed and stretched out his legs. “Where’d you go?”

“Black Weeds. You would’ve liked it.” I decided not to mention that two-fifths of the Keeley Brothers were in the band. “It wasn’t the same without you.”

Logan was quiet for several seconds. “I’m ready to tell you my plan now.”

My heartbeat stumbled. I slipped off my shoes, then scooted up the bed to sit beside him.

He stared at his hand lying next to mine. “Promise you won’t cry?”

“I promise I
will
cry.”

His smile was sad, crinkling the corner of just one eye. “You know I love you.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“And that’s why I have to leave,” he said.

“No.” I still couldn’t imagine a world without him.

“I can’t get on that stand and tell everyone what happened the night I died. I can’t put you through that.” Logan bowed his head. “So I’m going to pass on.”

I gulped a rising clump of tears so I could push out one word. “When?”

“Before the trial. I’d lie on the stand if I could, to protect you. I’d tell them I took the cocaine for the thrill of it. God knows I’ve done enough stupid things for that reason. Remember when I broke my arm skateboarding, trying to ollie that double set of stairs by the library?” He rubbed the spot below his elbow where the bone had pierced the skin. “But I can’t lie. And I can’t run away. They’ve already tagged me with that subpoena thing, so if I don’t show up, the DMP will track me down.”

I hated the thought of Logan being “tagged” like a dog. On a judge’s orders, the unique “vibration signature” of each ghost could be used to summon them, but only for specific times and places. The DMP didn’t track Logan’s every move—that would be illegal and expensive—but if they thought he wouldn’t show up in court, they’d detain him until after the trial.

My chest grew tight, trapping the urge to utter his only alternative: turning shade. It would change his signature and free him from the reach of the DMP, but he would be forever lost to me in the worst way.

“I’m not ashamed to testify,” I told him. “I don’t care what people think.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

“Don’t you dare do this just for me.”

“I’m not. Mostly for you, but—” He formed a fist as his voice roughened. “I wanted so much in life. I wanted to play music, connect with people. Now I can’t hold a guitar, and most people can’t even see me, much less hear me.”

“You can still sing. And as time goes on, more people will be able to see and hear you. The A and R reps at your show were what, twenty-two, twenty-three? In six or seven years, post-Shifters will have those jobs.”

What was I saying? Did I really want Logan to stick around that long?

“I can’t wait six years,” Logan said. “I can’t wait six weeks.” He curved his hand over mine in our facsimile of touch. “I have to let you go, so that one of us can live.”

“I feel alive with you.”

“It’s not fair. You’re living like a nun. I can’t kiss you. I can’t touch
you.” His whisper filled with pain. “God, I want to touch you so bad. Everywhere, like before. I want to make you feel like I used to.”

I fingered the zipper of my hoodie. “Maybe you still can.” My pulse pounded in my ears. “Tell me what you’d do.”

He sucked in a breath, which sounded real enough to make me ache. Logan reached out, and his hand guided mine to draw down the zipper, revealing the black crop top I once loved to dance in. The cool night air made goose bumps on the bare skin of my belly, illuminated by his violet glow.

“Take these off.” His palm moved to the top of my jeans. “I want to see all of you.”

I followed his lead, until my clothes were in a pile on the floor, and I lay naked on top of the covers. I wasn’t cold anymore.

Logan placed his hand over mine again. “Shut your eyes.”

He spoke to me, low and breathless, describing how he would touch me. With my eyes closed and my memories open, I could almost feel his hands and mouth on my skin.

It was only my own fingers circling, stroking, exploring. We didn’t move together in a quickening rhythm. He couldn’t feel my rising tension or its explosive release.

But with Logan’s voice in my ear, we could pretend.

Despite an ever-deepening state of sleep deprivation, I managed to make it through the next three weeks without failing tests or forgetting to buy Christmas presents. As if watching an actor onstage, I witnessed myself go through the motions and marveled at my ability to maintain absolute normalcy.

But it turned out, I was only fooling myself.

On the last day of school before winter break, I sat in world history class, staring through the Spread of the Black Plague map at the front of the room, when Brian came in just as the bell rang. He hurried for his desk, walking with his head down and his jacket collar turned up.

As he passed me, Logan’s former friend and drummer angled his face away, but not before I saw the bruise forming under his left eye.

Near the window, Zachary was watching the season’s first snow
flurry. He tapped his pen against his textbook in an absentminded rhythm, which drew my attention to his bandaged right hand.

As I gathered up my books after class, Zachary slid behind the desk next to me. “I have a request you can’t refuse.”

I frowned, wondering if it was supposed to be a
Godfather
reference. “You mean an
offer
I can’t refuse?”

“I promised no Italian jokes, remember? Tomorrow’s my birthday, and I want to go downtown.”

“Why do you need me for that?”

“I don’t need you. I want you.” After a blink, he added, “To take me to the Inner Harbor. You promised.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, not out loud. Look, I’ll pay for everything, in exchange for a tour.”

I tried to think of an excuse other than the truth—I wanted to spend my birthday with my dead boyfriend. “My aunt’s taking me out to dinner tomorrow night.”

“Special occasion?”

I still hadn’t told him that we shared a birthday, and nothing in his eyes said he knew. “Early Christmas.”

“We’ll go during the day, then.”

“We will, huh?” I slapped down my pen. “Maybe I don’t want to be told how I’m spending my first day of break. Maybe I don’t want to be pushed.”

“Aura.” He leaned in close, his face serious now. “You need pushing, and it looks like most everyone else has given up.” He touched my elbow. “You’re turning into a ghost.”

I jerked away, my face burning. “I don’t need your pity.” I pointed to his bandaged hand. “Or your protection.”

“Fine.” Zachary snatched up his bag. “Forget it. Happy Christmas.” He worked his way between the seats toward the classroom door.

His holiday greeting reminded me of my mother’s Ireland journal—and her seize-the-day attitude. If she were here, would she let me turn down a real live hot guy who actually seemed to care about me?

“Wait.”

I’d spoken softly, but Zachary stopped and turned.

“I never said no.”

December 21 was not kidding about being the first day of winter. I bundled up like a kid on a snow day, my hat and hood flattening my hair in a necessary sacrifice to stay warm. It was only twenty degrees in the sun—not that Baltimore has much sun in December.

Zachary was his usual flirty self, though a little distracted. When our light-rail train stopped at each station, he’d get quiet, examining every person entering and leaving. When we had lunch, he chose the chair with his back to the wall, without even asking which seat I wanted. When we went up to the Trade Center observation deck, his eyes scanned the sidewalks below us instead of looking out into the bay or across the city.

I wondered if he was worried we’d run into Becca Goldman. They’d been eating lunch together every Friday (not that I noticed—much), and Megan had heard that last week he’d gone to one of Becca’s exclusive parties. If my aunt ever heard the stories that came out
of those parties, she’d order me a custom-built chastity belt, on the microscopically slim chance I was ever invited.

Or maybe Zachary was trying reverse psychology—drawing me out by being erratically aloof. Like most reverse psychology, it worked.

“Let’s go see Santa,” I told him as we passed Kris Kringle’s pavilion draped in white lights and fake holly. “It’ll be warm in there. And you can vouch for me.”

“Huh?” he asked, dragging his attention from the crowd near the waterfront.

“You can tell him if I’ve been naughty or nice.”

This got a smile. “A wee bit of both, I think.”

“Which one more?” Hands in my pockets, I bumped him with my shoulder.

Zachary threaded his arm through mine and leaned close. “I think it would be nice if you’d let yourself be naughty.”

I shivered, and not from the cold. He’d spoken like we weren’t in the middle of a crowd. He’d spoken like we were alone, and definitely not wearing four layers of clothing.

Once I found my breath, I said, “Now I know which list you’re on.”

“No, you don’t know.” He stopped. “You don’t know me at all.”

His expression was so serious and intense, I thought for sure he was going to kiss me. I stepped back as I realized Logan had been to the Inner Harbor a hundred times—he could be watching us right now, hidden by sunlight.

“But I’m going to change that,” Zachary said. “Right now.”

I followed his gaze across the wide brick sidewalk, to the little hut on the waterfront.

“Perfect,” he whispered.

“Paddleboats? Paddleboats are perfect?”

“They are.” He headed down the ramp toward the tiny vessels—few of which, not surprisingly, were deployed.

“Are you crazy?” I ran to catch up. “It’s freezing. It’ll be even colder out there.” I pointed to the harbor’s murky water, which the wind was rippling into choppy gray waves.

“But it’s my birthday,” he said as he kept walking.

I’d had enough. We’d eaten crabs (I hate seafood), gone up in the Trade Center (I hate heights), and visited the National Aquarium (did I mention I hate seafood?)—all because Zachary kept playing the birthday card.

“Damn it,” I yelled after him. “It’s my birthday too!”

“I know.”

I stopped short. I swear the sky darkened at that exact moment. A cloud passed over the low-hanging sun, blotting out the weak light.

Zachary approached the small white shed where an old man huddled behind a smudged window.

The man slid up the window’s bottom section. “Nice day for paddlin’,” he said with an ironic grin. “What’ll it be?”

Zachary read the sign as he drew out his wallet. “What’s a Chessie?”

“That’s Chessie the sea monster. Named after the Chesapeake Bay.”

Zachary examined the group of boats shaped like purple and green dragons. “We’ll take a regular, without the monster. Please.” He held out a ten-dollar bill.

The man squinted at him and shook his head. “Too tall. You’ll need a Chessie.”

“What?” Zachary looked scandalized.

“With the regular paddleboats, your knees’ll be at your ears the whole time.”

“I’m no’ driving a grotesque purple rip-off of the Loch Ness—”

“And when you get out, it’ll feel like someone walked a mile wearing your balls for sandals.”

Zachary stared at him. “Aye. Chessie it is, then.” He crammed an extra five bucks into the man’s palm, then made what he must have thought was a subtle adjustment of his own jeans.

We put on incredibly attractive orange lifejackets and paddled away from the dock. There was no steering wheel—turning the boat required paddling faster on one side than the other. Zachary was overly eager, so we went in a circle until he slowed down to my speed.

The exertion warmed me, and by the time we were out in the harbor, I was sweating inside my wool coat.

“That’s far enough,” he said.

I collapsed in my seat, panting. The garish purple head of the dragon—or sea monster, or whatever—smirked down at me. “Far enough for what?”

“For them not to hear.” Zachary reached under his life vest and unzipped his jacket.

“Who?”

“The DMP. They’re watching us. They’ve been watching you for a long time.”

My sweat turned cold. “Why? And wait—how do you know?”

“My dad’s in the MI-X, the DMP’s UK counterpart. That’s why we’re here in the States.”

“To find me?”

“No. Yes. Uh, partly.” Zachary shook his head. “I’ll start from the beginning, but in case they’re watching us, we can’t look like we’re arguing.” He took my hand, and I could feel his warmth through my glove. “Just stay calm. I swear I’ll tell you everything I know.”

I breathed deeply, unsure of which was making my head spin more, his touch or his words.

No. Definitely his words.

“I told you when we met,” he said, “that I was born a minute before the Shift, seventeen years ago this morning. And you probably know you were born a minute after. But what you don’t know is that we were the only ones.”

“The only ones what?”

“Every minute that goes by on this planet, an average of four hundred babies are born. During my minute, and yours? Only one. Us.”

The chill of dread chased away the warmth of his touch. “What happened to the other babies? Did they die?”

“There weren’t any. I think they just—” He waved his hand. “Waited. Or hurried. In any case, they weren’t born when we were.”