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Excerpt from Kill Call © 2024 by Jeff Wooten Young Adult Thriller Excerpt from The Stricken © 2024 by Morgan Shamy Young Adult Dark Fantasy Excerpt from Without a Shadow © 2024 by H. J. Reynolds Young Adult Fantasy
All rights reserved. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 1281 E. Magnolia St., #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524. Distributed by Independent Publishers Group. To order, visit: camcatbooks.com/Bookstore-and-Library-Orders.
INTRODUCTION. CamCat Publishing, LLC, opened for business in 2019. Our founder, Sue Arroyo, launched the company for the love of story, those tales that bewitch and dazzle you, grab hold of you and won’t let go. She calls them Books to Live In. ’Cause that’s what she did when growing up. She was a bookworm who lived and breathed stories the way her friends would live and breathe the cool kid on the block or the latest rock star. To her, the characters in her books were the cool kids and rock stars. Who needs awkward teenage parties when you can live epic adventures, find romance, and save the day right there in your mind as you read that favorite book? You know, the one with the creased edges. Sue is a self-proclaimed entrepreneur. CamCat Publishing is her seventh company. In early 2019, she sold her interest in her most successful business, Trident Technologies, and was able to turn her substantial business skills towards her life-long passion for books. That’s not a surprise. Growing up, the books Sue read taught her that anything is possible. Anything. And precisely this belief motivated and sustained her as a female entrepreneur pushing that glass ceiling time and again. It was only a matter of time until she’d put her mind and heart and business acumen back to books. Sue brings a fresh perspective to publishing, a strong desire to establish long-term relationships with both authors and readers, and a passion for a great story. Therefore, CamCat Publishing is more than a publisher. CamCat Publishing is the sum of its readers and writers . . . and then some. We facilitate and engage in communication between readers and writers because that’s where the magic happens. We involve our authors and readers every step of the way—in the process of choosing the books we publish, the formats in which we offer them, even the way we advertise and publicize them. But in all this, there’s one thing we never forget. Yes, books are products to sell, but they are something else, too. They are the expression of an author’s creativity and the touchstone for a reader’s imagination. When the two meet, something extraordinary happens. We walk in other people’s shoes and see the world anew. We appreciate your time and the opportunity to earn that spot on your shelf.
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Kill Call ..........................................................................................1 by Jeff Wooten The Stricken ............................................................................... 29 by Morgan Shamy Without a Shadow ................................................................... 53 by H. J. Reynolds
Dreams do come true. It’s Jude's job to make sure they don’t. Born with the curse of prophetic nightmares, Jude sees violent murders through the eyes of the killer before they happen. His father, who shares Jude’s dark gift, has trained Jude to save the innocent and to kill the killer. A life for a life—it’s the only way. But everything goes awry when Hanna Smith, the young woman he was supposed to save, rescues herself instead, and catches Jude in her home. Fate isn’t inescapable, but it demands balance. While Hanna may be safe for now, Jude knows that the killer will strike again, only next time there will be no warning. Jude must now find the killer , without the visions to aid him. If he fails, he and Hanna will not live to see graduation.
“Full of clever foreshadowing, complicated relationship dynamics, and both chills and heartwarming moments, Jeff Wooten's debut novel is a breakneck supernatural teen thriller that will leave you breathless all the way to the explosive end . . .” —Maria Dong, Sturgeon-Award Finalist and author of Liar, Dreamer, Thief Hardcover ISBN 9780744307597 | $19.99 | Releases 2/20/2024 Jeff Wooten lives in Arkansas with his wife, three kids, and one dog. He is a full-time physical therapist who works with kids and adults with orthopedic issues.
KILL CALL
JEFF WOOTEN
KILL
CALL
CamCat Publishing, LLC Ft. Collins, CO 80524 camcatpublishing.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © 2024 by Jeff Wooten All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 1281 E. Magnolia St., #D1032, Ft. Collins, CO 80524 Hardcover ISBN 9780744307597 Paperback ISBN 9780744307658 Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744307672 eBook ISBN 9780744307665 Audiobook ISBN 9780744307689 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request Cover and interior design by Olivia Hammerman (Indigo: Editing, Design, and More) 5
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For Martha, who never wavered, even when I did.
Kill Call: In American football, a predetermined call the quarterback makes to “kill” the play at the line of scrimmage in order to run a previously determined call best suited for the defense being played.
“Success isn’t measured by money or power or social rank. Success is measured by your discipline and inner peace.” —Mike Ditka
CHAPTER 1
O
n August twelfth at one thirty-two in the morning, Hanna Smith is going to die. Nine days. That’s all she has. She stands less than a hundred yards from me, texting in front of Markle’s, a designer jeans store. Two bags stuffed with clothes hang from the crook of her left arm, a huge purse on her right. She’s in workout clothes, and her long blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She’s seventeen and goes to Miller’s Chapel. I go to Bedford with the rest of the public school kids. It’s Thursday afternoon, and the mall is packed. People swarm around me as I sit on a bench in the middle of the promenade. Somewhere a baby is crying. I feel ya kid. I don’t want to be here. It feels way too stalkerish. That’s not what I am. This whole thing feels wrong, but Dad says it’s important, so here I am, trying to be cool. I don’t feel cool. I feel like I have a huge spotlight on my head and everyone is staring. Only no one is actually staring at me. I’m not antisocial, but crowds put me on edge. I’ve always been like this, but I’ve wondered in the last few months if it isn’t also, partly, because of what I am. Since the Dream, I’ve been second-guessing my entire life. I lean back, trying and failing to be nonchalant. I’m bad at this. Hanna’s in her own world, hammering away at her phone with her thumbs. In nine short days, Hanna Smith will be dead. But only if I’m not there to save her. A life for a life. It’s the only way.
Jeff Wooten
My phone vibrates in my hand and I jump, almost dropping it. I check the text, trying to be chill. Nothing to see here, just a dude sitting in the mall on his phone. Party Sat—B thurrrr!!! It’s a huge group text from Jacoby Cole. My phone buzzes with replies before I manage to mute it. How do people type so fast? “Hey, Jude.” I flinch at the sound of my name and look up. Molly Goldman smiles down at me, her hazel eyes bright and warm. “Did you get Jacoby’s text?” I feel like I’ve been caught stealing as I glance over at Hanna, but she’s gone. She was standing there for ten minutes, and I look away for a second— “Jude? You okay?” I look up at Molly. She’s still smiling at me. So far, I haven’t completely blown my cover. I return her smile. It’s not hard. I’m actually happy to see her. Any other moment in time would have been preferrable, but such has been my life lately. “Sorry. I was just— Yeah, Jacoby’s text. Just got it. Guess you did too?” “Yep. Bet you’re dying to go, huh?” I’m wound tight and the short bark of laughter that escapes me is a little much. “You bet, can’t wait.” Molly raises her eyebrows and smiles. She knows me well enough to know I won’t be attending Jacoby’s little back-to-school get-together. I think she’s about to say goodbye and move on, but she doesn’t move. “Want some company for a minute?” “Uh, yeah, absolutely.” I make room for her on the bench, my mall experience suddenly much brighter, if not more complicated. “Have a seat.” 2
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She sits, pushing a lock of curly red hair out of her face. “Soooo, are you waiting for someone?” “No, just chilling for a minute.” I try not to, but I can’t help but glance one more time to where Hanna was. Still gone. I should go. Dad would certainly tell me to leave now that I’ve lost the Chosen. But Dad’s not my favorite person right now, and besides, I really want to talk to Molly. “Back-to-school shopping then?” Molly thumps my leg. “I have to know why Jude I don’t like people Erickson is hanging out on a bench in his least favorite place.” “I’ve decided to embrace my social side,” I say, gaining a grin from Molly. “Unlikely story.” I shrug. “Need new practice cleats.” It’s not a lie exactly. I do need new cleats, but I’ll probably order them online. Malls really aren’t necessary. “Okay,” Molly says, nodding and smiling. “That is a believable story. You boys and your football.” She shakes her head, but she’s still smiling. She has a really nice smile. “You excited about the season?” I sit up, on comfortable footing. I love football, always have. I’m good at it too. “Yep,” I say. “Coach thinks we can win state. How about Lucas? He excited?” Molly looks down. “Last I heard.” My Spidey-Senses tingle. All is not well in Munson–Molly land. Lucas Munson is Molly’s boyfriend, my teammate, and a Grade A dick. Next year he’ll be playing college football somewhere big. I don’t even know if college is a possibility for me. I lean back against the seat and watch the people. “Are things cool with you and Lucas?” I ask as casually as I can muster, hoping very much that things are not cool with her and Munson. She places her hands on either side of her and pushes up slightly. Her voice is low and tinged with something close to regret. “No. No, 3
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they aren’t Jude. We aren’t seeing each other anymore. It happened yesterday, actually.” I try not to smile. The mall is starting to grow on me. “Huh,” I say. “So, what happened?” “Stuff, you know,” she says wistfully. “He wants to move away for college. I don’t. Honestly, we’ve been headed this way for a while. But enough about that. What have you been up to this summer? You’ve been kind off the grid.” Molly’s words are true. This summer has been a nightmare, literally. “Eh. Football, mostly. Roofing some with Dad . . .” I tap my foot. Planning my first kill, I add to myself. I need to chill. I make my stupid leg stop bouncing and shrug. “You know, the usual.” I make an involuntary noise halfway between a grunt and a laugh. Molly elbows me. “What’s so funny?” “It’s nothing,” I say. “It’s something. And now you have to tell me.” For a fleeting few moments, I consider throwing it all away. Letting it all out, telling her everything. The Dreams, what they mean, what Dad is, what I am. It’s ridiculous. Molly would think I was crazy. Sometimes, I think I might be. All this goes through my head in seconds. I shake my head and shrug, trying and failing to think of what to say. “Awkward silences are fun,” Molly says, “but I want you to use your words, Jude.” “Well, awkward silences are kind of my thing, and I hear you’re single now.” I hesitate, not sure where that came from. “Uh, sorry.” Molly’s laugh lets me know she’s not offended. “Honestly, I appreciate you not giving me a pep talk about Lucas.” “Not a chance of that,” I say, surprising myself again. Molly laughs harder this time. I’m on a roll and decide to take a leap. “Can I ask you something?” 4
Kill Call
“Oh, this sounds interesting. Asking permission. Go on.” This whole conversation feels like a release, like all the weirdness in my life recently isn’t real. There is freedom in being pushed to the edges of sanity. Mundane stuff, like Molly’s love life, suddenly seems trivial. And I have questions. “Why Lucas?” I ask. “I never understood that at all.” Molly grimaces, and I wonder if I crossed some unknowable social line. “You know your problem, Jude?” “My problem? I thought we were talking about Lucas?” “He asked, Jude.” He asked. “Uh,” I say. “That’s it? He asked? It has to be more than that.” Her eyes measure me. “Sure, but it has to start somewhere.” I still have doubts, but I think newly single Molly Goldman might be flirting with me. I swallow and force the next sentence out of my mouth. “You want to come . . . help me pick out some cleats? We can head over to the food court after. Mall pizza is, surprisingly, not horrible.” Molly’s eyes narrow like she’s appraising me. “You’re such a bad liar, Jude. I’ve had the pizza. Spoiler alert: It’s horrible.” “Not if you eat it fast.” Molly belly laughs. “That makes absolutely no sense.” “Sure it does. You’ll see.” “How about I get a salad?” “So, yes, then.” “Sure,” Molly says and stands. She reaches for her bags. “Let me get those for you.” I stand up and grab the bags, turning, enjoying the mall for the first time since I was a kid . . . and Hanna Freaking Smith is right there. An annoyed look crosses Hanna’s face as she brushes past me. Her shoulder meets mine, the faintest of touches. It’s instantaneous. 5
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The light twists, time slows, and I’m not in the mall anymore. I’m in Hanna’s house. Hanna’s at my feet, blood pooling around her head. The hammer in my hand feels good, like truth and power. I feel . . . electric. Everything is right. I am at peace, finally. If only for a moment. Then I’m back in the mall. No more than a second has passed, but my head reels, my stomach turns, and my feet falter as I watch Hanna walk away. Dad’s words echo in my ear. The first time will make you queasy. Molly stops, watching my gaze. “You okay?” “Yeah. I just—” “Was that Hanna Smith? Do you know her?” “Uh, no,” I manage. The world is still tilting, and I need a second. I ask the only question that comes to mind. “How do you know her?” Molly shrugs. “I don’t. She goes to Chapel, and I see her around.” Her tone softens. “She always seems sad.” She walks on, and I fall in beside her. The euphoria and queasiness the vision brought are still warring in my body, but my feet are steady. “Fall Happening auditions are next week,” Molly says. “We’re doing The Crucible.” “That’s the one where the woman has to wear the red A, right?” “That’s The Scarlet Letter, Jude.” Molly looks at me as we walk. “Did you really not know that?” I give an exaggerated frown. “Sorry Molly, but no, I did not.” “Whatever,” Molly says with a laugh. “You can’t fool me. All these years you’ve been playing the part of the dumb jock, while harboring a love for classical literature. I think you’ve been hiding the real you all these years.” I almost trip but have a second to recover as a gang of middle school girls, all on their phones, nearly run us over, not a one of them ever looking up. Molly’s joking, but that comment hit a little close to home. “You see right through me, Molly Goldman.” 6
Kill Call
“I do,” Molly agrees with a quick glance and a sharp grin. “So, never lie to me again.” Molly has no clue. My whole life has been a lie. I have a sudden urge to share, to share something real with Molly. I let out a wistful breath. “When I was a kid,” I say, “Mom would bring me here on the weekends. We’d go to a movie and eat in the food court. I loved that. It was, you know, good times.” “That’s sweet. How is your mom?” “Not sure. I haven’t seen her in three years.” Molly slows her pace. She knew my folks were divorced, but she didn’t know about Mom. Hardly anyone does. It’s not something I talk about. “That’s horrible, Jude.” “It is what it is,” I say, trying to sound casual. I’m positive I fail. Molly moves closer until her arm brushes against mine. People flow around us, but we are an island in the flood. “You’re a different kind of guy. You know that, right?” “Yeah,” I say. “I know.” Molly elbows me playfully. “Don’t sound sad. It’s a compliment. Normal is boring.” She’s not wrong. But it stings. Three months ago, before the Dream took over my life, I at least had the option of normality. I want that back. I look over at Molly. “What?” she asks. Something warm simmers in my chest. Something normal. “You want, uh, you want to go to Jacoby’s party with me?” As soon as the words are out, I wish they were back in, but it’s too late. Molly’s expression is unreadable, and I want to crawl away. “Are you asking me out? I think you’re asking me out. Bold.” “Just hanging,” I say. “No biggie.” Her expression turns serious. “Don’t you hate parties?” 7
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“I don’t know. It is our senior year. Maybe I need to live a little. Break out of my shell. If you were with me . . . it might not be so bad.” “Might not be so bad, huh?” Molly asks playfully. I know she’s going to say yes, even before she says yes, and I can hardly believe it. “Yeah, you know. Less than horrible anyway.” She laughs. “Well, when you put it that way, sure.” “Date then,” I ask, a part of me needing confirmation. “Date,” Molly agrees. We walk into the food court, the mix of a dozen different cuisines vying for dominance. I take it all in. I think I’ve changed my mind about the mall. I love it.
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CHAPTER 2
D
ad’s still up when I get home. He’s got his feet up, watching the ten o’clock news. “You’re out late,” he says, still watching the TV. “Thought we agreed you’d only follow her to the mall?” “I did, but I saw Molly Goldman and . . .” my words trail off. The truth is, we spent hours talking. It wasn’t what we talked about at all, but rather how we talked. Spending time with someone I really click with hasn’t been something that’s happened a lot in my life. But it isn’t just that. I really like Molly, always have, and for the first time she’s shown more than a passing interest. It’s a new kind of experience for me, and I want more of it. “We were talking,” I say, the simple explanation not even close to what really happened. Dad looks at me for the first time, and I see way too much knowing in the expression. “Molly Goldman?” I don’t respond. It’s a test. Everything lately has been a test. “How well do you know her?” I shrug. “We go to school together. I’ve known her, like, forever.” Dad stares at me, waiting. People hate lulls in conversations. Guilty people especially. A part of me wants to fill the void with something, anything, but I know better. Never give up what you don’t have to. Dad’s always been like this. When I was a kid, he’d make it a game. Since I Dreamed, it’s been way more intense. After a few seconds, Dad gives me a small smile. “I remember her now. Redhead, right? She seems nice.” “Yeah, she’s nice. We, uh, might be going to a party together Saturday.”
Jeff Wooten
“A date?” Dad never encouraged me to date. Considering what he and Mom went through, I can understand why. I shift uncomfortably. “I don’t know. Maybe. We’re friends. It’s a party. Back-to-school thing.” “Party, huh? Not at the Bluehole, I hope.” “The Bluehole?” I snort. Once you go in, you never come out. The singsong refrain runs through my mind. The Bluehole is an abandoned bauxite mine, from when Rush Springs was a booming community. That was even before Dad’s time. When Dad was a kid, it was a place where they used to party. Until some kids died. They jumped or fell, I’m not sure, but they were never seen again, and an urban legend was born. Once you go in, you never come out. “No, Dad, nobody does that anymore. That’s—no.” Dad pushes up from his chair and joins me in the kitchen. I’m as tall as my father, but he’s bigger. I see myself in him, so does everybody else. His black hair is salted with gray, and he carries some cushion around his gut, but he’s about the last person anyone wants to mess with. Like me, he was all-state football back in his day. Someday I’ll probably look just like him, and that’s cool. “So how did it go?” I have no question what we’re talking about now. “You kept your distance, right?” I stare at my feet. According to Dad, physical proximity strengthens the bond. The closer you get, the tighter the connection. It makes the Dream more vivid. The more vivid the Dream, the better your chances of success. That’s why I was there in the first place. But Dad also told me under no circumstances was I to touch Hanna. The whole vision thing could have gone way worse. Way, way worse. Hanna could have shared the vision. But that didn’t happen. No harm, no foul is how I see things. I doubt Dad will be as forgiving. 10
Kill Call
Dad senses my hesitation. “You got too close, didn’t you?” He’s right, and that makes it worse. I snap my head up. “So that’s the first conclusion you jump to?” He says nothing, just waits. How does he know? It’s hard keeping stuff from him. Impossible really. I take his disapproving stare for a second or two, trying, and failing, to think of an explanation. Molly distracted me, but it wasn’t her fault. I shrug and walk to the kitchen. I get the milk out of the fridge and pour a glass of milk. Dad comes in and leans against the kitchen wall. I pull out the ham and mayonnaise to make a sandwich. “I was with Molly. Hanna was going the other way, but she must have . . . I don’t know. She came back and ran into us. She brushed by me. We touched.” Dad’s fist slams into the wall, crunching through the sheetrock. “Physical contact? You made physical contact with the Chosen?” I look up at him, my face a mask. It’s a test. He’s done stuff like this lately. It’s completely out of character. That’s the point. If I get caught, if I find myself having to answer difficult questions, I’ll have to keep my cool. He’s doing all this to help me. Still, I’m so done with this. All of this, from my first Dream until today. Why me? I don’t want this to be my life. “Yes,” I say with no emotion. No hint of surprise, despite my racing heart. His hand’s bleeding, but he pays it no mind. “Tell me what you saw.” I start back on my sandwich. I spread the mayonnaise on the bread, finish up, and take a bite. I chew the bite and take a sip of milk before I answer. “I had a vision, just me. She kept on walking like nothing happened.” His eyes study me coolly. “You’re sure?” “Positive,” I say. 11
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“Okay,” he says. “That’s possible. Likely, in fact. Go on.” I take another sip of milk. “I was in her house. Standing over her body, a hammer in my hand. Just like the Dream.” Dad glances at the cut on his hand and gets a towel from the drawer. He wraps it up, his eyes never leaving mine. “How did it . . . feel?” “During the vision or after?” He shakes his head, annoyed. “During?” I hesitate. I think I’m tough. I know I’m tough, but the words don’t want to form. “It felt real. Like, not dreamlike at all. Real.” I hesitate. “It felt . . . It felt right. I was happy. No, not happy, thrilled. I felt like it wouldn’t last, but I knew I’d never be sorry. I felt good. Powerful.” “And now?” I hear a hesitancy in my father’s voice I’ve never heard before. He’s scared. Scared of what I might be. I take another bite of sandwich, but it might as well be cardboard for all the joy I get from it. “It makes me sick to think about it. To enjoy,” I sigh, “doing that.” Dad nods. “Good. That’s good.” “How’d you think I’d feel? Geez Dad, sometimes you’re worse than Mom.” The words sting him. It’s plain on his face. It’s rare I can upset him. A part of me wants to twist the knife. “Your mother,” he says slowly, “knows better than most what we are.” He flexes his bandaged hand. “Does she?” I ask. “Does Mom know I’m like you?” “You screwed up,” Dad says, not answering my question. “I told you not to get close. If the Chosen had shared the vision—” His face flashes with equal parts concern and anger. “In the mall? It would have been over. We’d have to pull back.” I shake my head. Sometimes Dad contradicts himself. “A life for a life. Isn’t that what you taught me?” 12
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“It is,” Dad says, softening his tone. “But you are what’s important.” He comes and puts his uninjured hand behind my head and pulls his forehead to mine. “I love you, Son. I’m trying so hard to make this better, easier for you. There will be others. Sometimes you won’t succeed. Sometimes . . . you have to let them go.” Dad’s hand falls from the back of my head and he turns his back to me. Dad has told me about a few of his Dreams. Once the killer got away, and the Chosen was killed later, but this is different. He at least tried. “Let them go,” I say incredulously. “Did you ever do that? Did you ever walk away and let someone die?” Dad turns back to me, and his eyes hold a lifetime of regret. “I know what it’s like. The call of the Dream. It feels like if you don’t answer it, it will destroy you. But you have a choice. It won’t be easy, but I’ll help.” “You didn’t answer my question,” I say, my voice rising. “Did you ever walk away?” Dad shifts on his feet. “What I did or didn’t do doesn’t matter.” He holds up his hand as angry words form on my lips. “Listen, Jude. It’s still on. You messed up, but nothing has changed.” He steps toward me. “I need you to focus. Stay as far away from that girl as you can. If you touch again, the vision will be shared, and we abort. We go on vacation.” Vacation is the plan in the unlikely event we have to call it off. Dad even bringing it up makes me want to scream. “You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you? You’d let her die.” “Of course I would. You are all that matters.” He looks away. “This is dangerous business. You want to end up in prison for the rest of your life, or worse, dead?” He looks at me and his expression hardens. “You’re my son. I won’t let that happen. If things go wrong, there can be nothing that ties you to the Chosen.” Chosen. Not once has Dad said Hanna’s name. “Her name is Hanna,” I say. 13
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Dad grimaces. “I thought you were ready. Obviously not.” “If I’m not ready, it’s your fault. You think I wanted this?” “That’s enough,” Dad snaps, the hurt clear in his eyes. “Go get your workout clothes on. We have work to do.” “It’s ten thirty. We’re finishing the Howards’ roof in the morning. Then I have football.” “And I’m your boss. Lenny can run the crew fine without us for an hour or two.” He turns and stalks off to his room. I take another bite of sandwich. Why does he have to be such a hard-ass all the time? The half-eaten sandwich hits the bottom of the trash can, and I go get dressed and meet Dad in the garage. There are no cars, just a wrestling mat, a heavy bag in one corner, and a Wing Chun dummy in another. We spend the next hour sparring. Dad pins me over and over. Once I manage to almost get him in an arm bar before he escapes it. It’s grueling work, and when I take my shower and finally get into bed, it’s close to midnight. I’m beat, but I can’t help reliving parts of my day. I think of Molly and how my life would be different if I weren’t what I am. Dad says daydreaming is a weakness. Things are how they are. Right now, I don’t care what Dad thinks. Nothing wrong with a little fantasy now and then. When the time comes, I’ll do what’s right. I’ll make my first kill.
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What if our spirits walk to another life while our bodies sleep? Every day in Clara's world, a dark cloud descends upon her town. The storm comes like clockwork, erasing everyone’s memories. Everyone except Clara. But after Clara’s father mysteriously disappears, things change. The Diviners, captive souls who feed off memories, come for her. With the help of a mysterious figure, Clara escapes the Diviners and flees to Khalom, a city in a parallel world, where she hopes to find refuge. There, Clara discovers that she is a Noble—one of the few people to have knowledge of both worlds, along with the ability to venture between the two. Forced to live the Noble life, Clara goes to school with peers who want her dead. Meanwhile, a rare and dangerous power begins to stir inside of her. The power of Death. And it grows until she’s not sure if she can control it. When the Diviners break through the city’s defense and students begin to turn up brain dead, Clara must find a way to harness her newfound power in order to stop the attacks before the city —and her mind—is wiped clean. “Riveting with its unique magic and world-building, The Stricken will keep you guessing with new twists on every page.” —Rosalyn Briar, USA Today bestselling author Hardcover ISBN 9780744307696 | $19.99 | Releases 3/5/2024 Morgan Shamy is a former ballerina turned writer. She has been immersed in the arts since the young age of four, where she performed various roles alongside a professional ballet company for over seven years, and has danced on prestigious stages like soloing at Carnegie Hall in New York City. She currently lives with her XGames gold-medalist husband and four children in Salt Lake City, Utah.
TH E S TOR MS C OM E L I KE CL O CKWOR K
STRICKEN THE
MORGAN SHAMY
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CamCat Publishing, LLC Fort Collins, Colorado 80524 camcatpublishing.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © 2024 by Morgan Shamy All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524. Hardcover ISBN 9780744307696 Paperback ISBN 9780744307887 Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744307900 eBook ISBN 9780744307894 Audiobook ISBN 9780744307917 Library of Congress Control Number: 2023941674 Book and cover design by Maryann Appel Artwork by Lyubov Ovsyannikova / Anastasiia Kurman / vidimages / DavidGoh 5
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For Aaron, Without you, none of this would be possible. ••
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Clean Slate
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y footsteps pounded down the sidewalk, my heart pumping fast. Wind bit my cheeks, and gray clouds roiled overhead, heavy in the sky. I glanced at the town clock. The Storm would be here any minute. People scattered from the sidewalks and streets, tending to their own business. Children darted around their mothers’ legs, murmurs low in the air. Like always, they had no idea it was coming. I pushed my way through the crowd and dashed into the restaurant where Mom worked. Soft lights lit the room; the tables were full, though no one spoke. Complete silence. Mom was behind the bar, wiping the counter. “Mom!” I yelled. The sea of customers didn’t flinch. They ignored me, like always, looking through me as if I were a pane of glass. You’re not going to make it. I gritted my teeth together. “Wanna bet?” I crossed the restaurant, welcoming the wave of warmth his voice sent through me. Even though urgency thrummed through my
Morgan Shamy
veins, the feel of him inside my head was like chocolate. Smooth, comforting. It isn’t safe for you to be out. You can’t do anything for your mother. I shook my head, shoving his voice to the back of my brain. I had lost Dad to the Storm—I wasn’t going to lose Mom, too. I dug my fingers into Mom’s shoulder and forced her to face me. The usual look of confusion traveled over her before her eyes lit up in recognition. “Clara, what are you doing here?” “No time to talk.” I dragged her from the restaurant like a mad bulldozer, ready to flatten anything in my path. It’s here, he said, his voice clear in my mind. Clara, you need to run. I looked over my shoulder and froze. The familiar dark cloud moved toward us, gliding down the street. It crawled over the sidewalk, its tendrils stretching like poisonous claws. It surrounded cars, swallowed up buildings, circled around the clock in the middle of the square in dark wisps. No one ran. No one screamed. The people on the street stood frozen, waiting for the dark storm to overtake them. I gripped Mom’s wrist and yanked. “Come on!” We raced down the sidewalk, our car parked up ahead. Every inch of me buzzed as the feeling of the Storm seeped into me. It was too close. I shoved Mom into the car, my hair standing on end. Within seconds, the dark fog immersed us, the chaos churning, curling along the windshield. Outside, people stopped. Faces slackened and eyes went blank. “Clara, what are we—” Mom broke off and crumpled like an empty soda can. My stomach hollowed at the look on her face. She was fading, just like Dad right before he disappeared. She couldn’t take too many more of these attacks.
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I wrenched the car into gear and floored it. The car screeched down Main Street, speeding through the dark haze. I swerved around the lifeless people still trapped in the chaos. I took turn after turn, zooming through the streets, until the Storm lightened. The road disappeared beneath our wheels, and houses stretched on either side of us, gray sidewalks lining dead grass. Air blew in from the open windows, cooling the sweat off my neck. The dim clouds departed fully, and the sun streamed down. It was over. For now. My fingers relaxed on the steering wheel. The Storm never affected me. I didn’t know why. The worst it did was leave me with a bad headache. The Storm came every day, erasing the short-term memory of everyone in town, slowly taking away their sanity until they disappeared. Completely. I hiccupped, Dad’s handsome face flashing to mind. The way his eyes creased when he smiled. The way he always enveloped me in a warm hug. The way he’d laugh and tell corny jokes. No. I wouldn’t think of him now. The sunlight was bright as I continued to drive, my heart slowing. I peeked over at Mom, sunbeams sparkling on her golden hair. She stared out in front of her, her eyes blank. The car rumbled to a stop as I pulled into our driveway. Our old white house towered over us, our lawn dried and brown. Mom groaned, her eyelids fluttering. She’d be all right for now, but I cursed myself for not getting to her sooner. I’d maneuvered her around the Storm for months. Life had started to come back into her eyes, and now I had lost the ground I’d gained. It isn’t your fault, Clara. I jerked, the sound of his voice startling me. Even though he had been with me for as long as I could remember, sometimes his presence surprised me.
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“Yes, it is,” I said. “It is my fault.” I wish you wouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You’re doing the best you can. You’re saving your mother from the Storm. You’re keeping her safe. “It’s not good enough,” I mumbled, my throat thick. He fell silent. He always went silent when he disagreed with me. I closed my eyes and wished for the hundredth time that I knew his name or why he spoke to me—but every time I asked, he’d disappear for days, leaving me scared he wouldn’t return. I’d learned to enjoy whatever time I had with him. The thought of being crazy had crossed my mind but then fizzled because I was saner than anyone else in this town. I also rationalized that having him inside my head had become a part of me. Even though he was just a voice, he was more real than any physical person I had ever met. I linked Mom’s arm around my neck and hefted her up our front steps. She looked high, with a dazed, goofy expression on her face. I cursed myself again for not getting to her sooner. Our schedule had been working. The Storm came at the same time every day, and since Mom’s memory was shot from the daily storms, it was easy to lug her around the town, staying just enough ahead of the braineating monster. The rest of the town wasn’t so lucky. They were so far gone, caught in the routine of their daily lives, they never realized when the Storm came. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, stretched out over the peeling wallpaper. The wood floor creaked beneath our feet as I helped Mom into her bed. The pillows squished out around her, and I pulled the covers up to her chin. “There you go,” I said, fluffing her pillow. I lingered for a moment, my hand hovering over her shoulder. Her body relaxed into slumber; her lips parted slightly. How much time did I have left with her? When would the Storm take her completely? Tears burned the
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backs of my eyes, but I blinked them away and glanced up at the ceiling. I would be strong. Dad would’ve wanted me to be strong. I tiptoed across the floor and took one last glance at her before I shut the door quietly. Only twenty-three hours. Twenty-three hours until the next Storm came.
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Girl Interrupted
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moved back down the hall and into the kitchen, past the garbage that spilled from the can, a putrid smell hanging on the air. I crinkled my nose and peered out the window at the forest that lined our backyard. Deep shadows filled the spaces in between the branches, and a mesh of pine boughs and leaves scattered the area. Forcing myself to exhale, I snatched my journal off the counter and stepped outside. I headed through the forest, my feet crunching on sticks and leaves. The towering scent of pine tickled my nose, and I let it fill my lungs. This was my safe place. My haven. I’d never seen the Storm come out here. Though I was never safe from myself. Sometimes, when I was alone, a darkness snuck in, filling my heart. It swirled inside my chest, heavy, like my own personal storm. Sometimes I felt as if the darkness would burst from my fingertips, right before it would swallow me whole. I didn’t know what this darkness was, all I knew was that whenever I felt it, I wasn’t myself. I felt angry, depressed, and I didn’t trust my own mind.
THE STRICKEN
It’s why I cared about him so much. He gave me a light and peace no one else did. Like he filled the wound in my chest, calming the storm and spreading warmth through my veins. If only I knew who he was. If only he knew how I felt about him. I continued to walk for a time, reminiscing about the times we’d had together. He’d first visited me when I was seven. The storms weren’t as bad then, but he’d still been my constant companion. The adventures we had together: him teaching me how to climb trees, him teasing me about how uncoordinated I was, him comforting me when I was sad. But then my feelings changed. As I grew older, I knew he meant more to me than a friend. I clutched my journal tight in my hands. Today was the day. I would tell him how much he meant to me. If Mom disappeared, he’d be the only person—only thing—I had left. He needed to know how I felt. I moved deeper into the forest, weaving around the large pines. My usual rock sat up ahead, tucked against a shaded tree. I lowered myself onto the ground, my back pressing up against the cool boulder. I set the journal on my lap, my fingers digging into the leather binding. He was the reason I’d been late getting to Mom. I’d gotten so caught up in writing about him, I’d lost track of time. A breeze drifted over my face, and the air seemed to change, to move somehow—and he was there, hovering like a shadow in my head. How are you holding up? My shoulders relaxed, and the immediate comfort he carried washed over me.
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My mouth twisted at the corners. “You really need to ask that?” His presence shifted from one side of my head to the other. You’re doing the best you can. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. I held quiet for a moment, nodding. “Well, I don’t want to think about that now.” My fingers continued to dig into the leather journal. “I want to play a game.” His presence stirred. I could sense his discomfort. “I need a distraction,” I said. “Please.” The energy in him softened. What do you have in mind? “There’s so much I don’t know about you,” I said. “And every time I’ve asked, you’ve shut me down. Can you be real with me? Just for today? Then we can go back to our usual routine.” His demeanor changed. It almost felt as if he were . . . smiling. All right. What do you want to know? “Your name,” I blurted out. “You know how many times I’ve asked you.” He paused, still hovering, but then he relaxed. It’s Cael. My heart jolted, and I straightened against the rock. Cael. Like kale. I rolled the name around inside my head. I didn’t think he’d actually tell me. My turn, he said. “Your turn?” I asked. You asked me a question, now I get to ask you. My eyes widened. Another surprise. “Okay,” I said tentatively. What’s your favorite color? I blinked, my brows drawing together. “Seriously? That’s what you’re going to ask? My favorite color?” I’ve always wondered. I held back a smile. “It’s blue. Like the ocean. Though I’ve never seen it.” I’d never left this town. “My turn again?”
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His presence shifted up and down, like he was nodding. “What is your dream?” I asked. “I mean, everyone wants something in this life. What do you wish you could have more than anything else on the planet?” He stilled, frozen inside my head. It took him a long while to answer. I’d like to undo a mistake I made years ago. It’s haunted me ever since. I’d like to go back in time and fix my wrongdoings. An uncomfortable silence settled between us. I didn’t expect such an honest answer. It was the first real thing he’d ever told me. “What did you do?” I whispered. My mind was spinning. I’d known him for years, and I’d only felt goodness from him, but did he actually have a past? One that I should be worried about? My turn, he said quickly. Same question to you. What do you wish you could have more than anything else on the planet? I peeked down at my journal. That was an easy question, but did I have enough courage to be honest? I ran a hand over the front cover. I decided to be brave. “A kiss,” I said before I could stop myself. “I’ve never been kissed. I want to know what it’s like. And . . . and I want you to do it.” He became deathly still—so still my own thoughts froze for a moment. “You had to have known,” I whispered. “We’ve spent all this time together. How did you not know that I had feelings for you?” He remained quiet, a statue in my mind. “You need to know how I feel, Cael.” My hands shook as I peeled the journal open. I cleared my throat and began to read. “He’s the only real family I have.” I turned another page. “I feel something more than family to him.” I turned another page. “I wish I could touch him, see him, be with him—” Stop!
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I clamped my lips together. His voice was clipped, angry, fiery in my head. I don’t want to hear anymore. Just . . . stop. “No,” I bit back. “I know you’re real. Somehow. Please, I’m seventeen and I’ve never been kissed.” I hated the desperation in my voice. “You have to feel something for me, too. Why would you have stayed around all these years?” Heat burned inside my head, growing, expanding. This game is over. I felt him shoot out of my mind, leaving a sudden hollowness. I sat motionless for a few heartbeats, embarrassment sweeping through me. I sagged against the rock, clenching my eyelids shut. How could I have been so stupid? I’d ruined everything. He’d probably never come back again. What would I do if I lost him? What if I never heard from him again? I kept my eyes sealed closed, the sun hot and red through my lids. Anger surged, and I slammed the journal shut before I chucked it out in front of me, not seeing where it landed. Humiliation and regret and insecurity all coursed through me. I would never leave this spot. I couldn’t. I could never face him again. But in an instant, everything went dim behind my eyelids, like someone was standing in front of me, shading me from the sun. I stiffened, my back pressing harder against the rock. Someone was there. All my humiliation fled, replaced by fear. Leaves crackled on the forest floor as this person approached. Was it him? No, impossible. He didn’t have a body, did he? But somehow, I knew it was him. He lowered himself down in front of me, but I still couldn’t open my eyes. Fear held me paralyzed, except for my heart that was beating in my throat. He drew closer, until his breath skimmed along my cheek. I still couldn’t move. What was happening? Why couldn’t I open my eyes? Was I in danger?
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And then a strange pressure pushed on my lips. Tingles prickled on my skin, and I held pressed against the rock, a rush of warmth surging through me. He hovered in front of me for a few seconds, a net of power pushing and pulling between us. I wanted it to be Cael. Was it Cael? It had to be. But then the presence disappeared. My eyes shot open. My heart pounded. The darkness lifted. I was alone.
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You can only teach your shadow one trick . . . Adlai Bringer remembers going to the desert market with her father: The colorful tents, the wink of gold, and her father’s shadow, black as night, as he sent it over to the stalls to steal whatever trinket she wanted. He called it the Shadow Game. After her father disappears, Adlai keeps going back to the market determined to find some trace of him and stealing what she can with her shadow. Until one day she picks the wrong mark—someone who knows her game and brutally tries to take her shadow for himself. Everything Adlai thought she knew about her shadow is turned upside down, and her father’s disappearance takes on a new light as she’s forced to flee the city or risk being hunted. From the desert to the shadow world to even more unlikely places, Adlai soon discovers that her shadow is a gift worth killing for. “Without a Shadow is without a doubt a fast-paced, engaging and compelling debut fantasy novel.” —Maria V. Snyder, New York Times bestselling author Hardcover ISBN 9780744308341| $19.99 | Releases 4/9/2024 H. J. Reynolds is a British writer. She was born in Reading and studied film at the University of Exeter. She then went on to complete her Master's in Creative Writing at the University of Lincoln. She now lives in Lincoln with her husband, two little ones, and her even more needy cat. You can follow her on her blog where she posts reviews of books, dabbles in writing advice, and features bonus content of short stories, usually of the surreal/supernatural variety; because fiction is magical, so why not add zombies or pirates with wings? Without a Shadow is her first novel.
Without
a Shadow H. J. REYNOLDS
you can only teach your shadow one trick
Without
a Shadow H. J. REYNOLDS
Without a
a Shadow H. J. REYNOLDS H. J. REYNOLDS
CamCat Publishing, LLC Fort Collins, Colorado 80524 camcatpublishing.com This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © 2024 by H. J. Reynolds All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, LLC, 1281 East Magnolia Street, #D1032, Fort Collins, CO 80524. Hardcover ISBN 9780744308341 Paperback ISBN 9780744308365 Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744308389 eBook ISBN 9780744308372 Audiobook ISBN 9780744308396 Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data available upon request Book and cover design by Maryann Appel Artwork by ArtVector, il67, marrishuanna, Pan-Pavel, sargotkitte 5
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To my parents, for the stories. n
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Two a Dozen
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t was just a game at the start. Adlai learned the rules from her
father; they would go out into the blazing sun, when the day was at its hottest with shadows burning black holes in the sand, and he would say, “Pick one, Little Drizzle,” and she would slip her hand out from his to search the crowd. Even back then the marketplace had the best crowds, and not just of people, but of things. Star charts were piled to the high heavens, telescopes winked a thousand suns at every turn; gems dripped on stringed necklaces; long, luscious silks slipped like water through her hands . . . And then there was the smell: aromatic herbs smoking in pots, and the stench rising out from the herds of exotic beasts that were either caged or flying in chains high above the tents, their claws swiping at careless passersby. When she looked at the people in the market and the baubles all around her, Adlai felt like the luckiest girl in the world. All she
H. J. Reynolds
had to do was turn to her father and say, “There, over there,” and he would play the game. The Shadow Game, he called it. You could only teach your shadow one trick. So, while she distracted the vendor, her father would come near—not quite by the stall of her choice, but nearby. It was always difficult for her not to look back—he’d tell her off if she did—but she loved seeing it happen. His shadow would move; it would shimmer like a haze and become longer as it reached for something—all the while his body staying stock still—and when it passed over the item, his shadow would become faint. Fainter and fainter until his shadow would be gone altogether—along with what she’d wanted. That was when they would leave the crowd to go back home and her father would present her with whatever small thing had caught her eye. Sometimes he’d give Adlai an extra surprise. A little trinket or silk scarf. Always he picked something golden—the color of her hair, he’d say. nn There were no curtains in the attic room, just a collection of bright, colorful scarves draped haphazardly across the single window that glared down above Adlai’s bed. Cold sunlight filtered in through the rainbow of fabric. A few of the scarves were starting to fade; reds turned to browns, blues to deathly gray. She would have to change those out. There was nothing more depressing than waking up to rags fluttering their last. Her roommate, Penna, was already up and dressed. Her dark figure was quietly making her bed, and Adlai turned away with a sigh. Getting up was never easy. Adlai wanted nothing more than to sink back into her dream. It had felt so real. Her father had been right there in front of her, his shadow snaking over a stall as he 728
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played the Shadow Game one more time. She pulled out the drawer of her bedside table and looked down at the heap of trinkets inside. Some were worthless. A dented tin matchbox, earrings with a cluster of fake pearls, an aged book on a royal family that had long since died out. Others, though, she thought might fetch a decent price if she tried to sell them. Her fingers brushed over a bangle that had a large fiery topaz embedded in the gold. Everything in her drawer was golden. Her father had picked each one for her, seemingly not based on its value but based on something else she couldn’t quite understand as she stared down at the odd collection. They shone. The worthless trinkets gleamed as much as the truly expensive ones, and perhaps that’s all they ever were: pretty, shiny things to distract a child who asked too many questions and who didn’t know how to listen. She was about to close the drawer when she saw the bee pendant. She remembered him giving her that one. It was of a golden little honey bee with the tip of the wings grabbing on to the thin chain on either side of it. Adlai hadn’t worn the pendant for a while, but it winked at her as she sat up, and the memory that came with it was a sweet one. Bittersweet, as it was one of the last things he’d given her. On impulse she reached out and fastened it around her neck. “Did I wake you?” Penna called over in a soft voice. Adlai shook her head. Now she was up, she wondered how it was possible she’d been deeply asleep only moments ago. A baby was crying on the floor directly below them, and if she strained her ears further, she could pick up a thousand other noises. Much like a dripping tap, once heard they were impossible to unhear. Living in an orphanage with twenty other kids of varying ages wasn’t the best environment for peaceful sleep. But Penna and Adlai were fortunate enough to be stuffed up in the attic, where the sounds were somewhat muffled and there were no little feet 738
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storming over their beds to demand breakfast. That was the benefit, Adlai supposed, of being too old for any family to want to adopt you: you got to be tidied away. Penna took the tidying away a little too literally and kept her side of the room as undisturbed as possible. There were no personal items, despite having lived at the orphanage longer than Adlai. Her clothes were folded and hidden away in a chest of drawers, and on top of that single piece of furniture she kept only what was needed: a comb, a small mirror, some lotion, and a soap bar that smelled of lemon. If she left tomorrow, there wouldn’t be a hair or thumbprint to say she had lived there. Adlai’s side, on the other hand, would take a few trips up and down to sort through. She headed over to a pile of clothes to dress. Unless she could bring herself to wake before the sun, which she wasn’t likely to, she knew the washroom wouldn’t be free again until nightfall. She pulled on white pants in a shiny fabric and a wrap top the color of an atomic sun. It was bright and garish enough. Adlai had plans to play the Shadow Game herself today, and wearing something attention grabbing had always been her father’s advice. It was the folk who covered themselves up in hoods and tried to melt in the background who garnered the suspicious looks in the desert market. Sliding her sandals on, she let Penna climb down the ladder first. A mistake, as her friend was wearing a long green dress with fine stitching she was careful to protect as she climbed down the rungs. Adlai’s stomach was growling by the time Penna finally dropped to the floor and the ladder shook, ready for her. She slunk down it, realizing at the same time that the crying she’d heard had finally stopped. A door opened, and Mother Henson, cradling a sleeping newborn, looked at them. “Well, at last. While you two have been dozing, I’ve had the whole morning full of things to do. Couldn’t count them to tell 748
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you,” she said in that offhand way that told Adlai nothing had been done. Especially as she followed it up with, “I’m going to need some extra help today.” Adlai rolled her eyes at that, but Henson pretended not to notice. Every day she needed help with something or other, and it was always for jobs she was supposed to do. “What do you need?” Penna asked. Adlai wanted to hit her for so easily offering. Mother Henson smiled. It looked odd on her, more so as she must have been at the mirror moments before the baby started fussing and had makeup on only one eye. It looked like a dark, dusty bruise, while her other eye shrank in comparison. “You’re a good girl, Penna, dear. I’ll just need the meals cooked and some of the rooms cleaned. Gilly has a potential match, so her area will need tidying up the most. And if you could make her presentable too—you know she’s always running wild with the boys.” The baby whimpered slightly and she rocked him closer to her chest. “Perhaps you can make some honey cakes? The family will love that.” Penna had work in the afternoon and all those tasks would take most of the morning without any help. She side-eyed Adlai, hopeful, but Adlai shook her head. She was done scrubbing floors and cooking for an army of ingrates. Mother Henson might have given her a roof over her head, but that was all she did these days. “Leave it to us,” Penna said brightly. Adlai sighed and wondered why Penna still bothered to stay on Mother Henson’s good side. As soon as the baby started to whimper, Henson forgot they were even there. Only the helpless, screaming babies could stir the mother in Mother Henson. Once a child started talking and walking, the mistress of the orphanage could easily forget the child still needed food and attention. Adlai, at least, had been old enough when she’d been 758
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forced through the doors to know not to look for love from such a woman, but some of the younger ones learned the lesson harder. “You know you don’t have to always help,” Adlai said as they walked down to the kitchen. There were three other kids inside, picking at corn muffins that looked like the runts of a baker’s litter. “I don’t mind.” Penna’s eyes swept over the open cupboards and started putting things back in their places. Her busy hands stopped on a pile of mangoes. “What I do mind is good fruit going to waste. If I were to make a big fruity mash, do you think there’d be enough to satisfy the greediest little monkeys?” Adlai sighed, knowing Penna wasn’t really talking to her and that she’d be distracted making breakfasts for a good while. She took some fruit for herself and headed to their usual spot out on the balcony. Outside the air was warm but not the sticky, sweating kind it would turn to later in the day. She jumped up to sit on the banister ledge and swung her legs over the dust path below. People were starting to head to their work or make those early-morning purchases, as much a part of a routine as getting dressed. The same sight as always. She looked further ahead. The Arbil pyramid shone golden in the distance, creating a three-sided sun with the morning light glinting off its massive walls. They were ancient walls, older than the city gates, but the gold brick made it look brand new. Like the trinkets from her father, the pyramid was the city’s treasure; a place of birth, healing, and death. Adlai took a bite of her pear; it was overly sweet but cooler than a glass of water. She was on to the second one when Penna arrived. Her dress had wet stains on the front and one of the kids must have pulled at her headscarf, as her tight curls were showing underneath. “You know it’s Henson’s job to cook the meals and prepare the kids for their appointments. She’s paid to look after us,” Adlai said. 768
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There was a small crooked table and two creaking chairs on the balcony. Penna sat down on one and stared dreamily out to the same horizon Adlai overlooked. “Mother has her hands full with the little one. It used to be fun,” She turned to Adlai. “Remember that game we’d play? Tell Me How . . .? We could play that again this morning.” Adlai laughed. Penna had round dark eyes that were hard to say no to and one of those genuine smiles that a child might make when presented with a treat. The problem in this was that the treat was a stupid game she’d invented to pretend they weren’t cleaning up vomit or peeling their lives away in buckets of potatoes. Penna had been her best friend these last seven years. Her only friend. But while Adlai wanted to flip the page to when they could get out of this place, she sometimes thought Penna wanted to freeze time and stick her feet into the foundations. “I’m not staying here all morning,” Adlai said, already regretting it. nn The bathwater had warmed to a level that, while it wasn’t exactly hot, was at least pleasant to run her hand through. Adlai was sweating from hauling several buckets up and down the stairs and could do with sinking into a clean bath herself, but the water wasn’t for her. Not that Gilly was grateful for their effort. Adlai turned over the empty bucket and sat on it as she watched Penna fight with the girl to remove her muddy clothing. “I washed yesterday!” Gilly argued. Adlai didn’t believe her. Some of the kids might splash water on their faces and rub soap through their hair, but not many of the kids bothered filling a bath. Gilly looked, and smelled, as though she had been many days without even a cursory wash. 778
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“Come on,” Penna said gently, “you want to look your best for your appointment, don’t you?” Gilly snorted but let Pen pull off the last of her underclothes. Naked, the girl looked even more wild. Her dark hair ran long down her back in a tangled mess and she had an assortment of cuts and bruises, some healing, others fresh from a recent fight. They could hide most of them in nice clothing, but Adlai didn’t like her chances. There were more boys than girls at the orphanage. There always were because when people wanted a child, what they really meant was a son. Mother Henson turned girls away like they were rotten food she didn’t want dumped in her kitchen, only occasionally adding one or two to her collection for the rare couple who actually wanted a daughter over a son. Gilly, wild and unruly, was unlikely to be the girl the couple were coming for. “We still have cooking to do,” Adlai said, “so unless you want to help out with that, get in the tub and let’s make this quick.” Gilly scowled at Adlai. “Ignore her,” Penna said. “She’s in a mood. You can go back to playing later. But right now you have to be clean.” Gilly scowled again, and made sure the water splashed over Adlai as she climbed into the tub. At least she was in, though. An assortment of bottles and soap bars lined a shelf by a small glazed window. Penna took a few items from there and handed Adlai nail files as she poured in oils that smelled of jasmine and smoke. Gilly wrinkled her nose but didn’t complain. That came when Penna dipped the girl’s head back and started work untangling her hair. “Owww!” “Why don’t we play the game?” Penna said. “Tell me how . . .” She looked over at Adlai as she dug the comb through a particularly large knot “. . . you learned to swim.” “I don’t need to swim today, do I?” the girl asked, confused. 788
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“No,” Penna answered, smiling. The knot loosened, and more water splashed over the edge of the tub and gathered by Adlai’s feet. Adlai reached for one of the girl’s hands and began picking the dirt from her nails. “How I learned to swim?” she repeated, thinking for a moment. It had been a while since they played this game. “I never had to learn to swim. My mother was a mermaid, you know, so I was born with a fishtail. Before I could talk, I could swim.” She looked down at Gilly’s confused expression. “I know what you’re thinking: ‘Where’s your fishtail now?’ Well, fishtail scales are worth a lot of money, and when I was very young, three or four years old, I was kidnapped for them. They peeled off my scales like I was a vegetable for a summer stew.” Gilly yanked her hand away. She had the look of someone who’d long ago stopped listening to fairy tales, probably right around the day her parents didn’t come home. Had Adlai once been this child? The girl’s features seemed to be screwed up permanently in anger, her frown as deep as claws. “Don’t worry,” Adlai said, grabbing Gilly’s other, equally dirty, hand. “My father saved me. I wouldn’t have legs at all if he hadn’t brought me quickly to the desert market. Everything is sold there, you know. Including a magic potion to grow limbs. He had to use his blood for it and that’s why I have his knobbly knees, and I have to shave every day or else I break out in man hair. Though”—she lowered her voice to a conspiratory whisper—“sometimes I still get the odd scale . . .” A tooth of the comb became stuck in another big knot, but both Pen and Gilly ignored it. “What color were your scales?” Penna asked. Adlai thought for a minute. Her eyes drifted over every color in the room—the blue tiled floor, the white tub, the cracked gray walls. She discarded them each in turn. “They were colorless. They picked up all the colors in the light, like glass does.” 798
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She could tell Penna liked this idea. Her pretty dark face was entranced, and even Gilly loosened her frown, staring wide-eyed from one to another. They were adults in her eyes, albeit adults talking nonsense about mermaids, but for a moment all three forgot what they were doing in the room. Playing the game could sometimes make Adlai forget this was an orphanage, or that Pen hadn’t always been family to her. The thought tugged at something she wished it hadn’t. “Have you ever seen a mermaid?” Penna asked. She pulled the comb loose and smiled down at Gilly. “They look so beautiful in the picture books, don’t they?” Adlai finished cleaning the last nail and dropped Gilly’s hand. She stood up and came away from the tub. “How many mermaids you expect to come across in the desert, Pen? It’s not like orphans, where we’re two a dozen.” Penna shook her head. “But there are other places. Oceans and mountains out there. Places with snow, even. Do you think they really exist?” “Mermaids, or other places?” “I don’t know. Both, I guess.” Adlai didn’t answer her. The truth was she wanted it all to be real. If she could leave Libra and travel the kingdom, she thought she might see things just as impossible as her shadow that could steal. She stared down at Gilly. “What do you think?” “I think this game’s stupid, and I don’t see why all this fuss has to be made every time one of us has an appointment. I don’t want to be adopted. I’m going to move into the attic when you two leave.” Adlai shook her head. “Then you’re even more stupid than if you’d believed I was half mermaid. Don’t you get it? You have a chance at a family today. Take it.”
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2
n
Nothing but Dreams
T
he waiting room was the only part of the orphanage that
had a homey feel about it. There were two plump sofas with feathery cushions, a bookcase with little animal ornaments, and a feature wall of drawings that the younger kids added to periodically. Even the tiled floor was of a happy, bright orange. This was where the adoption appointments took place. Adlai and Penna were busy setting the stage for Gilly’s potential new family, while Mother Henson had taken the girl to her office to run through the script of what to say and do, as well as what not to say and do. That was important too. Adlai had messed up each and every one of her appointments through some perceived slip. Once, she’d stolen the watch off a woman who’d made her open her mouth to check her teeth. Another time she’d spilled the coffee a man had demanded she serve. She had never been able to be the girl a couple wanted. She doubted Gilly would either. “How is it you were never adopted, Pen?”
H. J. Reynolds
Penna had been a light in the darkness. A sister when she’d had no family left. Always so kind and patient, she had the sweetest temper Adlai had ever known. If anyone was going to be adopted, Penna was the model child. “Oh, I was close once,” she said with a fake kind of breeze to her voice. “Everything was going well and then they asked me if I liked to read . . .” Adlai frowned. “But you do like to read.” “Because you taught me.” She took a small, well-worn book off the shelf. The cover’s title was written in a playful, childish script: Fantastical Fables of Glories Gone—Heartfelt Heroes and Irredeemable Ignobles. “I was eight,” she continued. “I could only understand the pictures and so I made up what I thought the stories were. Mother actually apologized for presenting such a simple-minded child to them.” She put the book down. “After that she had me helping out with the cooking and I didn’t get any more appointments.” “You mean she saw you’d do her work for her.” Adlai dropped the cloth she’d been wiping the end table with. She was starting to wonder if the same thing hadn’t happened with her. Weren’t they always the ones doing Mother Henson’s work for her? “Maybe we didn’t screw up as bad as we thought, Pen. Maybe this whole show with Gilly is just to groom her into our replacements.” Penna shook her head. “You don’t really think Mother would play with our futures like that?” “I think Mother doesn’t see us as having any futures.” Penna started to defend her, as she always did, but Adlai wasn’t listening. She came over to the book and flipped through the pages. Some of the stories were as familiar as if she’d written them herself: smoke dragons living up in the clouds and causing droughts, firebloods who died and were reborn again, and of course the shadow wielders. Tales that people had once believed as fact were now 7 12 8
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written as myth. She’d read the tale of “Menko and the Shadow Wielder” a thousand times as a kid. Menko was the hero, sworn to save a princess whose land had been ravaged by disease. The tale featured three gallant princes, each using knowledge from their lands to try to solve the crisis. The Capri prince grew better crops to feed the people, the Libran prince brought superior medicines to cure the people, and the Piscetian prince built an array of freshwater spots to cleanse the people. But the crops died, the medicine failed, and the water grew dirty, and the princes died with the people. Only Menko could see what others had failed to, for the princess was a shadow wielder. To keep her youth and beauty, she’d been sending her shadow out across her land and stealing from her people. Not riches—she had plenty of those. Her shadow could steal the rosy complexion of a young maid or the strength of the strongest man. To end her reign, Menko searched the sky for wisdom and came across a fallen star. In his hands it became a dagger with flame like a comet’s tail trailing the blade. He plunged it into the princess’s shadow and trapped it there, where it would never harm another soul. There were other tales that showed shadow wielders at work. Some were just petty tricksters, but most played the part of villain. It used to make her laugh to read of these great powers they supposedly had. She knew the stories were made up for children and that, as fantastical as her shadow was, it certainly couldn’t steal youth or beauty. The only thing it could harm was a person’s pocket. The door to the waiting room opened and Mother Henson came swooping in with an almost unrecognizable Gilly at her heels. The girl’s wet hair was braided back and she wore a light, frilly dress with long sleeves that covered up the scrapes and bruises. Gilly plucked at the frills and shot both Penna and Adlai a look, daring either of them to laugh. “You look lovely,” Penna said, and no doubt meant it. 7 13 8
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“How she looks will hardly matter if everything else is out of place,” Mother Henson said, brushing her finger over the table Adlai hadn’t finished wiping. “What have you two been doing all of this time? Where are the honey cakes? They should be by the sofa for the guests.” “Would you like us to pick fresh flowers too?” Adlai said. “Or hand sew a welcome flag?” Mother Henson eyed Adlai with her usual coolness. “Do try not to ruin the girl’s chances today. We all want this to work out for Gilly.” “Do we?” The coolness left Mother Henson’s eyes. For a moment she looked at Adlai the way she did when a small child was being led through the doors for the first time. “You think I turned people away from adopting you, don’t you?” Henson said softly. “Simple girl. I wouldn’t ruin your few chances in life. Yours might not be the saddest story to come my way, but I still felt for you when you arrived. A father walking out on his child is a sad thing.” “My father didn’t walk out on me.” Adlai gripped the book so tightly her nails punched through the leather. Henson arched her brow. “Of course not. Mystery night intruders, wasn’t it? Strange they didn’t take you too.” It wasn’t the first time Mother Henson had mocked Adlai’s version of what happened the night her father went missing—the city guards hadn’t believed her either. There had been no blood, no sign of a fight, no items stolen. And no body. Her father had simply vanished. Only Penna had listened to her, and probably she was just being nice. Like how she was now, coming over to Adlai and resting a hand on her arm to calm her. “Don’t you have anything else to do?” Adlai said, her voice steady. “I know how busy you are.” 7 14 8
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But Mother Henson didn’t leave. She came closer. Close enough that Adlai could smell that sickly rose perfume sticking to the air like hot vapor. She looked down at the book she was still holding. “It always surprises me how many children come to my home with dreams fogging up their heads. They have nothing but dreams, even after life has already been so cruel to them.” She turned to Gilly. “Let these two be a lesson to you, child. Almost full grown and living like rats in my attic. If you have any sense, you’ll take this adoption seriously. There are so few chances for girls like you.” She looked down at Adlai and Penna, her gaze lingering on Adlai as her voice became soft as a whisper. “You think I ask too much, but I could turn you out to the street tomorrow, and then you’d see how generous I’ve really been. You have a bed here and food. Neither of which come for free.” Adlai didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Penna’s hand gently pressed down, reminding her again to stay calm. “You’re very good to us, Mother,” Penna said. “I’ll have those cakes warm and ready.” Mother Henson nodded. “You’re a good one,” she said. “I know if I extended your stay here, you’d appreciate it.” She took a last appraising look around the room and then at Gilly, whispering something final to the girl before leaving. After the door shut, the air seemed to thin out between them. A boy rushed past the window and tapped on the glass, making them all jump. He laughed and stuck his tongue out at Gilly. “Eat sand, Billun,” she yelled. She looked like she wanted to run after the boy but stared down at the frills of her dress again. “I hate wearing this thing. And I don’t want to meet any strangers.” “You want to be a rat in the attic then?” Adlai said, still bothered by Mother Henson’s words. The girl’s eyes widened and she looked to Penna for comfort. 7 15 8
H. J. Reynolds
“If the family takes you, it’ll be because they want you, Gilly,” Penna said. She came toward the girl and brushed a wild strand of hair behind the girl’s ear. “Prettying yourself up like this is just a nice way to meet them for the first time. You’ll still be able to run outside and make friends and do all the things a child should, only you’ll have a family to love you and take care of you. That’s not so bad, is it?” “What if I don’t like them?” “Then you can always come back here,” Adlai said, again with force but this time the girl relaxed. She really did look pretty. Adlai unclasped the necklace she’d put on this morning. “Take this,” she said, putting the bee pendant around the girl’s small neck. “For luck.” Gilly stared down at it and grabbed at the wings. “Is it real gold?” “It’s real luck,” Adlai said. “Bees are like faeries; they fly around making flowers grow, and their sting keeps away anyone with bad intentions.” Gilly fingered it uncertainly, then tucked it under her dress collar, out of sight, as all good magic should be. Her eyes jumped back to the window and she tugged at her sleeve again. “Best not to risk your pretty dress running about outside,” Penna said, seeing what the girl was thinking. “Why don’t you check over your room? Make sure you have everything tidy and ready to go.” The girl nodded. Amazingly, when she left through the door they didn’t see her immediately pass by the window outside. Perhaps she would be good and stay indoors. Or perhaps she’d head out through the kitchen. “Gilly won’t be as foolish as us,” Penna said in the silence afterward. “She’s not the type to mind what anyone says, and she doesn’t talk nonsense. She doesn’t even believe in mermaids.” 7 16 8
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“Sensible girl.” “Yes, there’s no good reason why a family won’t want her.” Adlai wasn’t as confident for the girl, but she stayed silent on that point and went back to wiping the table. “Pen?” she said after a moment. “Hmm?” Penna was taking down the books from the highest shelf, as though anyone would check for dust that high. “You don’t still believe in dragons and . . . and shadow wielders, do you?” Her friend laughed. “No more than I believe you ever had a fishtail.” She brought the feather duster down. “But . . .” Adlai looked up. “What?” “Well, it’s just that if I ever have a child, and they want to believe in those pretty tales, I wouldn’t tell them otherwise, or call them simple.” She smiled. “In fact I’d have their Aunt Adlai play several games of Tell Me How and really get them dreaming.” Adlai let herself smile at the thought, but her chest was heavy, as it always was when she wanted to—but couldn’t—tell Penna her secret. You can only teach your shadow one trick, Little Drizzle. But that trick isn’t worth your life. Others can’t do what we can, so others can’t know. Well, her father was gone. Disappeared. Dead. She didn’t know, and yet his voice stayed in her head. Sometimes she wanted to rebel against it. Other times listening to him and keeping this secret just between them kept him near somehow. Shadows and secrets. Her shadow didn’t have the kind of power that could save or destroy kingdoms, not like the stories. But it was enough, she hoped, to make the kind of money needed to leave this place. It was a small dream, but it was a start. 7 17 8
H. J. Reynolds
nn By late afternoon the usual crowd was flocking around the city gates. Adlai slipped among them, letting herself be herded down the stone-slab road that curved out toward the desert. The first place to visit was the Stalls of a Thousand Suns, where everything shone from the high heavens. From jewelry to saucepans, knives to chains, the desert sun sweated beads of light off every item. Of course Adlai wasn’t in the market to buy. She fingered the signet ring she’d stolen last week during the Rain Festival and hoped that enough time had passed that not too many questions would be asked over it. “Ms. Adlai.” Izel, one of the nicer stall owners, grinned at her. He was a big man with a Gem accent that clipped each end syllable as though he hadn’t the time to finish the word. “I have jewels as bright as lemons just waiting to adorn your lovely hair.” He held up a long hairpin with decidedly ordinary yellow beads. “The very latest in fashion.” His stall had an array of mannequin heads dressed in badly combed wigs and displaying similar cheap hair accessories, necklaces, and earrings. A single arm hung off the table, sagging from the weight of many bracelets. “You know fashion best,” she said with a smile, but she didn’t stop. She’d rather put real lemons on her head than his tack. The stall she stopped at seemed to merely sell a haphazard collection of knickknacks: used candlesticks with wax stains, and cutlery that made their clay counterparts look sharp. But Vima made his real money off the black market, peddling items Adlai stole for him. “If it’s a haggle you’re after, this time it had better be worth it,” he said. 7 18 8
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Vima was dark-skinned and had his bald head wrapped in an even blacker scarf with the ends slung over his shoulders like two coiled snakes. He had thick lips, a strong jaw, and watchful eyes. If he wasn’t always moaning about their deals while he cheated her, Adlai might have thought he was attractive. “You’re telling me you didn’t sell the headdress? It had phoenix feathers.” He shrugged. “The plumage was very faded, I had to add a discount or I would have lost a good customer.” “A customer who doesn’t pay enough is a bad customer,” she said. “And a thief who asks for too much is lucky to have buyers.” “Fine. Maybe I’ll find my own buyer for a ring worn by one of the prince’s personal guards, then?” Vima leaned forward and regarded her coolly. “How did you get a knight’s signet ring?” “How could I not when they wandered in the market for last week’s rain celebrations?” She pulled out the ring. The silver band had markings—words of obedience and loyalty, but it was the red cut gem that spoke the loudest. “Hmm, you don’t get more money for daring,” he said, but from the flash in his eyes she thought she would get a good price on it. nn She’d had to haggle for half an hour before she got a deal she was happy with. It was enough to rent a bed for a month or so but it wouldn’t be enough to live on for much longer than that. Stealing like this was like feeding her future one spoon at a time when she really needed to feast. But wanting to steal something monumental was like wishing on a star or praying to the gods: it didn’t mean it would actually 7 19 8
H. J. Reynolds
happen. Adlai walked through the crowds, assessing and discarding marks, hoping to find some worthwhile trinkets to steal. She wasn’t expecting to see the flash of metal that winked at her from a nearby fruit stall. Not gold. It looked more like copper, only she knew it wasn’t copper. Suraci. It had to be. No other metal had that bronze, fiery sheen, and it couldn’t be faked like everything else in the market. She’d never seen it with her own eyes before, but her father had told her about it. Specifically to stay away from it. Some silly superstition that the metal was cursed, but nothing had looked more beautiful to her. She could already feel it weighing heavy in her palm. She smiled, already thanking the god Himlu for her luck. It was time to play the game.
7 20 8
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