Chasing Shadow (Shadow Puppeteer)

First Electronic Edition January 2013

Copyright © 2013 by Christina E. Rundle

All rights reserved: no part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be mistaken as real. Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art provided by maeidesign.com

Photographer: Mike Thomassen

Cover model: Maria Amanda Schaub

ISBN:

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hadows writhed an unnatural dance in my peripheral vision. When I turned to look at them head on, they disappeared, replaced by the solid images of the Ravers on the dance floor. The music and the laser lights only added to my paranoia.

I squeezed my fingers into my thighs to keep them from shaking. No matter how big the crowd or how loud the situation, fears and unwanted memories found me. I sank further into the beanbag, determined to ward off the oncoming depression as I waited for the two tiny pills I swallowed to take effect.

The only high I felt, so far, was a contact high from the many people crammed into the tin walls of the junkyard warehouse, enjoying the rave. The dancers shimmered through glitter and glow sticks. I wanted to be more like them, not just the way they dressed, but their attitudes. They looked so liberated with their bright makeup and dyed hair. I bet they didn’t fear World Congress or maybe it was the island that encouraged them.

Xyla was run by convicts and anarchists. The island was ungoverned. Unlike the rest of the world, they were free to drink, smoke, do drugs and party. I craved this freedom, but I didn’t see future happiness on an island surrounded by electric fences built to keep people trapped.

Starr bounced onto the side of the beanbag, jolting me. “Belen, why are you pouting in the corner? I’ll buy you a drink.”

“It’s getting late.” I wanted to add that we were taking a huge risk staying this long on the island, but the words barely formed on my numb lips.

“Are you training to be an agent for World Congress? Until I see a badge, Miss McKnight, I’m not going anywhere with you just yet!” she said.

I yelled after her. “I’m serious.”

She was already mingling within the crowd. I had to go after her. It took a great deal of energy to lift myself from the beanbag. My hands sank, giving me no solid surface to balance my unsteady body. Once up, I started through the crowd, stepping on toes and fending off elbow jabs.

One group stood so close, it was impossible to weasel in, but time was slipping away. The longer we stayed on the island, the greater our chance the boat running illegally between the islands would stop for the night. I didn’t want to touch anyone, but I didn’t have a choice.

I tapped the shoulder of the young man ahead of me and he turned disarming any qualms I had about the group. His eyes were stunning; flame yellow with a black slit down the middle. He took me in with a promising smile.

He was taller than me and a few years older, which I liked. His hair was as black as mine; cut short and spiked. Unlike most habitants of either island, his skin had a bronze tint, but it was his eyes that had my heart fluttering.

One touch and I could push my influence onto him. I knew my wants were selfish and the power of persuasion I possessed often blew up in my face, but my desire was strong. It worked both ways. I could sense people’s feelings and knew when to avoid a potentially violent moment, but sometimes their ambiance lingered on me like smoke clinging to clothes. Strong emotions were the hardest to get rid of. I could carry someone’s anger or remorse for days.

A hand on his shoulder drew his attention to an elegant woman with feathery wings. She had a great costume. I couldn’t tell where the wings were connected, but with both their attention diverted, I felt awkward standing around like a third wheel, so I pushed on through and headed towards the bar. The sooner we got back to our home island, the better. The penalty for getting caught crossing between the islands without a permit was steep. I couldn’t afford reform school with only two years left under the watchful eye of World Congress in their foster program. I saved my lunch money for years so I could afford the permit off Ardent to the mainland.

The next song was upbeat, but the lyrics woven into the trance beat were gloomy. The sound waves were so solid in my mind that it pulled me off course to the dance floor. I didn’t have to push anyone to find my place among my peers. The pink and blue lights rolled over our heads. I stretched my hands upward wanting to feel them against my fingertips and down my arms.

My metaphysical shields kept me separated from this growing union. Metaphysical shields can be in any form. Mine were in the form of light energy. I focused on those woven lines of color until they lifted from me, dispersing into the weaving lights overhead. An immediate coldness followed the release, allowing me to surrender to the music.

The liberation didn’t last long. Something very angry and very hunger hurled through me. It was like a nest of ants erupting under my skin, itching and aching at the same time. It knocked me right out of the trance.

Bodies crushed me in their wild frenzy. They arched their backs and jumped with their hands over their heads, reaching towards the ceiling where something large rested in the shadowed cross beams. Their mixed emotions left them in fumes that made my chest constrict and eyes sting.

I was an open bottle letting these emotions in and my head started buzzing like I swam too deep and chlorine water was burning the inside of my nose. It took a great deal of effort to tilt my head and look up at the ceiling again. Something was there. Despite what the psychiatrists said, I wasn’t imagining this.

It was difficult concentrating on my shields. It was like pulling wet clothes on. It felt nearly impossible to draw the comforting lines of light back over my aura with so much energy pounding at me.

Empathy never hurt so badly. These mixed emotions were a raw, skinned beast and the surface was so sensitive that every tiny movement drew acutely over nerves. I stopped trying to breath. It was impossible with the onslaught of power. It clogged my airways so thoroughly.

The pressure lent desperation and I closed my eyes, letting the dancers bump me side to side as I focused on every individual light string that usually protected me. The colors grew brighter in my head and with each new strand, the stress in my chest started to ease. The constriction on my lungs let go and I took one shaky breath after another.

I wasn’t out of the clear. My emotions were a mess. The empathy residue was too strong even for me. Anger and suffering made it impossible to think. These thoughts weren’t mine, not mine at all; but they howled at me. They filled every bit of my emptiness with uncontrollable desire for pain, for rage, for death.

I was a bottle at sea. I was the only one here filled with so many rivaling emotions that I couldn’t find my individuality. I needed something sharp. One deep cut and my voice would be louder than theirs. It was the only quick solution.

Plastic wings, strange dangling antennae and other odd costume pieces whacked my face as I fought with the crowd to get off the dance floor. The music shifted beat and the crowd did too. An elbow flew up smacking me in the nose.

The music swallowed my scream. The immediate pressure made my eyes water. My nose throbbed and I couldn’t stop the flow of blood dripping between my fingers.

But the voices quieted, if just a little.

“Hey, you okay?” a male voiced against my ear.

His hands were firm on my shoulders, saving me from the crowd that now muscled by, free from their trance. His touch was a hot circuit through my being, but I couldn’t linger. I couldn’t risk his emotions imprinting on me. It would ruin the small bit of sanity I gained, but the need to retreat dissolved when I realized my rescuer was the goat eyed guy from the bar.

“Yeah, I’m good, thanks.” My bloody fingers and the voices that still whispered in my head ruined the moment. “By the way, those are wicked contacts.”

That wasn’t the only wicked thing about him. He had a great body.

“That’s a bad nose bleed,” he said.

The muscle in his bare shoulder grew taut as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. I could imagine how nice it smelled coming from him, but with my swollen nose, I’d never know.

“Thank you,” I said again, holding it against my face. I needed to excuse myself before the moment grew any more awkward. “I should probably go clean up.”

He brazenly stood there watching me. I swung away from him and didn’t glance back as I headed straight for the winding staircase that led to the upstairs bathrooms. Logic stated that unless he arrived like we did from an illegal boat ride to attend this rave, he belonged on the island and that made him off limits. I didn’t want any trouble even if it came in a really fine package.

Down Libido. Down girl. We had bigger problems.

I
paused at the top of the staircase surprised by the lack of Ravers. I’ve never seen the upper level empty until now. It should be a relief to have solitude, but the hall stretched eerily long without the extra bodies to fight through in order to get to the bathroom. My heart stopped every time the lights flickered. One would think after coming up from a fairly dark room with roaming strobe lights, that industrial lights would be stark and bright.

Just don’t go out on me. I gave a desperate plea to the electricity, as I started towards the ladies room. I couldn’t deal with the darkness and the voices at the same time.

Sweat broke out on my skin from the ebbing pain in my face. Cold water wasn’t going to do the trick. I’d need a cold compress. If I looked as bad as I felt, I wasn’t going to school tomorrow.

My shields were weak after that attack and my sanity felt shot. I was running out of flesh to scar. I feared that one day my sanity would be lost forever. Maybe the real insanity in all this was in trying to stay sane.

I shook the thought. It would drive me insane trying to figure out what my real reality was.

Each flicker of the lights drudged up childhood memories. With each lingering second of darkness, terror stretched in my imagination. When the lights remained off a little too long, I fumbled in my handbag for the small flashlight and clicked it on. The lights flickered back on, but for security, I kept my little flashlight on too. Starr gave me the flashlight as a birthday gift and it calmed my nerves on several occasions.

It felt as if light hated me, but that would be silly. An inanimate object couldn’t hate anyone. So why did light bulbs burst and candle flames extinguish in my presence? This happened as far back as I could remember.

I hurried ahead, busting into the girls bathroom with both hands pressed against the swinging door. The solid lighting, though still dim, brought immediate relief, but not much. The bathroom was as deserted as the hallway. It was the stillness I needed, so why was I on edge?

Stickers overlapped every available spot on the bathroom stalls. Some were advertisements for stores, others were more personal. The tile walls held scribbled messages that also overlapped. The largest, undisturbed handwritten message read: Don’t turn off the lights, it’ll get you.

I scoffed at the message.
Yeah, like I’d turn off the lights.

The mirrors were usually the cleanest things in here, minus the chips where someone tried to scratch their names into the glass. The sinks were just as nasty as the toilets. I try to avoid using this facility by not drinking too much. Had it not been for the misguided elbow and that driving need to be alone, I wouldn’t be here now.

There were other messages scrolled over the tile walls such as: Be afraid of your reflection. The thought behind the message kept me edgy. Threatening graffiti must be a new fad. Sure, it added to the ambience that made the Junkyard exciting, but these messages were freaking me out, which stirred the mix of emotions dueling within me.

Someone wrote in red lipstick on the mirror directly in front of me: Be Afraid of the Reflected Self.

The middle mirror, in the same handwriting, said: Don’t Look Away.

The third mirror said: Don’t Let It Touch You.

I turned the faucet on low, watching it stir the foamy gray surface of the standing water. I missed the conveniences of home. I could use a clean bathroom right now. At least it was empty. A razor sat in my purse, waiting to ease the emotional aspect of this crisis by turning it physical. It worked better than the prescribed drugs.

I bent over the sink and splashed cold water on my face. The water ran red with my blood and my nose felt three times its size. I kept whacking it on accident. The sink filled with water and I turned it off before it could run over the sides and get my clothes junked. Free from disaster, I dabbed my nose with the handkerchief and winced in pain. I’d be lucky if it didn’t bruise.