Shadows Fall (3 page)

Saturday was my free day. I woke up heavy-limbed and groggy—a product of my chronic insomnia. I weaved in place when I stood up, then shuffled to the bathroom once I got my bearings. I was still mostly asleep while I brushed my teeth and took my pill. Adderall—it helped me focus… not through the ADHD the doctors thought I had, but through the near constant noise.

I finally got up the nerve to look in the mirror and see what I could do about my sleep-deprived mug. I winced when I saw my reflection. “Ugh.”

While my parents had dark skin and eyes like most of the Rom, I had somehow ended up with eyes that were bicolored. My irises were bright blue, except for a little patch at the bottom of each that was the same warm brown of my parents’. It was odd, as none of my immediate family members had blue eyes. An aberration—that was what my grandmother on my father’s side, the
Phuri Dai
, or senior woman of our tribe
,
called it—witch eyes.

I still had a dusky complexion, though I was lighter than most gypsies. The combination of the blue eyes with my jet black hair and golden skin, I’d been told, is unusual—even feared by some among the
kumpania
, our Rom community. At the moment, said hair was spiked up all over the place from my tossing and turning, and my eyes had dark circles under them. I wasn’t quite femme enough to pull off wearing makeup, so I had to settle for a good scrub and a lot of coffee.

Soon enough the sleep deprivation would get to me, and I’d have to do something about it. Sometimes the roving spirits came to me in sleep, or in that twilight moment just before. The townhouse was warded too, but since I couldn’t afford a second professional cleansing, I’d done it myself, so they sometimes got through.

I dressed in my favorite worn-out jeans and an Uptown Java T-shirt—hell, it was free advertising. I paused at the front door to fire up some One Republic on my iPod, hitched up my backpack higher on my shoulders, and then I headed down the concrete steps to the sidewalk. On my way to the shop, I ran into some road construction. Workers were digging the road up all over the place and they had their shit all over the sidewalk. I had to reroute one block over to avoid it.

Even though it was my free day, I was still going to Uptown. I really didn’t go anywhere besides work and home, because who wanted to hang out with a guy always blasting music in his ears? If I concentrated really hard, I could tune out the voices for short periods of time, but it took a lot out of me to maintain.

I was halfway to the shop when the unthinkable happened. My iPod cut off, leaving nothing but deafening silence inside my headphones. “No.
No, no, no, no,
” I whispered. There was only a brief respite between the absence of music and the inundation of the voices. My skin prickled with that sensation of being watched, followed. When I focused on my surroundings, I could see the apparitions all around me, some more formed than others.

They never spoke words at first—at least, not ones that I could understand. The quiet murmurings, like wind blowing through a forest and creaking the trees, were amplified by what I called ‘the cafeteria effect.’ When everyone talks at once in a school cafeteria, it all merges together into one living, breathing mass of chaotic noise that’s completely indiscernible as single conversations. It was like that only times a million—with an echo. Only when one of them really pushed through the veil did I hear a distinguishable voice.

Unashamed, because for me, self-preservation was a victimless crime, I covered my ears with my hands and took off running down the sidewalk in the direction of the shop. I dodged the young business people bustling toward their futures. I zigzagged around dog-walkers and stroller-pushers, street performers and construction workers on scaffolds. I ignored them all in favor of wading through the sea of looming spirits, of outrunning the cries, the entreaties, the demands that were nipping at my heels.

I’m sure I got more than one middle finger and dirty look, but I didn’t care. I was panting by the time I reached the shop. Flinging the door open, I flew inside and let it slam behind me. My body sagged with relief when I could no longer hear the voices.

I splayed my hands out on the cool glass, then pressed my face against it. It was time to buy a backup iPod. Stepping back slightly, I stared through the tempered glass at the wanderers on the street. The ones I’d been seeing lately were still out there, watching me—the woman with the odd violet eyes and the skinny little girl—but they had about a thousand friends with them.

This was why I didn’t think I believed in Heaven or Hell. I knew what I thought to be the truth, that no one went anywhere when they died. A person’s essence may transcend beyond our physical dimension, but their consciousness stayed right where they were… and most of them weren’t at peace.

Hell, I could be wrong. Maybe there actually was an afterlife and the ghosts that I saw were just a fraction of the people who’ve lived and died. I didn’t really have it in me to care. All I wanted was to live my life as normally as I could, until I became one of them.

“Titus?”

I flinched and whipped around so that my backpack was against the door. Amanda, one of my part-timers was looking at me like I had suddenly sprouted a second head. Glancing around the shop, I realized I hadn’t been paying attention to my surroundings. Amanda was taking orders at the register and Riot was behind the counter pulling drinks. Two customers waited in line and two more were sitting at tables in the dining area, one of the two being Detective Charlie Hale.

He’d looked up from some papers he had spread out on the table when Amanda called my name. Those hooded hazel eyes settled on my face, and he gave me an absent nod. My cheeks heated as I slowly peeled myself off the door and walked to my usual table in the corner—the one I used to draw on my free days. I found that drawing the faces I saw every day helped me to not be so haunted by them.

“Hello, Titus,” the detective said in his deep, full-bodied voice. He had a slight accent, one that made me think of rodeos and truck-pulls… but not banjos.

“Detective Hale,” I answered, trying to pretend I hadn’t just flown into the shop like a crazy person. “I trust you’re well this morning.”

“I am. Call me Charlie, please.”

“Charlie…” I said, testing it out on my tongue. I liked the way it felt.

He looked preoccupied, if the stack of files on the table was any indication. I gave him a tight smile and tucked myself away in the corner. Once I got settled, I pulled my sketchbook out of my pack, picked a pencil, and started to draw. I decided to start with Violet Eyes, because she was standing right at the door, doing her best to stare holes into my chest.

But I couldn’t concentrate on my drawing. My gaze kept drifting over to the handsome Detective Hale. I wondered what his story was, why he kept coming into my shop—not that I was complaining—and why he was always alone. Then again, I was still too scared of cops and even more scared of straight guys to make any moves toward him.

He pulled some photographs out of the folder at the top of his stack and spread them out on his table. I was too far away to see any details about them other than the fact they all seemed to be headshots of people, but he was concentrating on them very hard.

Suddenly he looked up and his eyes connected with mine. I flinched and gave him a sheepish smile, embarrassed at having been caught peeking. I decided to play it off by using it as a conversation starter. “Do you always bring your work with you everywhere you go?”

I realized too late that the question might have seemed a little bitchy, but he didn’t seem to notice. He just smiled sadly, looking rather haunted, so I guess he wasn’t angry with me.

“I guess it’s kind of in the job description,” he answered, shrugging a big shoulder.

I glanced at the photos again, then back to his face. “Are those some perps, or UnSubs or whatever?”

One side of his mouth tipped up in a brief smirk. “UnSub is pretty much an FBI term. But no… these are victims.”

Oh
. I took a fleeting moment to extricate my foot from my mouth. “Armed robbery? Grand theft auto?” I asked hopefully. I knew the answer was no, however, because simple thievery didn’t put that kind of look on a man’s face.

Charlie winced and sighed, sliding the photos back into the file. “Homicide.”

I executed a perfect face-palm, because what a brilliant conversational gem that was. Charlie chuckled and tucked his files back into his leather messenger bag. “Don’t feel bad. My job
can
be kind of a mood killer.”

Unable to think of an appropriate response, I smiled politely and flicked my eyes toward the door. Violet Eyes was still there, hands spread out against the door, mouthing muted pleas. I turned back to my drawing, filled in the brown of her hair.

“You’re an artist?” Charlie asked.

I laughed out loud. “God, no. I just dabble. It’s a way to keep my hands busy. Now Riot back there…” I nodded toward the counter, “… he’s an artist. Graphic novels.”

“Neat,” Charlie murmured, which I figured was cop-speak for ‘I have no interest in that whatsoever.’ His gaze strayed to my sketchbook and his eyes widened a fraction. I almost didn’t catch it. Almost. “Who’s that?” he asked, studying me carefully.

Christ, I shouldn’t have started drawing while he was sitting so close. I knew better than that. What would happen to me should I ever cross paths with the families or friends of my wanderers, and they saw my drawings? Would I be run out of town? Studied? Locked up? There was no excuse for my carelessness. Luckily, I really wasn’t that great of an artist at all.

“Nobody. Just the sum of some parts I put together. Terrible, right?” I didn’t wait for an answer; I just closed my notebook and stuffed it back in my bag.

“Hmm.” Charlie just studied me intently, as if I were a puzzle he needed to solve. It was as unnerving as it was arousing.

“Need a refill?” I asked, indicating his coffee.

He picked it up and gave it a shake. “I could use a little more. I thought it was your day off.”

I merely raised a brow at him and waited. It took a few seconds for him to catch on but eventually he smiled, the expression crinkling the corners of his eyes over the tops of his cheeks.

“Ah, right. You’re the boss. Forgot.”

I smiled back, stood up and took his cup. “What’d you have?”

“Just the dark roast.”

“Coming right up.”

I scurried behind the counter, trying not to look too eager. I tossed his empty cup and set a fresh one under the brewer and turned it on to fill it up. Riot was beside me mixing an iced coffee.

“Sllllllut,” he murmured, dragging out the consonants.

“Shut up, I’m just getting the man coffee.”

“Sure, dude. Whatever makes you feel better when your panties are around your ankles.”

“Oh, my god.” Yep, I couldn’t think of anything else to say except, “… I hate your face.”

Leaving Riot to be alone with his snickering, I skirted around the counter and headed back to Charlie. I was
not
flirting; I was just being a good business owner. Right? Right. “Need any cream or sugar?” I asked Charlie.

“Full service?” he asked with a chuckle.

I shrugged. “While I’m up.”

“Black’s good, thanks.”

I set the new cup on his table in front of his hands, which were fiddling with his phone, and started to walk away.

“Um, do…” he broke off to clear his throat, “do you want to sit down?”

Feeling a little cheeky for some ungodly reason, I nodded toward my table and my backpack. “Was going to.”

Obviously figuring I was teasing, he grinned, and a dimple formed near the corner of his mouth. If I was honest with myself, I’d have to admit my knees went a little gelatinous at that point.

“I meant would you like to join me,” he clarified.

I pulled out the chair across from him and plopped down into it. Leaning back, I crossed my legs at the ankles and wiggled my Chucks. Then I crossed my arms over my chest, giving him a placid smile, and waited.

He gave an airy chuckle, because he knew I was challenging him. “Tell me about yourself, Titus McGinty. Who are you?”

I frowned. That last bit was an odd question. Most people would go with ‘what do you like to do for fun?’ or ‘do you live around here?’ or maybe even ‘do you have a boyfriend?’ but Detective Charlie wanted to know who I was. I shivered a little, because I didn’t like probing. I had too much to hide.

I tried to play it as nonchalant as I could. Shrugging, I sat up straighter. “I’m just a young entrepreneur living in the big city,” I said with a smirk.

He kept that sweet smile on his face, not rattled by my hedging. “You’re pretty young to be a business owner. Trust fund baby?” The way he looked at me, I could tell he knew that wasn’t the answer.

I snorted out a laugh. “Hardly. I was kicked out by my parents at seventeen. Lived on the streets for a couple of years until I got my shit together enough to get a job and put myself through community college. I saved as much money as I could—I lived with Riot who owned a townhouse, so he was able to set my rent really low. I eventually bought half, so that cut down a lot on my living expenses.