The Shadow Society (21 page)

“Agree.”

“You’re crazy, Conn. Totally non compos mentis. What if she wants me to blow up your lousy subway? Which, if I may say so, is a pretty good idea as long as nobody’s in it.”

He was humorless. “Obviously I don’t want you to blow anything up. Just agree, and see what you learn.”

“They’d never blow anything up anyway. They don’t like fire.”

“No,” said Conn. “They attack with gas.”

“Then why were there IBI flamethrowers in the practice room?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head.

“Orion probably knows.”

“And he’s part of Meridian’s plan.” Conn’s lip curled into a sneer. “I thought he was supposed to be so very
nice
.”

“He doesn’t even know what the plan is. Come on, Conn. Maybe we’re being apocalyptic. Maybe the Society is planning a parade and Orion’s in the color guard. Meridian’s his mother, you know. It’s hard to tell your mom no. At least, that’s what I hear.”

“You’re defending him.” Conn was incredulous.

“I’m saying we don’t know the whole story. We’re assuming the worst.”

“Because Shades have
done
the worst.”

We fell silent as the jogger and his dog passed us, kicking up sand. Masochistic jogger. It was December. It was
freezing
. The wind cut through my clothes, and I thought that now would be a good time to get out of the cold. Now would be a good time to ghost. If, that is, I felt like giving Conn one of my few, precious secrets.

I stayed solid.

“Have you found out more about my arrest in 1997?” I asked.

“Not yet. I’m sorry.”

“What, your pretty little secretary had nothing to say?”

“My pretty…?” He looked at me quizzically. “What are you talking about?”

“You said you were having dinner with a secretary who might know something.”

“Yes, but she’s not
my
secretary.”

“Conn, you better not be withholding information from me.”

“But I’m not. And she’s not—” A strange expression flitted across Conn’s face. His eyes rested on me, considering, seeming to order the world into different patterns and possibilities. Then something shut down. “I have nothing to tell you because there’s nothing to tell. I’ve hit a dead end with your case. No one knows anything, or they don’t want to talk.” He checked his watch. “I have to meet Fitzgerald. I hope I’ll have something for you next time, Darcy. I really do.”

“Next time.”

“Yes … I thought we could go to the Art Institute.”

My heart flared. I couldn’t speak.

“That’s not what we call it here, of course,” he said. “But it’s a good museum. Great collection. A
different
collection from the one you know.”

I stood, breathless. Tantalized. “When?”

“As soon as we can after your meeting with Meridian. The weekend begins tomorrow, and the museum’s too busy then for you to walk around unnoticed. So Monday morning, 9:00 a.m. Just walk through the front entrance.”

“The Art Institute’s closed on Mondays. In my world.”

“It is here, too. To the
public
. We’d have the museum to ourselves.” His smile was so small it looked almost like a wince. “What do you say?”

I almost snatched at his offer with both greedy hands, but only because my brain was so flooded with eagerness that I had forgotten to think. Then I remembered that I was a Girl with Options. If I wanted to see the Art Institute’s alter ego, I could ghost through the doors during the busiest time of day, no problem. No fee. I could break in under the full moon. I could probably even steal a van Gogh. I didn’t need Conn and his blatant bribe.

And yet … the bribe—the
perfection
of it—touched some tender spot in me, one that hadn’t realized he knew me so well. If I squinted my eyes and looked at his offer, it seemed to be a gift, one as smooth and shining as the silver planet he had once tipped into the palm of my hand.

But my eyes were open now. This
was
a bribe, and if he knew me well that was all the more reason to be afraid. Suspicion knotted in my chest.

“Darcy?” Conn’s smile, small as it was, had vanished.

How badly did I need to find out about my past? I’d been okay without it before. And forget seeing a bunch of paintings. I could see Lily, Raphael, and Jims tonight. All I had to do was find the Water Tower.

Sure, humans here had problems, and I’d protect them if I could. But how much could I really do? How much were Conn’s problems my problems?

“I don’t know,” I told him.

Conn seemed to expect this. He nodded. He looked back out at the lake again, pulled up his coat collar to block the wind, and said, “I’ll be there.” Then he turned and began to walk up the beach, shoulders hunched against the cold.

What I did next was unethical.

It was also inevitable.

31

I followed him.

After he’d dwindled to a faraway dot on the long stretch of sand and I was reasonably sure that if he hadn’t looked back yet, he wouldn’t look back at all, I stashed my bike behind a clump of pine trees and ghosted.

I flew after him.

He kept to the edge of the surf for some time, as if he liked this beach, enjoyed it despite the bad weather—or maybe because of it. Then he abruptly turned away from the lake. Conn quickened his pace, taking a path through a park. He stepped out onto a busy street and walked toward a subway plate. I rushed forward, close to his elbow, and down we went.

The roller-coaster ride was okay this time. Orion had promised that physical problems like green-sick nausea wouldn’t bother me if I didn’t have a body, and thank God he was right.

Conn leaned against the subway car wall, unfastened the top button of his coat, and slipped a notebook out of an inside pocket. It was the same one he’d had in the library, the one with drawings of gears. He clicked a pencil and began to sketch amazingly even lines for someone rattling along on the subway ride from hell. He held the book firmly open, resting it on his left forearm, his fingers clasping the top of the pages. He was drawing a machine. It was nothing like my sketches, with free lines dashed across the page. Conn’s pencil was careful. Serious. And what was unfolding, I realized, was a design for something that looked like a motorcycle, but way scarier.

Then his chin tilted up suddenly, and my pulse jumped. Could he see my shadow? I oozed toward a tall woman, hovering almost inside her body, pooling my shadow into hers.

But Conn’s eyes were on the subway plate in the center of the car. His stop must be coming up. My breath (if I’d had any) hitched with relief, and when he stepped forward I slipped behind him onto the plate. My shadow mingled with his.

It was a short walk from the subway to the IBI, and when Conn set his foot on the first of those twenty-seven steps, I quailed. Of course, he
had
said he was going to meet Fitzgerald. That’s why I was stalking him. But when I actually saw the building, fear bloomed inside me, and I remembered all of the very good reasons I shouldn’t go inside—all of them, that is, except the best reason, the one that I
couldn’t
remember, the one that had brought me here when I was almost five.

But Conn mounted the steps, and without thinking I followed as if an invisible string tied me to him. We went inside.

Agents called cheerfully to Conn, who chatted with them about some sport named wicket that was apparently all the rage here. He took off his long coat and slung it over an arm, revealing his IBI jacket. Conn’s stance was easy, sure. He was in his element. He belonged here.

Which, I reminded myself, was all the more reason to dislike him.

Conn wove through a section of the IBI I hadn’t seen last time. A warren of offices. Finally, he stepped into a waiting room and hung his coat neatly on a hook.

A middle-aged woman in a brown wool dress looked up from her desk. “Conn.” She smiled.

“Hello, Helen.” He stepped toward her. “Thanks again for dinner the other night.”

Oh.

This
was the secretary he’d talked about. This kind-eyed woman with an actual lace handkerchief peeking out of the purse that sat open on her desk.

“Sweetie.” Helen flapped one hand. “You should come over more often. The kids love you.”

Conn smiled. “They love wrestling me to the ground.”

“It’s good for you. You work too hard and spend too much time alone.”

“Speaking of work…” Conn’s eyes flicked meaningfully toward the closed door.

“The Director’s in. I’ll let her know you’re here.” Helen stood from her desk and was turning toward the door when she paused and leaned close to Conn. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you,” she murmured. “You know, with your question about that girl.”

Conn shrugged. “It’s all right.”

“No,” she said with sudden sternness. “It’s not. None of it’s right, Conn. You should leave 1997 alone. It’ll only bring grief.”

“Helen,” he said. “Please.”

But she walked toward Fitzgerald’s office, knocked, and when she heard a muffled “yes,” cracked open the door to say, “Agent McCrea to see you.”

When Conn walked past her, Helen raised her hand to rest it briefly on his tall shoulder. “You’re a good boy,” she said, and returned to her desk.

“Sit,” Fitzgerald told Conn as he stepped inside her office. The leather chair sighed under his weight but not under mine as I glided over it to blend my shadow into the leaves of a potted ficus tree.

Fitzgerald settled onto the couch across from him, her posture straight, almost stiff. Her gray pants had sharp creases ironed into them. “So?” she said. “How’s the Jones Project?”

Conn rubbed his brow. “Frustrating.”

“You asked for this, McCrea. Begged for it, I might add.”

“I know.”

“Need I remind you of how you stormed into my office, interrupting a sensitive meeting with the mayor, demanding that I hurry to witness your debrief with Ivers?”

Conn was silent.

“You’re lucky I didn’t put you on probation,” Fitzgerald said. “Had you been any other agent, I certainly would have. But you’re one of our finest. And, given your history, if
you
were willing to give a Shade the benefit of the doubt, I suppose I had to listen to your rather extraordinary plan. I gave you what you wanted. So don’t whine. Give me results.”

Conn told her about my upcoming meeting with Meridian, but I didn’t pay attention. I could only think of Conn’s defiance to Ivers, who had been ready to torture me. I remembered Conn’s urgent voice as he had rushed me away from him, down the IBI halls to solitary confinement. I heard Conn’s promise that he would be back. And I suddenly understood that even though he’d thrown me headlong into trouble, he’d saved me from it, too.

Fitzgerald said, “We need to know Meridian’s plan. Jones needs to make that meeting.”

“Yes … but I’m not sure she will.”

“Please tell me that I misheard you.”

“She knows that as soon as she can ghost at will, there’s nothing to stop her from using any portal she likes.”

Fitzgerald leaned back, exhaling. “Well,” she said. “I suppose we should be grateful she didn’t discover this sooner. It was only a matter of time. But”—she raised one finger—“Jones
does not
know how to control her shadow.”

“No.”

“Thank God for small favors. That means we still have some leverage. Work it, McCrea. Milk her for all she’s worth while we can.”

Conn looked at her.

Fitzgerald widened her eyes in disbelief. “Unless, of course, you’d like to see Ravenswood happen again.”

“No.”

“Good. When’s your next meeting?”

“Monday. If she comes.”

“She’d better. When she does, make her a promise. Tell her that we’re pleased with her reports, and that we’ll send her home soon—as soon as we know Meridian’s plan.”

“And if she gives us partial information?”

“I do not need to tell you how to string someone along. Just do it.” Fitzgerald stood. “That will be all.”

Conn didn’t reply, but there was a rebellious glint in his gaze. Then he stood and headed for the door. For a moment, I couldn’t move. I felt rooted in place, like I had truly become part of the tree and would grow with it, like my perception of Conn was growing, changing, putting out tender new twigs, green vines, baby leaves tightly curled.

The sound of the doorknob as it turned in his hand jolted me out of my trance. I floated toward him.

“Don’t screw this up, McCrea,” Fitzgerald called. “Ivers would be glad to have your hide, and if you fail me, I’ll be glad to let him.”

Conn glanced over his shoulder and we were suddenly face-to-face. I pulled back, unnerved, but his eyes stared right through me, focusing on Fitzgerald.

“I’d expect nothing less,” he told her, and walked out of the office, grabbing his coat and waving at Helen as he passed her desk.

Then it was back through the carpeted offices, down a narrow hall that gave way to iron and gray marble. Conn opened a wooden door. I was already following him into this new room when he shifted, and I saw the sign his body had blocked.

He stepped forward. The door swung shut behind him.

MEN’S LOCKER ROOM
, the sign said.

I took a deep breath. Then I slipped through the door.

32

I swooped after Conn, because if I didn’t move fast my hesitation would get the better of me and I’d end up pacing outside the locker room, missing the kind of revelations I’d just heard.

Conn halted in front of a locker, and I flew into him before I could stop myself. His feet stood right below me, as if they were my feet. His hand reached out as if it were my hand and pressed a thumb to a pad exactly where a spin lock should go. It occurred to me that if I lost control of my shadow now, my body would come alive inside Conn’s.

I jerked back.

Lockers whined, banged open, banged shut. Men were seated along the wooden bench, pulling off the polished boots of the IBI uniform. Others were walking across the room with towels draped around their hips, hair wet, bare feet slap-slapping on the floor. I heard the hiss and whistle of showers not too far away.