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CHAPTER THREE
Enter Night

"Nice shades, Bennett." A sharp push sent Jamie crashing into his locker.

One of Mike's guys, obviously—probably from the soccer team, but it was hard to keep track. He still half expected to find himself locked inside the tiny metal prison, but things don't work the way they do on TV. Sure, he'd probably fit in an empty locker, but television didn't factor in the disorganized and ever growing mountain of shit. Textbooks, calculator, notebooks, lunchbox, stray loose-leaf, and old homework assignments came crashing down around Jamie's head as the impact shook the entire row. A few students swore and gave the jock dirty looks, but they picked up their things without further comment. Nobody wanted to be on Mike's shit-list. "What are you, a fucking vampire?"

"Fuck off, McKellar!" Jamie winced as the glasses were snatched off his face. He squeezed his eyes shut and grabbed for them.

The taller boy laughed, holding the plastic frames just out of reach. Then the smile died, and Jamie found his back crushed up against the neighboring locker, his feet hovering two inches off the ground. "Seriously, are you fucking stupid? Go home, Bennett. Now. I'm not even joking—if he catches you, he's going to kill you, and I don't want that on my—"

"Put him down, Calvin." The familiar voice cut through the bully's warning, and his face changed to a sneer. Pippa was standing in the center of the hallway, her expression far from the easy smile Jamie remembered. Her eyes were cold, her voice sharp with anger. "And give his glasses back or I will report you. You're on your last strike, McKellar. Do you really want to be expelled over a pair of sunglasses?"

McKellar swore and dropped Jamie, then the glasses, to the ground. "I'm serious. Go home."

Jamie heard retreating footsteps as he fumbled for the frames. Finally sliding them back into place, he leaned back against the lockers, regulating his breathing and steeling himself against crashing waves of pain. The curtains were falling. Pippa was talking, and he really ought to listen, but the darkness was so close and he needed—needed… Jamie pulled out a plastic container and popped two pills, swallowing them dry. If he passed out, the school would send him home. He would lose. Pippa would worry. Sucking in deep calming breaths, Jamie felt cool fingers on his cheek, then his forehead.

"Jamie, you look awful." Pippa brushed his bangs back and frowned. "Are you sure it's okay for you to be in school…?'

"I'm fine." He pushed her hand away, and there it was, exactly what he didn't want to see: delicate brows raised over wide, sympathetic eyes, the smallest crease drawn between them. Pity. Jamie slumped down to clean up his mess, his heart sinking right through the floor. He didn't want pity. Was that really too much to ask? "Stop making yourself a target."

"I'm making myself a target!?" She dropped down next to him and began pulling papers and books into a neat pile. "Why are you even here? McKellar's right, Shepherd is going to kill you!"

"At least he's not watching my house at night."

"Excuse me!?" Pippa slammed his English textbook onto the pile. "So, what, you came back here to protect me!? Are you crazy?"

"I'm not just going to sit at home when you're in danger!"

"Jamie, I appreciate the sentiment, I really do." She paused to organize her thoughts, dull the knives that flew with her words. "But I'm okay. I have friends to watch my back, and you…you're always alone, and—"

"I get it." Jamie took the pile and crammed it back in his locker. "I'm a loser with no friends."

"That's not what I—"

"Go back to your friends, Pippa." He said with unnecessary venom. "I can deal with this."

"Jamie!" The locker door slammed and he turned away from her, a vein throbbing somewhere behind his eyes. He needed to get away. Not to science. Fuck science. Fuck everything. He had a pass to see the nurse, but again, she would probably make him go home. His feet moved on autopilot, carrying him to the darkest place he could think of: the auditorium.

The doors were locked, as always, but the chain usually had just enough slack to squeeze through. Faint strands of LEDs glowed along the aisles, presumably a safety precaution, but the rest of the auditorium was dark. Jamie crept along the carpeted walkway toward the stage and slipped under the velvet curtains. The expanse of wood flooring was littered with music stands, chairs, and seasonal gym equipment. There wasn't much danger of running into anyone; the gap was too small for most of the school delinquents and the administrators rarely checked for the same reason. It was the perfect place to hide. Jamie sprawled out on a stack of mats and let his consciousness fade.

Sleep erased the pain and soothed his bruising shoulders. That was how it worked. He was sure. It had been two days since the hospital. The first morning, he'd found a pink scar in place of the scab, the second, a white line. Sleep was the solution to an equation Jamie didn't understand. It was clear, concise, and useless as the answers in the back of his math book. Out of context, an answer wasn't an answer, it was just another question. Jamie remembered hands in his hair, on his skin, and sometimes he caught a flash of light, a whisper in the darkness, calling him deeper.

Come home, little prince…you belong to the dark.

Home…Where was home? The darkness melted around him, softening into viscous tar. It pulled him under, covering his skin and filling his lungs until he was drowning in an ocean of pitch. No, not drowning, he was breathing. Stygian liquid poured into his chest, staining his organs and creeping into his blood. He tasted storm clouds, fresh rain, and the breath of a dying star. It was everything and nothing and it was all there, buzzing in his veins as he sank ever lower, drifting in the endless night.

Jamie woke to the distant echo of a bell. He was still in on the auditorium stage, sprawled out on the mats with his eyes staring up at the mesh of wires and lighting fixtures. The emergency exit cast a haze over the stage, illuminating the clutter with an alien glow. He sat up. The light seemed brighter. Jamie hadn't even noticed the rack of costumes before, and now he could count every stitch on Cinderella's gown.

The tips of his fingers were still buzzing, prickling with pins and needles. How long had he been asleep? Jamie checked his watch. 12:30. Lunch, good. He could handle lunch.

The rest of the day passed without incident. Pippa sat with him in the cafeteria and, inevitably, her friends followed. He managed a few comments about the math homework, and asked about a test he'd missed, but the rest of their conversation seemed to revolve around inside jokes, English literature, and Pippa's new puppy, so he just let the words slide over him, eating his chicken patty in silence.

After lunch, he took more pills and headed back to his locker to grab his books for fifth period. Then, staring down at the combination lock, he realized they were in his backpack—the backpack that had never been found. Jamie sighed. He didn't have a spare notebook, but he could probably dig out a few sheets of loose-leaf.

The locker door swung open and several stray papers slid out, including an unfamiliar envelope. Jamie's heart gave a sluggish thump. He reached down, stuffing the papers away and lifting the strange package. It definitely hadn't been there earlier, and it looked small enough to squeeze through the locker vent. It wasn't heavy. It wasn't addressed. It was just an envelope, an envelope containing a single folded piece of paper, which, when opened, revealed typed words and several printed photographs.

Jamie's mind went numb, rage humming through his nerves. The pictures showed his house, his yard, his mother in her car, Sophie getting on the morning bus—each time stamped and marked with carefully positioned cross-hairs. The letter was short and simple.

5PM RIVERSIDE PARK
COME ALONE

He didn't go to his afternoon classes and, for the first time in his life, he actually left school grounds. He didn't know what to do. Every time he ran down the list of options, it got shorter and shorter. Go to the police—yeah right. Tell the school administrators—they'd just call the police. Tell his mother—maybe, but then what? She'd probably believe him, but that would just buy them time. He couldn't even prove Mike sent the threat. They only had one real option: skip town.

Jamie walked down Main Street, past the arcade and the cluster of antique shops. Leave Burgess? The thought sent tendrils of fear twisting through his stomach. He couldn't leave. Watching his friends move on was bad enough, but this…this would pull his whole life up by the roots, cut him off from even the ghosts of his past. Just walking on this street made him remember sailing through the air with Jack—

His thoughts stalled, twisting sharply in his chest. Jack...There it was. Leaving Burgess meant leaving Jack. It meant giving up, starting over. Jamie knew his time with the Guardian was over, but he was still hoping for a miracle. Now, Mike was taking even that.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Jamie imagined standing in a strange school in a strange town, surrounded by strange people telling inside jokes and swapping stories about people he'd never met. No Jack. No Pippa. Not even Monty. Had Cupcake felt this way before moving to California? Jamie stuffed his hands in the pockets of his mother's old ski jacket and resumed cycling through his options.

In the end, he bummed a quarter from the Laundromat and called his mom's cell. She was at work, of course, so he left a message. It was cryptic and vague, but he squeezed in an "I love you" and hoped for the best. She might not even hear it until her shift was over, and by then he might be dead. It was stupid and insane, but there wasn't any other option. He wouldn't leave. He wouldn't. Even if meant begging for his life.

Jamie sat on the park slide, flipping through a discarded magazine. The bells of 's Chapel rang, and he checked his watch again. Finally. It was only five, but the park grounds were already cloaked in shadow. He felt better with the coming dark. It was nice, watching the sun fall, feeling the pressure lift from his eyes. Pockets of orange light reflected on the remaining snow and, for some reason, he thought of fire. It was a strange image, some fragment of a dream disguised as memory. Jamie removed his glasses and tucked them in his pocket, leaning on the handrail as he swung his legs off the side.

A few minutes passed and then he saw them: three—no, four boys at the south entrance. He knew them—McKellar, Paul White from the wrestling team, and Bernie Lewis, a dropout who sold weed out by the arcade. Jocks, delinquents, it didn't really matter. In a way, Mike collected people: the strong, the wealthy, the well connected. They were his knights, his pawns, pieces in a high stakes game against society. Jamie watched them pass the row of hedges and convene in front of the swings, their voices a low murmur in the late autumn air. He wondered if Mike's father was proud of him, if he played a different version of the same game, or maybe he was just trying to shove his dirt under the carpet.

McKellar saw him first. His stocky shoulders tensed, and he motioned to the others. They turned as one, eyes fixed on their target.

Shepherd actually looked surprised, and Jamie wondered if they had expected him to show at all. But then, Jamie was probably the smallest boy in his year, so he kind of radiated weak and defenseless. Any sane person would have skipped town. He should have skipped town, but it was too late now.

Dropping the magazine, he pulled himself up and sighed. There were only so many ways this could go, and most of them involved fatal injuries. He knew that. He'd been dreading it for hours, but now, with his attackers huddling in the flickering glare of the streetlamps, he felt almost calm. Electricity buzzed in the air around him, lifting pressure from his limbs. Jamie felt practically weightless. If he had to die, he was going to do it right. Locking eyes with the boys, he stepped onto the handrail and let himself drop, landing below with surprising ease.

McKellar stared. "What the fuck happened to your eyes, Bennett?"

"Who knows." Jamie shrugged and took a step forward, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Maybe it has something to do with that wall I ran into."

McKellar frowned, brows furrowed in confusion. "That's not what I—" He choked, swallowing his words at a disparaging look from Shepherd, and began fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket, eyes downcast. It was an interesting power play. Jamie noted the slight bend to McKellar's back, the nervous way he scuffed his toe through the wood-chips. He was afraid. Deathly afraid, and it showed. Jamie felt his own heart skip a pace, reacting almost instinctively.

"You're a fucking sack of piss, Bennett." Mike set his feet wide on the grass and squared his shoulders. "I don't know what you said to Pippa, but you ruined fucking everything and I'm done with your shit." Silver flashed in his hand, and the other boys stiffened, eyes on the blade. "Hold him."

The flunkies hesitated, then closed around Jamie. Jamie swore under his breath. There was no use running, no use fighting. Every one of them was twice his size, and if he escaped...He glanced at the drug dealer, a thrill of fear gripping his heart. If Bernie was here, that meant his buddies were involved—people with no work or school, people with guns and limited inhibitions about shooting little girls. Jamie clenched his teeth as strong hands held his arms behind his back. Mike stepped forward and pressed the knife's tip to the smaller boy's throat.

Something writhed in Jamie's chest, twisting, and thrashing as blind panic stalled his heart. He wanted to run. He wanted to beg. Anything—anything to make this go away. He'd drop out of school, convince his mother to give up on the lawsuit. Fuck, he'd never talk to Pippa again. Anything. Jamie swallowed a scream and looked up at Mike, reading murder in his eyes. The knife was pressing closer. Something hot rolled down his neck and he knew he was bleeding. Mike's mouth curled in a manic leer and Jamie knew, knew he was dead. He opened his mouth, a plea for mercy on his lips, but the words changed mid-route and came out smooth and calm. "What are you going to do, Mike, slit my throat?"

Mike faltered for a moment as their eyes locked. Jamie stared up at him, his gaze cold and hard. Somewhere, his mind was screaming, but it was faint, muted. The calm stretched inside him, sopping up the fear and swelling along his muscles, edging down his nerves and filling him head to toe, soothing the frightened child with a monster's lullaby. Jamie's eyes flashed gold. The streetlamps flickered and popped, their light fading in a rain of glass.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" McKellar jumped back, making the sign of the cross over his heart. Jamie turned his head, forgetting the knife and the danger. He smiled, reaching up to grab Mike with his free hand. The blade clipped him as it moved and his blood ran ink black. Mike said something, a threat, an insult, but even there he could sense it rising, hiding under the bravado. Fear—thick and rich, buzzing in the air, and singing through his blood.

Yes.

He squeezed down, felt bone crack. The knife dropped. Mike yelled in pain. McKellar was running, streaking down the road like the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. Paul and Bernie hesitated, their eyes fixed on Mike, Paul still holding Jamie's left arm.

"Kill him! Fucking KILL HIM!" Shepherd shouted and kicked the knife toward them. Bernie scooped it up and took aim at Jamie's back. The smaller boy twisted, turning with surprising force. Paul tried to restrain him and stumbled as Bernie struck. Everything stopped. Paul blinked several times, staring down at the knife in his side.

For a moment it simply wasn't real. It was a joke, a trick knife, but then the blood seeped through the boy's down jacket and the little voice in Jamie's head screamed in horror. Bernie stepped back, eyes wide, the color draining from his face.

"Shit—Oh, shit, man! I didn't—"

A fist hit Jamie's face and he lost his grip on Shepherd's arm.

"This is your fault, Bennett." Mike said, and there was something wild, almost manic in his eyes. "Give me the knife, Paul."

Bernie's mouth dropped and, for a moment, all the spikes and sharp edges fell away. He was just a kid, Jamie realized, no more than seventeen or eighteen. "Mike, come on, man…We gotta get this dude to a hospital."

"Go." Jamie rubbed his jaw and turned to face the frightened dealer. "Get him out of here."

"Give me the knife!" Mike repeated in a growl. "I'm not leaving until this little shit-stain is dead."

Bernie's eyes shifted between them, taking in Jamie's cold stare, mike's angry snarl, and Paul's ashen face. Slowly, cautiously, he edged over to Paul and pulled the knife from the wound. The injured boy sagged against Bernie's shoulder, his free hand pressed against his wound, which was bleeding profusely. The knife hit the ground as the dealer put his arm around his friend's waist. He took a step back, eyes still flicking nervously between them. "Mike. I can't. This—It's too much, man…I'm out."

Bernie backed away and Jamie stepped forward, blocking the retreating pair from view. As he moved, the shadows seemed to follow, creeping forward like trees stretching toward the sun. Mike's eyes flicked to the knife. It was lying point down in a clump of snow next to the slide. Jamie was closer. He backed up, watching the nervous light in Mike's eyes as he nudged the handle with his boot, and kicked it toward the other boy's feet. "Go ahead, Mike. Kill me."

Mike stared at his trainers, a sharp crease etched between his brows. A muscle twitched along his jaw as he struggled to adjust the game plan, trying to predict Jamie's next move. There had to be a Catch-22. Why give him the knife? Unless the weaker boy was legitimately insane, it made no sense. Maybe he thought he had a better weapon—a gun? His eyes narrowed, examining the boy's striped ski-jacket for signs of extra weight or volume.

Jamie smiled, watching the thoughts flickering across his opponent's face. The shadows grew thicker, wider, collecting at his feet in a near-solid mass. There were creatures in those shadows, monsters writhing against the surface, trying to claw their way out. Black clouds covered the sky, blotting out the moon and stars until there was nothing but the gold of Jamie's eyes.

"What are you waiting for?" Jamie stepped forward, walking towards the other boy with his hands out in a gesture of invitation. "I'm right here."

"Psycho-ass mother fucker." Mike growled, scooping up the knife and holding it out in his uninjured arm. Then, his eyes caught the mass of shadows. He froze, eyes wide with dawning terror. "What the fuck is that—What the fuck is that!?" He scrambled back, retreating as Jamie continued forward at a steady pace. "Stay the fuck away from me! I mean it!" His voice cracked and he jumped as something clinked against his back.

Just the swings. He breathed, a split second of relief flashing through his eyes.

In that second, the devil-eyed boy moved, drawing within arm's reach as though by magic, still wearing that calm, terrifying smile. Mike choked on a cry and swung wildly, cutting a sharp line across the boy's chest. Black blood sprayed from the wound, spattering Mike's face and clothes as the line softened, blossoming outward in a sick imitation of an inkblot card. Jamie reached up, undeterred, grabbing the taller boy and dragging him down to eye level. Mike tried another swing. He blocked it, forcing the knife down with impossible strength. Sable drops fell from Jamie's cut, hissing as they cut holes in the dark. Mike stood, transfixed by his former victim's placid expression. Jamie pried the knife, from his fingers, breathing in the other boy's fear like an airborne narcotic.

"Good." The knife fell, passing right through the ground and spinning into the shadows. "Now, let's play a little game."

Mike Shepherd stared down at the void, watching his blade vanish. Eyes, hundreds and thousands of glowing orbs, watching him like a predator in the dead of night. His face was ashen, his mouth open in a partial scream. Piss ran down the leg of his baggy pants in a dark stain. Fear. So much fear.

Jamie paused in exaggerated deliberation. "Say…hide-and-seek. If I don't find you by morning, I'll convince my mother to drop her lawsuit and leave town forever. If find you, I'll make sure you never bother Pippa or my family again. You have till one-hundred."

"Ready…" He pushed Mike back, laughing as he fell into the swing. "Set…" Mike scrambled to his feet, sprinting toward the street in blind panic. "Go."

Shadows bursting from the ground, erupting in a mass of spidery wraiths and spectral horses. They whirled about the smiling figure and streaked through the sky, following the smell of fear.

The game was rigged. There was no escape. Jamie's lips parted and he began the long count to one-hundred.

The frightened boy ran, racing toward the safety of the street lamps. Fuck Bennett. Fuck those scared-ass bitches for leaving him behind. Fuck-Fuck-Fuck! He kept up a steady line of cursing as he hung a right down Main, passing lighted displays and dodging piles of lingering snow. Would he be safe inside? Around people? He looked down at his watch and swore yet again. It was pushing nine. Every god-damn shop in town closed at nine.

He could try for home. After all, he had a pretty good head start, but something told him he wouldn't make it. He remembered the way Bennett seemed to jump ten paces in the blink of an eye. Hell to the fucking no. How long did he have left?

A jolt of panic punched the air from his chest. He wasn't counting. He wasn't fucking counting. Yellow eyes flashed in the back of his mind and tears stung the corners of his eyes. Anywhere! Anywhere safe! Bright and…he stopped, paused, then redirected his trajectory. Her house was close. If she wouldn't let him in, he'd break a window. Maybe her parents would phone the cops, but Bennett couldn't find him in juvenile detention, right?

Mike picked up speed, glad he'd kept at his training. He was four blocks away. Two blocks. Just around the corner—there. He vaulted the picket fence and sprinted toward the back door.

Pippa, for the love of God—Please! Please! Please! Please!

A nightmare found him, landing on Pippa's back stoop and cutting him off, just in time. Jamie frowned, twisting his hands in the wispy mane of his mount as he watched Shepherd turn and run back toward the fence. He didn't want the girl involved. That would be…complicated. The smaller voice might be behaving now, but that would change if she was in danger. Compromises. It was all about compromises. He could have taken all four boys. Well, maybe not McKellar—flighty bastard. But he let the others go, kept his other half happy. Eventually, they'd merge, forming a single consciousness, but that would take time and careful negotiation. Right now, he needed control.

The shadows cornered Shepherd behind the old malt shop, a relic of the 1950's that had been boarded up for as long as he could remember. It was a good choice, dark, and relatively secluded. The neighboring dry cleaners was closed for the night, as were the pizzeria and the pawn shop. He vaguely remembered an old man living over the pizzeria, but the risk was minimal. Jamie brought his nightmare down at the mouth of the alley and slid off its back. Giving the equine shadow a light pat, he walked into the dark space, following the sound of a rattling door. His trainers scuffed the pavement. The rattling stopped. A low sob rent the air, and Jamie smiled.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are." He trilled. Spindle-wraiths materialized from the shadows, swimming around Jamie's shoulders like a school of monstrous fish. He passed a rusted dumpster and saw the boy trembling against the far side, pressed into the corner. It was sad, really, or at least, the other voice thought so. He knocked twice on the dumpster, enjoying the way his prey jumped at the sound. "Game's up, Mike."

No—Stop it! Stop! STOP!

He wasn't going to stop. This piece of shit tried to kill both of them—tried to kill their family.

It's not right! I'm not like this! I don't…I'm not…

He was like this. At least, he was now. There was no going back and no opting out.

"Fuck! Oh fuck—get away from me! Get the fuck away!" Mike began screaming in a stream of unintelligible profanity. He tried to back away farther, but there was nowhere to go. The boy's eyes bulged with terror, his expensive clothing stained with sweat, blood, and god knows what else.

Please…Please don't…

He hushed the voice, wrapping it in dark blankets and putting it to bed. Jamie crouched down at the frightened boy's feet, resting an elbow on his knee and propping his chin on his palm. "You lost, Mike. Game Over."

"Please…I won't—I didn't mean it about your family." Mike was babbling through the panic, peppering his words with profanities. "I—I'll leave you alone. I'll leave Pippa alone."

"Shhh—I know you will." Jamie reached out and pressed cold fingers to Mike's clammy cheek. "Now, hold still."

The boy cringed, and shivered. All color left his eyes, blue bleeding to grey as fear consumed him, pulling his mind into catatonic silence and dying his soul a dark, midnight black. His face went slack, his mouth opened, and a wispy creature pushed itself out, bracing against the boy's cheeks with frail, spindly arms.

It fell, and floating nervously near the pavement, yellow eyes blinking as it gave a feeble, high-pitched moan. Jamie lifted it, holding the creature gingerly in his palms—a newborn fearling, and the last shadow of Mike Shepherd.