Shadowshaper (13 page)

Sierra headed quickly down Lafayette, pulling out her phone as she walked. If she couldn’t get wisdom from the women in her family, she’d find it elsewhere.

“Hello?” Nydia the Columbia archivist sounded stressed.

“Hey, it’s Sierra. Sierra Santiago, from Brooklyn? Is this a bad time?”

“Oh! Hey, Sierra! Not at all, wassup?” Total transformation.

Sierra let her shoulders drop and exhaled. She stood in front of Carlos’s Corner Store, a few blocks from the Junklot. Yelling at Rosa had felt amazing, like releasing a thousand years of pent-up steam, but her body was still shaking from it. “I mean … everything.” Where to even begin? “I got … something chased me? I’m not sure how to —”

“What?”

Sierra started walking again. Her thoughts wouldn’t congeal into sentences that would make sense. “I don’t know, Nydia. It’s really hard to explain.”

“Are you in danger?”

“Not right now.” She looked around. “I don’t think.”

“That doesn’t sound good, Sierra. Do you have people who can help you?”

“I think I do, yeah.”

An SUV slowed nearby and a window rolled down. “Ay, girl, c’mere! Lemme talk to you a sec!”

Sierra rolled her eyes and kept walking. “I mean, my friend Robbie is helping me. And my brother Juan.”

“Why you frontin’, girl?” another voice yelled. “Come back here.”

Sierra raised her middle finger overhead and turned a corner, making sure to go down a one-way street so the car couldn’t follow her. “Oh damn, I see how it is,” the guy called after her. “Nobody wants your ugly ass anyway.” The engine growled and the SUV screeched off.

“Sierra,” Nydia said. “What’s going on over there?”

Sierra shook her head. “Same BS as always, don’t worry about it. Listen, have you ever heard of the Sorrows?”

A few seconds of silence passed. Sierra looked at her phone. “Hello?”

“I think Wick mentions them in his notes,” Nydia said. “Right?”

“Yeah. He said he got some extra powers from them.”

“There’s not much out there about the Sorrows,” Nydia went on. “It’s all just whispers and myths. Supposedly they haunt some ol’ broken-down church uptown by the river. The story goes that they’re devotees of some shrine up there — some kinda ancient magic. It’s all very creepy, to be honest. And, of course, just stories.”

“Of course.”

Another strange silence passed. “I can look into it more,” Nydia said slowly. “If you want.”

Sierra’s hand was shaking again. “Thanks, Nydia.”

“Keep me updated, Sierra. And … stay safe.”

The Junklot was all locked up, which was almost unheard of. Sierra looked around to make sure no one was following her, unlocked the gate with the key Manny had given her, and slipped inside.

“Manny?” Sierra called.

No one was around, not even Cojones, the way-too-friendly Junklot dog. She made her way through the trash heaps and then caught her breath when she reached the Tower wall. Robbie must’ve been there earlier to put some work in: An entire city had sprung up from the music swirling out of the skeleton woman’s guitar.

Sierra’s dragon was almost done and looking fierce. She got out her painting supplies and went to work. Now that she knew she was a shadowshaper, the painting took on a whole new life for her. She was a part of the image somehow, and she knew that when it was finished, the bond between her and the colorful, towering figure would literally be sealed by spirit. It would become part of this wild family legacy she was only beginning to understand. The whole thing still seemed like some mythology or ghost story, but the more she thought about it, the realer it became. Someone had initiated her long ago; some mysterious shadowshaper had brought her into the fold, even against the wishes of her own grandfather. She smiled against the turmoil of emotions.

She was a shadowshaper. Just like Robbie. His smile flashed in front of her mind’s eye, the sheepish one on his chalk-covered face when he stepped out of the shadows of Prospect Park. He admired her. She could see it all over him. It was the strength of her shadowshaping, yes, but it was something else too. He respected her strength, her mind, her power. She’d never felt that from a boy before.

“Sierra!”

Sierra took off her headphones and looked down at the Junklot. Tee stared up at her, arms akimbo. “You really deep in that thing, huh? We been tryna get your attention for, like, ten minutes.” Izzy stood off to the side, her mouth opening and closing silently around some new rhyme she was working on.

“Yeah, sorry,” Sierra said.

“Come down! We brought you some iceys and we headin’ to one’a them new coffee joints Izzy loves so hard. Bennie and Jerome meeting us there later.”

“Alright, y’all, be right down!”

“Whatchy’all gettin’ into tonight?” Tee asked as they walked toward Bedford Avenue, slurping flavored ice out of plastic sleeves.

“My brother’s band is playing,” Sierra said. “You guys should come through.”

“That’s that thrasher salsa joint, right?” Izzy asked.

“Yeah,” Sierra said. “Culebra. But they playin’ a laid-back unplugged kinda set at this Dominican restaurant that Gordo hangs out at.”

Izzy let out a belly laugh. “Gordo, that huge Spanish dude that taught us music in the fifth grade?”

“Yeah,” Sierra said. “He’s Cuban, though.”

“Oh, I’m definitely goin’ then,” Izzy said. “I usedta love that dude. Any time you ain’t do the homework, you just hadta go, ‘Oh, Señor Gordo, tell us about when you met Beyoncé or whatever.’ ” Everyone was giggling now.

“It’s true,” Sierra laughed.

“And he’d be all, ‘Well, we were playeeng un concierto een the palacio weeth Esteban and Julio, and then we estopped when thee pretty lady came een.’ ”

“He didn’t really let you call him Señor Gordo, did he?” Tee asked.

“I swear to God!” Izzy chuckled.

“Yep,” Sierra said. “He insisted on it.”

“Here go the spot,” Tee said. They’d stopped in front of a storefront that Sierra could have sworn had been empty and disheveled as recently as last week. Now freshly painted wooden beams framed an elegant stained-glass window design. In the display area, potted plants and old books were arranged on a burlap coffee bag.

Sierra scrunched up her face. “You sure about this, guys?”

Tee nudged her. “C’mon, silly. It’ll be … fun!”

Tee sipped a tiny mug of flavored coffee. “One thing I’ll say for these yuppies …” she said with a grin.

“Jesus, babe!” Izzy put a hand on her forehead. “You have to be so loud? We’re surrounded in here. Besides, these ones aren’t yuppies, they’re hipsters.”

Sierra looked up from her iced tea. “What’s the difference, anyway?”

“Far as I can tell,” Tee said, “hipsters are basically yuppies with tighter pants and bigger glasses. Whatever they are, they make a mean mochaccino.”

“The hellsa mochaccino?” Sierra demanded.

“It’s chocolate and espresso, I think. You wanna try it?”

“Oh my God, she’s crossing over!” Izzy squealed.

Sierra shook her head. “I’ll stick to Bustelo. This iced tea is just brown water. Blegh.”

“It’s three dollars and twenty-five cents’ worth of brown water,” Tee reminded her. “So you better enjoy it.”

“You guys are ridiculous,” Izzy said, looking around. “Utterly ridiculous.”

Everyone else in the little wood-paneled coffee shop was studying quietly or whispering into cell phones. Splotchy brown-and-gray paintings covered the walls, and a chalkboard behind the counter listed a whole slew of colorfully named overpriced beverages.

Where lonely women go to dance …
Beyond Wick’s ramblings about “crossroads,” the line was still the best clue she had that would lead to Lucera, and it still meant absolutely nothing to her. She had scribbled the words in her notebook at least twelve different times in various handwriting styles, from bubbly to elegant. It hadn’t helped. Lonely women. They went to dance clubs. Parties. Weddings. “Weddings?” she said out loud. “No, right? No.”

Tee and Izzy rolled their eyes. “No,” they said at the same time. Sierra had explained everything to her friends as best she could, leaving out all the actual supernatural stuff she’d seen. She could tell they weren’t really convinced, but they played along anyway.

Funerals. No one danced at funerals. Or did they? Sierra had a vague memory of Gordo going on in music class about how, in certain parts of Africa, they used to throw big parties and parade through the streets when someone died. The tradition had carried on to the Caribbean — the Haitians would march in wild circles with the coffin so that the spirit wouldn’t be able to find its way back home to bother everybody. And New Orleans … Something about New Orleans …

“Imma write a book,” Tee announced. “It’s gonna be about white people.”

Izzy scowled. “Seriously, Tee: Shut up. Everyone can hear you.”

“I’m being serious,” Tee said. “If this Wick cat do all this research about Sierra’s grandpa and all his Puerto Rican spirits, I don’t see why I can’t write a book about his people. Imma call it
Hipster vs. Yuppie: A Culturalpological Study.
”

“But there’s black and Latin hipsters,” Sierra said. “Look at my brother Juan.”

“And my uncle is most definitely a bluppy,” Izzy put in.

Tee rolled her eyes. “There’ll be an appendix, guys. Sheesh.”

“What the hell is culturalpological anyway?” Izzy demanded.

“It’s like the slick new term for cultural anthropology.”

“You made that up!”

“So what? I’m on the forefront. If I say it’s slick and new, then slick and new it is.”

Sierra burst out laughing. “You two need to stop distracting me!”

The wind chimes jingled against the glass door as it swung open. Big Jerome came in, still wearing his church suit and looking quite dapper. “Whatsup, ladies,” he said, leaning over to plant cheek kisses on Sierra, Izzy, and Tee.

“Lookatchu all cleaned up,” Izzy said. “And same old same old over here: Tee bein’ ridiculous as usual, and Sierra nerding out over there on some riddle.”

“As it should be,” Jerome said. “I’m getting a coffee.”

“Bring your life savings!” Tee called after him. Izzy cringed.

Where lonely women go to dance …
Costume balls. Nightclubs. Churches. No. Sierra’s mind wandered back to the image of her chalk ninja shooting up a tree. She wondered what other spirits watched over her. “Hey, you guys know where your people are from?”

“Of course,” Tee said, looking up from her comic book.

Jerome placed his coffee cup on the table and pulled up an easy chair. “You Haitian like Robbie, right, Tee?”

“Actually …”

Izzy sighed loudly. “Everybody think that just ’cause her name’s Trejean and she black, she gotta be Haitian. There’s other French-speaking islands in the Caribbean, you know.”

“Izzy …” Tee said.

“She’s actually Martinique … Martiniquian. Whatever — she’s from Martinique.”

“But Izzy, you said the same thing when you first met me.”

Jerome snickered.

“Yeah, well, that’s not the point,” Izzy insisted.

“But yes, Sierra, to answer your question,” Tee continued, “I was born in Martinique, and my parents were too. My mom’s parents were from Martinique, and my dad is half French, half Nigerian, from the Igbo people.”

“Sheesh,” Sierra said. “You weren’t kidding about knowing your people.”

“What about you, Sierra?” Jerome asked. “You just Spanish, right?”

“If she’s Spanish, I’m French,” Tee said.

“Yeah, but you know what I mean.”

“You’re Puerto Rican, right, Sierra?” Tee said.

Sierra was beginning to wish she hadn’t brought up the topic. “C’mon, Jerome, you know it ain’t as simple as Spanish.”

“Yeah, but we just
say
Spanish. Like Spanish food. Whatever, that’s just what we say.”

People around them were starting to look up from their books and take their headphones off. Sierra felt her ears get red.

“I doubt her African and Taíno ancestors feel like it’s ‘whatever,’ ” Tee said.

Sierra was stunned. “Tee, since when you start talking ’bout ancestors?”

“You think Puerto Ricans’ the only ones got ghost stories? Please. My uncle Ed’s been tellin’ me ’bout his ghosts since I was tiny. Said they wouldn’t come up to New York with him, though, that it was too cold or something. And now he all depressed and won’t leave his room. Half my family got ghosts.”

“Whadup, y’all!” Bennie burst in. “Who buying me coffee?”

Everyone looked at Jerome. “What?” He scowled at them.

“Never mind, I got it.” Bennie went to the counter and came back stirring milk into a paper cup. “What we talkin’ bout?”

“Tee’s jacked-up uncle,” Jerome said.

“Shut up,” Tee said.

“Sierra was asking us about our ancestors,” Izzy said. “And trying to figure out some dumb riddle. And Tee is acting the fool and making the rest of us cringe as per standard operating procedures.”

“I don’t like any of you anymore,” Tee announced.

Bennie smiled and sipped her coffee. “Sounds about right.”

“Hey,” Jerome said, “did anyone else notice the
Searchlight
didn’t come today?”

“Oh, yeah,” Izzy said. “My mom was like all freaked-out about it, said Manny’d never missed a day since 1973.”

Sierra’s stomach plummeted. No
Searchlight
? And Manny hadn’t been at the Junklot. And he was in her abuelo’s photo of the shadowshapers…. She stood and made her way around the other chairs. “C’mere a sec, Bee.”

“Where you guys going?” Izzy demanded.

“Private conversation,” Bennie said.

“Something about this isn’t right,” Sierra whispered once they were a few steps away. “Manny wasn’t at the Junklot either.”

Bennie furrowed her brow. “And now the paper ain’t come? I don’t like that. You think maybe something happened to him?”

Sierra had been thinking exactly that, but trying not to say it out loud. She rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know. But there’s only one way to find out.”