Tyler slammed into the door. It jostled Cole but stayed closed. His brother pounded, as if his mind was too far gone to even try the handle.
Now Cole had to make a choice. Wish for a merciful death? Or wish for his brother back, uninfected and healthy, and pray, just pray that it worked out this time, because if it didn’t, he was out of wishes.
Was there a choice? Really? Was there? No. Not for him.
“I’m sorry,” Cole whispered. “I know what you’d want me to do, and I know what I have to do, and if I make the wrong choice, I’m sorry.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and very carefully, he made his wish. The words had barely left his lips before the door went still. Cole stood there, listening and hoping and praying. Then he took a deep breath, reached for the handle…and opened the door.
Shadow Sight
Empty road stretching into darkness. Water shimmering in wagon-wheel ruts. One cry from a night creature, cut short as a shadow snatches it up. On a road like this, it’s a sure bet something will swoop in to devour you. Which is why I’m walking right down the middle.
Come get me.
Please, come get me.
I’m watching the water-filled wagon ruts. No ripples. No one is here. Not yet. The full moon reflects in those strips of water, and as I watch, a second moon appears from behind the first.
I squint up into the night sky. The second moon is but a pale reflection of the first, yet it grows stronger as it moves into the forefront, leaching light from its double. I wait until it is about to intersect with the first, and then I tear my gaze away. They say that if you witness the intersection, the image will burn onto your eyes and you’ll forever see those two moons, even in full daylight.
Is that true? I don’t know, and I don’t care. Only a fool tempts fate, and we Rileys are not fools. If Ihadto look at the double-moon, I’d take that chance, but if there’s no reason to do it, then it’s like sticking your hand in a fire just to see if it’ll burn.
Most folks don’t need to worry about gazing on a double-moon because most folks only ever notice the one. Rileys are different. We see the shadows. We see that second moon, emerging as a pale ghost of a thing and then gaining strength until it overtakes the moon itself.
People have those shadows, too. A second self that hides behind us, wispy and insubstantial. Normal folks sometimes catch a glimpse of it, that moment when they think a person isn’t quite what they seem to be. But then the shadow disappears, and they tell themselves they were imagining things. They weren’t.
Once, a friend took me to a church revival. I wasn’t much interested in the sermonizing, but I was tempted by the promise of sugar jumbles. Sadly, to get the cookies, I had to sit through the sermonizing. I remember the preacher going on about people’s secret selves. Their dark and sinful innermost selves. That’s when I realized that even normal folksknowabout the shadows. They just can’t see them.
I can’t reckon what that must be like, meeting a person and knowing they could be the sort who’d knife you in the back or the sort who’d give you the shirt off their back, and not seeing their truth until it’s too late. Until their knife is sticking between your ribs. Or until you’ve planted your knife betweentheirribs, mistrust and suspicion guiding your hand.
The problem with the shadow sight is that it’s only really useful if you’re willing to let your own shadow grow, just a little. We Riley women do good with our gift, but to do good, we also do bad.
Rileys are hired killers. My auntie May says “vigilantes,” but that’s only because she likes fancy words. Nothing fancy about killing.
If you’ve lived in this part of the world long, you’ll hear whispers about us. A family who’ll kill someone who needs killing. Just don’t try saying that person did something theynever did. This family will know the truth, and if you lied, they’ll keep your money and warn the person you wanted dead.
To hire a Riley, you need to find one of our confederates. You’ll never actually meet us. Never even hear our name. That’s what keeps us safe. Folks expect they’re hiring men. Brothers and fathers and sons of some magical family. The Rileys are just a house full of women, running a ranch after their menfolk died on the road west. They do all right by themselves—got a nice house, and they’re always buying up land and paying good wages to their cowboys—but that’s because their menfolk left them a ton of money.
We Rileys hide in plain sight, and that’s what I’m doing tonight. Just a girl, not yet twenty, walking down a dark road, looking nervous as she tries to hide the jangling of her market coins.
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
I squint up at the moon as its shadow self disappears. It’s a cool night. Crisp, Auntie May would say, and I’ll admitthat’sa good word. Like biting into an apple, sharp and sweet and cool. When I smell apples on the breeze, I’m not sure it’s real or my imagination. It’s the right time of year, and I’ve been waiting for our orchard to ripen so I can start baking my apple pies. My apple pies are famous around these parts, and I make nearly as much in a season as I do with a killing.
Brush crackles to my left. I tense, fingers itching to grab my knife. I have to remind myself this is what I want. To be spotted. To look innocent and defenseless.
I push aside those nasty fears of someone stalking me from the bushes. Heaven forbid! Back to thoughts of apple pie, which makes me think about the harvest dance, which makes me think about Johnny. He’s going to ask to woo me again, and I’m not sure what I’ll say this year. Riley women can marry, if they want, but that means leaving the family to be a regular person, comingaround for Sunday dinner with the family. Is that what I want? I don’t quite know yet. I reckon I have a year or two before I need to decide.
Another crackle, this one to my right, which does give me pause. I force myself to keep walking. Gran trusted me with this job, a very important one, and if I pull it off, I’ll be a grown woman, ready to take on grown-woman jobs at grown-woman pay. While Johnny seems a fine boy—with hardly any shadow at all—I’d like to explore my options, as Auntie June would say.
The woods have gone silent. I cast out the fingers of my magic, tickling over the road. Shadows to both my left and right. Two. Or is that a third? My fingers itch again for the knife.
Patience.
It was yesterday morning when the job came in. One of our most trusted compatriots, Paula James, rode all night to bring us the news. Two families of settlers murdered on the road west. Their guide claimed they’d been set on by a raiding party while he’d been off scouting the road ahead. The family’s relatives over in Concord were sure the guide murdered them in their sleep and stole their money and valuables. Those relatives wanted to hire us to put things right.
Auntie May and Auntie June had ridden with me most of the way. Now they’re back in town, waiting. This is my job. My test. I’m no longer a child. I can do this.
