Enshadowed

Edgar gasped. His body went rigid. Arching his spine, he threw his head to one side and howled. Writhing, he gripped the bed beneath him, twisting the fabric of the matted bedclothes, crying out, “REYNOLDS!”

Moran shot to his feet.

“REYNOLDS!” Poe screamed again, renewing the cry that had carried him through the night, his voice now raw and ragged.

“Edgar!” Moran shouted, grasping for his patient’s hand. “Edgar, you are safe.”

“REYNOLDS!”

“There is nothing here that can harm you. Edgar, listen to me! It’s over. Do you hear me? Whatever has happened, it is over!”

Poe froze in that moment, his teeth gritted, his face fraught with agony, beads of sweat sliding down his temples.

Then something in him changed. He seemed to return to himself all at once, like the flickering flame of a candle that had managed to steady itself after a gust of cold wind. His body began to relax and he sank slowly into the bed.

For the first time, his gaze turned to lock with Moran’s.

The doctor stared, unblinking, stricken as he watched the blackened centers of Poe’s eyes recede, like clouds from a storm-ravaged sea, revealing the bright rims of two blue-gray irises.

Poe stared at him with sudden intensity and intelligence, present for the first time. “Is it?” he asked.

As he exhaled, Poe’s hand grew limp in the doctor’s grip. “Lord help my poor soul,” he breathed, even as the glow within those bright and glittering eyes dimmed, fading as fast as it had come.

“Edgar,” Moran called.

But it was too late, for the eyes that stared up at him now, wide and sightless, held their strange light no more.

1

Deep into That Darkness

“Okay, Hawks,” Coach Anne said. “That’s a wrap. We can officially call that our last run before Nationals. At least until we hit Dallas.”

Isobel released a sigh, her shoulders slumping in relief.

Around her, tired whoops and clapping echoed through the gym, everyone breaking off to find their water bottles and towels.

A dull ache spread its way slowly through her as she allowed her muscles to unclench. Her whole body felt like a twisted rope unwinding.

Already, Coach had drilled the routine at least twenty times. Even if Coach had wanted them to go again, Isobel didn’t think she could have managed another pike basket toss, let alone landed one more full.

She knew she wasn’t the only one running on fumes either.

She’d felt the entire squad’s energy draining away little by little, like a machine operating on a single dying battery.

Coach must have felt it too. Isobel had no doubt that she would have drilled them until midnight if she hadn’t sensed her squad preparing for mutiny.

Then again, it wasn’t unusual for Coach to pull this kind of boot-camp, cheer-till-you-drop drillathon, especially right before a big competition. And this was the competition, after all. But her motivation for killing them like this lay less, Isobel knew, in ironing out any last-minute kinks and more in sending everyone home too tired to do anything but crash.

“I want you all to get some rest tonight,” Coach shouted above a sudden burst of laughing and talking, her words confirming Isobel’s suspicions. “That means no late-night Facebook updates, no texting, no two a.m. phone calls with Mr. or Miss Flavor of the Week, and no last-minute stunting in the living room—I’m talking to you, Miss Dorbon. I want everybody here in one piece and ready to go at five a.m. sharp. Got that?” Coach lifted one thick arm over her frizzy poof of brown hair and pointed at her wristwatch. “Bus leaves at six on the dot, so set your alarms. No hitting the snooze button forty times. No ‘I forgot my uniform.’ No excuses. I know I don’t have to tell any of you that we won’t wait if you’re late.”

Speaking of late, Isobel wondered what time it was. It felt like they’d been there for hours.

She glanced above the gym doors to the white-faced clock secured behind the protective metal grate designed to shield it from foul balls.

At the sight of the dark, familiar figure standing in the doorway, however, all thoughts of time flew from her mind.

Hands stuffed into the pockets of his black jeans, he watched her from behind reflective sunglasses, his expression calm, blank.

A panicked stirring arose inside her, coupled with a nagging sensation that tugged at the back of her mind, like a child pulling on the hem of her mother’s dress. It was as though some deeper part of her was trying desperately to get her attention.

Behind her, Isobel could hear Coach Anne’s continued tirade as she rattled off reminders about their uniforms and which colored tennis shoe inserts to wear. Blue bows for hair this time, she droned, not yellow. A-line skirts, not pleated.