I leaned forward and whispered in her ear.

Then I heard the crack of a door opening and fell on my face.

I opened my eyes. I wasn’t in a Michigan farmhouse with Marsha snoring upstairs. I was in another world. I was in prison.

Or out of it, it seemed. I’d been let out of my glass box. The fire was gone. I blinked against the iron floor, then shoved myself up.

I stood face-to-face with a tall woman. She had a sleek cap of silver chin-length hair and was dressed in the IBI’s gray uniform. I searched for the stitched knots that would give me an idea of her rank, but her collar was a band of solid scarlet.

“I’m Director Fitzgerald,” she said.

I stared, still spinning in the memory of blueberries and Aunt Ginger.

“Can you speak?” Fitzgerald asked.

“Yes,” I croaked.

“Good. I’ve just come from Agent McCrea’s debriefing, which I found highly interesting. I understand that you are confused about your arrest, or that you’re pretending to be. I’d like to hear things from your perspective. Who exactly are you, Darcy Jones, and what were you doing in Lakebrook, Illinois?”

Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have been willing to spill my guts to her. But I was so tired, so shaken.

I told her about my five missing years, the DCFS, my collection of foster parents. Marsha and her silly bird spoons. My friends. Meeting Conn and not knowing what to think of him. I didn’t (wouldn’t, couldn’t) tell her about the kiss. But everything else: his attack, how I vanished. Being afraid of him. Afraid of what I was. Or wasn’t. I wasn’t sure.

“I see,” said Fitzgerald when I finished. “Of course, you might be a consummate actor. But I think you could be a golden opportunity.”

“She is,” said a voice from the shadows.

Conn.

He’d been listening the whole time. As soon as I’d thought he couldn’t stab me in the back again, there he was, sliding in the knife, eavesdropping on my pathetic story.

“Darcy,” Fitzgerald said. “Do you know what the Shadow Society is?”

“Obviously, no, I don’t.”

“It’s a terrorist organization, made up of creatures like you. They look uncannily alike. They have different facial and bodily features, but the same black eyes, black hair, and pale skin. The IBI was startled to see you at the Water Tower, a portal regularly monitored to prevent unwanted traffic between our world and yours. We didn’t know who you were—your face didn’t match anything in our database. But one glance confirms that you are a Shade.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“A nightmare. Shades look human, but certainly are not. They can become incorporeal at will, and have used that against us, and more. Look: the May Day Massacre of 1916.” An image of corpses with slashed throats lit up the wall behind her. I could see Conn clearly now. His features were harsh, almost black and white in the sudden light. “Gassing is one of their favorite techniques. The subway attacks of 1968.” The image changed. “The Ravenswood Medical Center, 1997.” More bodies, heaped up in hallways. “Hundreds of people, Darcy.”

I felt sick. They believed that I had done this? That? “That’s not my fault. All of that happened ages ago. You said the dates yourself.” Only one, the last one, had happened during my lifetime, and that was when I was about five. Surely she didn’t think that a kid had gassed the hospital.

“We’re not accusing you,” Fitzgerald said. “I’m simply telling you history that you apparently don’t know.” She swept a hand toward the last image. “This is a mere sample of the horrors the Shadow Society has perpetrated on humankind in the last century. The Interdimensional Bureau of Investigation was established with two related purposes: to patrol the borders between worlds, and to protect human society. It’s a losing battle. Catching a Shade is difficult, for how can you catch what you can’t see? How can you fight what you can’t touch?”

“I’m guessing that this has something to do with your pyromania.”

“Yes,” said Fitzgerald. “Fire keeps you solid. It can hurt and kill you. It’s our best weapon.”

“Listen, I don’t go around gassing people for fun. I’m not a terrorist. Before Conn dragged me here, I was living an ordinary life. Maybe it was a crappy one, but it was mine. Can’t you just let me go?”

“That’s exactly what I plan to do.”

“You … do?”

“If what you claim is true—and McCrea’s evidence supports this—then you were raised as a human with no knowledge of your origins. You are perhaps the one Shade who has no belief in the Society’s propaganda of hatred and destruction. You must have sympathy for the human cause.”

“My sympathy might be a little tarnished by abuse and kidnapping.”

“Regrettable, but consider what we face.” Fitzgerald pointed at the hospital scene, at the rigid limbs and bugged-out eyes. “There hasn’t been a Shade attack in years, but recent intelligence indicates that one is in the planning stages. The IBI could keep you here forever, or we could take a risk. We could ask for your help. Infiltrate the Society. Make the Shades accept you as one of them. After all, you are. If you manage to gather useful information, the IBI will send you back to your world.”

“How much information? How long would this take?”

“The IBI will determine that. Darcy, do you want more people to die?”

“No.”

“Do you want to remain a prisoner of the IBI?”

“Yes. It is my one true ambition in life.”

Fitzgerald made an impatient noise. “Do you want to go home or not?”

Home. I wasn’t sure what that meant anymore. After the freak show on Saturday afternoon, Marsha would probably be glad to have her spare room back, and I’d have a short return trip to the DCFS. I’d stay in a group home until I was eighteen. Then the DCFS would cut me loose. Lily, Jims, Raphael … maybe we’d stay in touch. Or they’d forget about me. They’d have each other.

I remembered leaning toward Aunt Ginger and whispering my secret in her ear. “I want a family,” I had told her.

Aunt Ginger had thrown back her head and laughed. “Why, make your own!”

Now, in the iron-walled cell, I considered Fitzgerald’s proposition. I doubted there was much left for me in Lakebrook. As for the Shadow Society, it was possible they had done the horrible things Fitzgerald claimed, but I had only her word, and I didn’t exactly trust the IBI to tell me the truth. Could Shades really be so evil? I wasn’t evil.

And I was a Shade.

This was a chance. A golden opportunity, like they said. I could find out more about my past. I’d judge the Society for myself. Maybe I could find my parents and tell them exactly what I thought of them.

And maybe, just maybe, I’d find a place where I belonged.

“Yeah, okay,” I told Fitzgerald. “I’ll do it.”

19

“Excellent,” she said. “McCrea will be your handler.”

“My what?”

Conn’s eyes cut to Fitzgerald’s. When she nodded, he said, “You’re to report to me, Darcy. We’ll meet on a regular basis but at irregular hours, and in different locations. You’ll pass along any valuable information about the Society. Meanwhile, if the IBI needs something else from you—either based on your intel or on its own agenda—I’ll give you instructions.”

“No way,” I told Fitzgerald. “Not him.”

“You have no choice,” she replied. “You need a liaison within the IBI. If you don’t like it”—she tapped the glass box—“you know your alternative.”

“Give me someone else!”

But she was already heading toward the iron door. “McCrea is best equipped for the job. And quite frankly, no one else would be willing to work with you.”

She left me alone with Conn.

With a slight shake of his head, he began talking. Rules and regulations of our partnership. Standard operating procedure. Et cetera. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe he was acting as if he had done nothing wrong.

“Darcy, are you paying attention?”

Silence.

His mouth tightened. He stood, jerked the door open, and slammed it shut behind him.

What was I supposed to do now? Maybe I’d gotten lucky and Conn was out there shanghaiing somebody else into working with me. Or maybe the deal was off.

He wasn’t gone long. He came back with a glass of water. He handed it to me. “In training, we’re told that Shades don’t need to eat or drink. But I know you do. I’ve seen you. After everything … I should have thought of this earlier. This water’s balanced with electrolytes, sugar, protein, and vitamins. It’s essentially a full meal.”

I drank. “What about a shower? I’m a mess.”

He shook his head. “You look authentic like this. Like you were brought into IBI custody and escaped. That’s your story. There’s more to it, of course, but we’ll go over that later.” He hesitated. “Darcy. I have to take off your bandages.” His hand reached for mine.

I flinched away. “Don’t touch me.”

“I won’t hurt you.”

“You heard what I said.” I gripped the empty glass, wondering if Conn realized that he had handed me a weapon.

He closed his eyes. Briefly. When he opened them, they were weary. “I don’t want to take off your bandages, but it would look suspicious to the Society that the IBI healed your wounds.”

And if I bashed the glass against his cheek, what then?

I’d face a swarm of people itching for the excuse to do their worst.

“Please,” Conn said.

“Fine.” I set the cup on the floor. “Go ahead.”

He was gentle. The gauze unwound with a whisper, coiling onto the floor. My skin emerged: pink, crinkled. But healed.

Conn touched the back of my hand. I felt a spike of desire, then a gush of disgust. I wanted, more than anything, to disappear. At least then my body couldn’t betray me.

“Michael did a good job,” he said. “He has some medic training.”

“Whose idea was it to jump me in the parking lot?”

At first, he didn’t answer. “Mine. But the plan was laid before I really knew you. After we went to the railroad tracks, I couldn’t figure out if you were pretending to be human or genuinely thought you were. The plan was a test. To see what you would do. At the very least, I hoped it would make you trust me.”

It was hard, very hard, not to pick the glass off the floor and break it against him.

Conn said, “That night, when you didn’t disappear in front of him, Michael wanted to arrest you then and there. It was the smart move. It would have been easy. But … I didn’t want to do it.”

“Oh, but you did. You did arrest me. Eventually.”

Conn looked away. He nodded, and when he spoke, his tone was empty and official. “Tell the Society that you were burned when the IBI arrested you, and that you were imprisoned for at least two weeks. Then they’ll think that time healed your burns. You got these”—he pointed at the small cuts etched around my wrists—“when you escaped.”

He put another pair of firecuffs on me (yes, again!), swearing that they weren’t turned on; they were for show, so that the entire IBI force didn’t freak out at the sight of a free Shade strolling its halls. Then he led me through the IBI labyrinth until we reached an underground garage. He uncuffed me, unlocked a car with tinted windows, and then we were inside the car, up and out onto the street, driving along the lake.

“Where are we going?” I asked. A heavy fog cloaked the city, and all I could see was the road and the lake and the white sky.

“North. Closer to where the Society lives. Or that’s what we think, anyway.”

He outlined his master plan to get me inside Society headquarters. It seemed hopeless and dumb. I didn’t care. At least I’d be free.

“It’s quiet,” I interrupted.

“It’s Sunday. The streets are often empty on Sundays.”

“No, the car. The car is quiet.”

His face lit up. “That’s because it runs on internal magnetic energy. You really should have that technology in the Alter. It causes less wear on the transmission, there’s no messy oil…”

“Do you honestly think I care? I just found out I’m not human. I’ve got a few more things to care about than the transmission of a magnetic car.”

He shut up.

I gazed out the window at the lake and the boats rocking by the piers, their masts fuzzy in the fog, as if they were being slowly erased. The sky was heavy with weather. I felt like the giant cloud sagging over the city—full, full almost to bursting, because even though the last thing I wanted to do was chat with Conn, I also was dying to spill out a thousand questions.

I settled for the one that seemed most important. “Fitzgerald said you presented evidence that convinced her I didn’t know I was a Shade. What evidence?”

Conn took an exit and turned onto a small road. “From the beginning, you—you were complicated.”

“Complicated.”

“Mysterious. Shades don’t exist in the Alter, and one has never been seen on surveillance of the portals. You looked happy. Happy with a human.” He shook his head. “Impossible. And the name you signed wasn’t fake. We traced it to Lakebrook High within seconds. I thought you were taunting the IBI. Showing us how powerless humans are, how we couldn’t stop you from doing whatever you were there to do, even if we could easily track you down.” He paused. “But there is another interpretation: that you had nothing to hide.”