Shine (5 page)

“No,” Gina said. “The last thing they want is hysteria. The DMP wants the public to be afraid of something they can protect them from.”

“You mean ghosts.”

“Ghosts as we’ve known them—harmless and incorporeal. They don’t want people panicking over something the DMP
can’t
protect them from—ghosts that can turn solid, even if only for a few minutes on four days out of the year.”

That made sense, I thought, as I gave Gina her phone and watched her speed-dial the law office. Such a revelation would take away the DMP’s illusion of power.

Still, I was more nervous than ever. It didn’t matter that there was no evidence against Zachary and me. Once the media and the DMP were done with us, the world would know our biggest secret:

As a pre-Shifter, Zachary shouldn’t be able to talk to ghosts. He actually
repelled
ghosts on sight, a unique power even his own father didn’t know about. But for a few hours after we kissed, he took my ability to see ghosts, and in return gave me his ability to repel them.

If anyone ever found out, Zachary and I would be permanent lab rats.

By the time we arrived at the DMP’s Arlington, Virginia, headquarters, Gina’s paralegal had called back with a list of ghost-inspired crimes.

Most were vandalism or destruction of property, post-Shifters removing or deactivating “BlackBox” technology. These layers of charged obsidian were installed in the walls of rooms or buildings to keep ghosts in or out. By destroying the BlackBox, sympathizers felt like they were “liberating” ghosts.

Some crimes were more serious, such as assault and battery, where the ghost had a vendetta against the victim. There were even a
handful of post-Shifter murderers who’d been egged on by the dead.

But were ghosts a real threat to society, or were these criminals simply wackos who would wreak havoc anyway?

As Gina and I crossed the parking lot toward the dirt-brown DMP headquarters building, I had a sudden thought. “People never become ghosts after a suicide, right? Death has to be sudden and unexpected. So if this alleged suicide bomber becomes a ghost, that’ll prove it wasn’t him.”

“Good point. But if he didn’t become a ghost, that doesn’t prove it
was
him.”

True. Not everyone whose death is a surprise becomes a ghost, and some who do, pass on within seconds or minutes.

In the lobby, we showed our IDs and signed in to get our visitors’ badges. I noticed several names on the visitors list ahead of me, all from a company called “SecuriLab.”

“Aura!” came a familiar voice across the lobby.

Oh no.
I tried to hide my dismay at the sight of Nicola Hughes, DMP flack.

She hurried over, her stylish heels clicking on the polished floor. I’d last seen Nicola on Friday night when she’d fast-talked the media into believing our story that Logan’s transformation had been nothing but a magic trick. As grateful as I was for her help, Nicola set me on edge.

She grabbed my elbow and squeed like we were long-lost BFFs. Nicola was maybe ten years older than I was, but sometimes acted like she was in high school. Her bubbliness felt out of place amid the tragedy and Zachary’s detainment.

“I’m so glad I saw you!” She tucked her flip-curled dark-brown hair behind her ear. “I’m on my way to a press conference. Things have been insane here since we found out a ghost was behind the bombing. Can you believe it?”

“No,” I said flatly.

Nicola offered Gina a wide, perfect smile. “How are you holding up? Things are going to get busy for you, I imagine.”

Gina gave her a suspicious look. “How do you mean?”

“At your practice, with this wave of ghost violence. But you probably have Aura to help out full-time this summer.”

Gina tensed. I’d tried to find a second job, rather than work forty hours a week at the law office. I got along with my aunt, but no way did I want to spend every day
and
night around her. In the end, my lack of a car kept me from finding nonfamily employment.

“Not quite,” I told Nicola. “Just thirty hours a week.”

“Oh! Well, as you probably know, the DMP has a limited number of paid summer internships for high school students. Most fill up by February. But my office will gladly open another internship under me for you. Because of your obvious value.”

Because I was the First, no doubt.

“Sorry,” I told her. “No car.”
And no desire to be evil.

“Our Baltimore office is on the Light Rail line. And the pay is pretty sweet.” She delivered the last word in a singsong manner.

“Aura’s not interested,” Gina said firmly.

“Consider it and call me. About anything. I’m here to help.” Nicola gave me her business card as her grin faded into a more genuine expression. “Aura, I know you think the DMP is the enemy, and I admit, a
lot of agents are pretty heavy-handed. But we’re not the bad guys. Our mission is the same as yours: to understand ghosts. If we work together, we’ll find the answers.”

I hesitated. The DMP’s theories about the Shift would always be imprecise, because they didn’t know my father was a ghost. But the knowledge they did have could be useful.

I tucked Nicola’s business card into my suit pocket. “I’ll think about it.”

T
hough your interview was previously scheduled,” Agent Ritter said, closing the door of our sparse, claustrophobic interrogation room, “obviously there have been significant developments. Last night’s tragedy was a game changer.”

I tried not to show my disgust at his word choice. This wasn’t a game to me, or to the families who’d lost loved ones.

“Of course,” he continued, “with this morning’s news about the ghost-provoked terrorist act, we can no longer afford to take chances with the dead. The country is feeling a new urgency to protect the living.”

The DMP agent sat across the scratched-up linoleum table from me and Gina, heaving the kind of sigh that seems reserved for adults over forty. As he scanned my file, he tapped his ballpoint pen against his temple, where his sandy hair was thinning.

“So.” Agent Ritter set a small black digital recorder on the table. “Your aunt says you’re ready to discuss what happened at Friday night’s concert. We appreciate your cooperation, and we understand it’s not easy for you to reveal things about those you love.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
Pander much?

He clicked on the recorder, and I cut to the chase:

“Logan got his body back during the concert. At the moment of the solstice.”

Ritter nodded—he’d obviously seen the online videos. “Did you anticipate this?”

“No.”

“Then why was the concert held at that date and time?” He checked his records. “Ten thirty p.m. is very late. Was it a coincidence that the concert began just before the ten fifty-one solstice?”

“Not at all.” I kept my focus on the agent, feeling my confidence grow. “We scheduled the concert for that time in case something bad happened and Logan freaked out. We thought if he shaded near the solstice, he could turn right back to a ghost.”

“Why did you think that?”

I pressed my lips together to seem like I was revealing a big secret, though the DMP had probably figured it out. They were annoying, but they weren’t stupid.

“It happened before. Logan became a shade in January and was gone for months. But then just after midnight on March twenty-first, he came to me.”

“As a shade or as a ghost?”

“A shade, but then suddenly he was a ghost again. The next day I
realized he’d changed at the moment of the spring equinox. It couldn’t have been a coincidence.”

I still got a pang of longing at the thought of that night. Logan had taken on human flesh for seventeen short minutes. His skin had been warm and sweet, and his eyes shone blue as they gazed into mine.

Ritter leaned back in his chair, which squeaked at the shift in weight. “Interesting.”

“Logan and I hoped he could make this change on the summer solstice, too.”

“Were you worried about him shading again?”

“A little. He thought you guys might end the show early.” I softened my voice. “His music and his band meant everything to him. Taking that away might’ve made him mad enough to turn shade.”

The agent sounded genuinely sympathetic. “Miss Salvatore, what were—”

“You can call me Aura.” I gave Ritter a slight smile. This interview was going so smoothly, it was making me nervous.

“Aura, what were the plans for the end of the concert?”

“The plan was for Logan to go backstage before the finale. His older brother, Mickey, would come out dressed like Logan, with his hair bleached and a fake tattoo of my name on his chest. We thought it would be fun to pretend Logan had come back to life. He said it would make people remember him after he passed on.”

“Which he planned to do when?”

“That night, after the concert, with his family and close friends.”

Ritter nudged the recorder an inch nearer to me. “And did he?”

“You know he didn’t. Your agents were there. Nicola Hughes
helped us come up with a cover story for the media. She said the most important thing was to keep people from believing that ghosts could come back from the dead.”

“Yes, our public affairs folks are very experienced at calming the public.” His smirk faded. “Aura, when did Logan pass on?”

I squirmed, pretending it killed me to reveal the truth. If they thought I was making a huge sacrifice, they might be less suspicious of what I was still hiding.

“He passed on last night with me, alone in the cemetery near his grave.”

“What time exactly?”

“About nine o’clock.”

“And you’re certain he’s gone?”

“He’s gone for good.” Even though I was happy for Logan, it hurt to say it aloud.

“Hmm.” Ritter hoisted a briefcase from the floor beside his chair. “Let’s confirm that, shall we?” He lifted the lid with a flourish, then pulled out a small disc of clear quartz.

Gina pointed at it. “Who’s the summoner for?”

He set it on the table and tapped its shiny surface. “Logan Keeley was tagged before last week’s concert, so he could be retrieved in the event of a disruptive incident.”

I was 90 percent sure that Ritter was bluffing. Logan would’ve told me if he’d been tagged, the way he’d been before testifying at his wrongful death trial. The summoner devices allow ghosts to be called to a place they never traveled in life, such as a courtroom.

Ritter watched my face. He didn’t believe my claim that Logan
was gone. Even now, I wondered: If Logan could cross the boundary between shade and ghost—and between the dead and the living—maybe he could also cross the boundary between dimensions, or whatever it was that separated this world from the true afterlife.

Ritter slid his thumb under the disc and clicked it on. The clear quartz glowed with a pure white light.

My pulse pounded, waiting for Logan to manifest in the room the way he had at his trial, looking around with a bewildered grin. My breath quickened at the warring fear and hope of seeing him again.

Then the crystal’s light dimmed, its signal unreturned. Logan was truly gone.

“Did you think I was lying?” I asked Ritter, my voice hard with emotion.

“I was curious.” He placed the summoner back in the briefcase and snapped the lid shut. “Logan Keeley seems—seemed, rather—to be able to do a number of extraordinary things.” Ritter counted off on his sunburned fingers, his fake sympathy dwindling. “First, Logan turned shade temporarily on the winter solstice. Yes, we knew about that, though you didn’t bother to mention it today. Second, after being a shade for weeks, he turned back into a ghost on the spring equinox. Before Logan, no one had ever un-shaded, so to speak.”

I gave the slightest of nods.

“Third, last Friday night, on the summer solstice, he had a solid body for an unknown period of time.”

I knew how long: seventeen minutes. The same amount of time it takes the winter solstice sunrise light to trace the floor of the chamber at Newgrange. I hoped the DMP hadn’t made that connection yet.

“And finally, last night, Logan Keeley appeared to a pre-Shifter.” The agent placed his palms on the table. “To your new boyfriend, Zachary Moore.”

My heart stopped, then lurched forward, as if making up for lost beats. I could feel the blood drain from my face.

“That’s impossible,” Gina said. “Zachary can’t see ghosts. No one born before the Shift can.”

Ritter answered her, but kept his eyes trained on mine. “We have a witness, a fourteen-year-old post-Shifter, who saw them speaking in the airport.”

My mouth was too dry to release the words of protest piling in my throat.

“Impossible,” Gina repeated. “The witness is lying.”

“I’m afraid the witness cannot lie. She’s a ghost.”

“Ghosts can’t see other ghosts,” she scoffed.

“The witness was not a ghost before the flight took off.”