Prologue: Ravenous
The emerald gleam of the light fixture overhead was the last thing Shane remembered before the first knife entered her ribcage. It looked like a mushroom and she was sorry that this might be her final memory.
Her downfall had not been that she was in a bar while underage. This was typical behavior, though not for her. She'd seen the interiors of exactly three bars in her lifetime and only a handful of times total. Besides, her roommate had made clear that their dorm room accommodated two and that second place was presently and loudly being occupied by a man-child in mascara and too much (or too little) black clothing. She needed to mope, she couldn't do it in her own room, so she was willing to indulge the primary objective of bars, drunkenness. The secondary objective of bars - picking up strangers and making use of their bedrooms - did not remotely interest Shane. She hadn't kissed anyone in over a year, she wouldn't be changing that tonight. Alcohol worsened Shane's dislike of romance but it gave her a good excuse to fend off the occasional misguided frat boy, who seemed to think they knew her intimately or, if they didn't, were keen on changing that.
The real source of her problem, the moment the night went from a solitary and wholly internal bitch-fest to the end of her life as she knew it, seemed to be accepting that drink.
The bartender had nudged her out of her self-pity and mourning, yelling, "Miss, I Said That Someone Sent You A Drink!"
"Oh! Who?" she had yelled back. She didn't know what decorum demanded here. In television shows, slimy men with green polyester leisure suits and greased hair chatted up women who accepted their drinks. It was a textbook example of the reciprocity principle: drinking alcohol they paid for made them feel entitled to something in return, tedious conversation at an absolute minimum.
The bartender shrugged his stout shoulders. "Didn't Say! So, You Want It?!"
"Who sent it?" Shane asked again. She didn't need a name, just a direction. The bartender made of show of scanning the bar as though seeking land. Few dry faces looked back.
"Don't See Him Anymore. Weasely Guy. But It's Paid For." He put a wine glass in front of Shane and turned away to tend to a customer who would not be so inquisitive about a free drink. The bartender had guessed she would not be a big tipper - girls who sipped daiquiris were not - pigeonholing Shane as a waste of good capitalization.
Shane looked at the glass cautiously. The liquid within gleamed the light purple color that reminded her of first kisses. In the center floated a star shaped seedpod smelling of licorice. She swished it around in her glass as she had read of connoisseurs doing. Having done this for half a minute, she took a sniff bordering on a snort. It smelled like her grandmother's kitchen after making cinnamon rolls.
She experimentally sipped. A trap of spice seized her tongue and was disarmed by honey. A larger mouthful radiated the warmth of glowing coals. Perhaps this is why people get drunk, she had reflected, having never achieved this desired state despite suffering a hangover the next day no matter how little she drank. She swallowed the remainder of the glass in two gulps, licking her lips to make sure she missed none. She even chewed the seedpod, ravenous.
The din of conversation around her muted, the world filtered through the bottom of her glass. The bar palpitated with her heart, a fuzzy orange glow waxing with her every exhalation. She really should do this more often, she thought giddily. She could hardly remember why she came here. Probably she had just wandered in here looking to use the bathroom and got lost. Yes, that sounded right. She had the feeling that she might get lost a lot. Silly Shane.
She floated, embryonic, in the space around her head. She didn't want to be wearing clothes anymore and didn't understand why she was in the first place. "Clothes" seemed such a funny word, syllables invented to annoy someone with a speech impediment. Like "chrysanthemum." She just wanted to rise to the ceiling, unfettered and ignored, and be carried around by the current like the last balloon after the party ends.
Then she remembered falling from the stool. And the knives. Accepting the drink was absolutely the wrong move.
From the campus blotter of The Phoenix:
- Marijuana smoke was reported in Oya dormitory.
- Criminal mischief in Shango Hall - bulletin board partially ripped down.
- Noise complaint concerning female screaming in the vicinity of The Stable - two cited for indecent conduct.
- Theft of skis from open vehicle parked in Main lot.
- Individual warned for littering in the SUB lot.
We Shadows is a serialized novel written by Xen. It didn't happen to you, your best friend, or his cousin. Why? Because it didn't happen. All persons, living, dead, undead, or unliving are purely coincidental. Any real persons are used fictiously. What you are about to read is not a news broadcast. No portion of this book may be distributed without the expressed written consent of Xen. Feel free to rope your friends into reading it, though. Do it or I start shooting PuppyOrphans.
He is syndicated throughout the internet and will write for you if you pay him.
