Order of the Golden Dawn (Neophyte Series 2)

2. The Leather Apron

        FUELED SOLELY BY ADREDALINE, I forced the sheer dread of what had just transpired deep within, burying the unnerving image of that phantom-like hag in the furthest corners of my mind. I hadn't the will to contemplate how a human being could somehow dissolve into smoke and vanish in an instant, and I refused to let the thought linger, terrified of the answer. My father's urgent request took precedence over all else, and, secretly, I was relieved to have an excuse to ignore the obvious. The bitterness that had lingered between us since the previous night seemed petty by comparison, humility settling over the moment in the face of the grave consequences he clearly anticipated, though I dared not ask.

I quickly gathered what little I needed and packed my luggage in haste, prioritizing my new dress robes. I made sure to include my copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland in a leather satchel, determined not to miss the opportunity to have it autographed. Less than a minute later, I stood before my bedroom door, luggage in hand, the satchel slung over my shoulder, ready to go. Yet something held me there, a strange pull of nostalgia, however unpleasant the memories might be.

The thought of never returning stirred mixed emotions, especially if Jordan's foresight proved true. I had thought her a touch mad in the clothier, but my gut warned me otherwise, whether I was willing to believe it or not. The fact that I found myself locked in a trance of memories only confirmed that on some level, I was aware that I might never again set foot in this room.

My gaze fell upon the four-poster bed, a symbol of the hopelessness that had once consumed me. It was in that bed that I was torn apart and pieced back together, one nightmare—one spell of excruciating agony—at a time. The faded stain on the wooden headboard, just above my pillow, marked the spot where I would relentlessly bang my head during those torturous nights, teeth clenched, fists balled. The fingernail marks along the edge told the tale of a disturbed young boy—a reminder that I should not have been standing there at all. Had the red-eyed man not come for me in the dark room of my nightmares, I would be lying at the bottom of a river somewhere.

It felt like staring into a prison cell, however extravagant—a confinement I was finally free to leave. So what kept me there? A part of me was admittedly fearful of leaving it all behind, as though I had been institutionalized, but another part felt a spark of excitement at the thought of a big, bright world waiting for me—the world itself, my forest, ripe for exploration.

I approached the foot of the bed and flipped open the lid of my hope chest. Countless little trinkets were piled three-quarters full, each sent from the four corners of the world and everywhere in between. I crouched and took in hand the one sitting atop the mess—a pocket-sized vanity mirror that, when opened, revealed itself to be a cigarette lighter. If I recall, it was a gift from a famous French pianist—a name I couldn't pronounce even if I had the accompanying letter in hand.

The clop of hooves snapped me back to reality as I glanced out the window overlooking the front drive. Mordecai was pulling up with our best carriage and finest horses. Knowing the urgency of our departure, I gave my head a shake, but before I could rise, a strange anomaly caught me off guard.

Despite the afternoon sun streaming brightly through the window, my body cast no shadow on the floor—no shadow at all. I gulped, struggling to comprehend the impossibility of it, but when I stood and turned toward the door, there it was. My blood ran cold, and my breath quickened.

I had not encountered the Shadow People in so very long, nor heard their sinister whispers darting from one corner of the room to another, so a last-minute visit would have indeed frightened me. But this was different. Never before had my own shadow moved independently of my flesh and blood. It stood there, still and silent, watching me like a dark mimic that refused to obey its living host. The shadow's presence was more than a mere absence of light; it was a living, breathing entity, twisting and writhing against the backdrop of my own trembling form.