Shadowshaper Read online

  Praise for Shadowshaper

  by Daniel José Older

  “Smart writing with a powerful message that never overwhelms the terrific storytelling.” — Booklist, starred review

  “Warm, strong, vernacular, dynamic — a must.” — Kirkus Reviews, starred review

  “Exceptional … Sierra’s masterful adaptability is most apparent in her language, which moves among English and Spanish, salsa and rap, formality and familiarity with an effortlessness that simultaneously demonstrates Older’s mastery of his medium.” — Publishers Weekly, starred review

  “Sierra is a tough, confident, body-positive female protagonist of Puerto Rican descent, proud of her ’fro and her curves…. Excellent diverse genre fiction in an appealing package.” — School Library Journal, starred review

  “New and compelling.” — Cory Doctorow, bestselling author of Little Brother

  “I love this book for the richness of its culture, the strength of the characters, the humor and the truth of its language. Sierra is the heroine we’ve been waiting for.” — Anika Noni Rose, star of Dreamgirls and The Princess and the Frog

  “Daniel José Older sings out the secrets of the dead, and he does it so well that the dead don’t mind. Trust him. Trust this book, even when it terrifies you.” — William Alexander, National Book Award–winning author of Goblin Secrets

  “Exciting, absorbing, funny, creepy, and above all, absolutely fresh.” — Delia Sherman, author of The Freedom Maze

  “Funny, frightening, and always surprising, Shadowshaper is a spellbinding delight for readers of all ages.” — Sarah McCarry, author of All Our Pretty Songs and About a Girl

  For Darrell, Patrice, Emani, and Jair

  CONTENTS

  PRAISE FOR SHADOWSHAPER BY DANIEL JOSÉ OLDER

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  “Sierra? What are you staring at?”

  “Nothing, Manny.”

  Blatant lie. Sierra glanced down from the scaffolding to where Manny the Domino King stood with his arms crossed over his chest. “You sure?” he said.

  “Yeah.” Sierra looked back at the mural. She hadn’t been making it up: a single tear glistened at the corner of Papa Acevedo’s painted eyes. The tear wasn’t moving — of course it wasn’t moving: It was paint! But still: It hadn’t been there yesterday or the day before.

  And the portrait was fading; it seemed to disappear more and more every hour. This afternoon when she arrived at the Junklot to work on her own mural, it took Sierra a few seconds to find the old man’s face peering out from the brick. But fading murals and crying murals were totally different flavors of weird.

  She turned back to her own painting, on a much newer concrete façade adjacent to the old brick building from which Papa Acevedo’s face stared out. “Hey, Manny,” Sierra said. “You sure the people who own this building won’t be mad about my mural?”

  “We’re sure they will be,” Manny chuckled. “That’s why we asked you to do it. We hate the Tower. We spit on the Tower. Your paint is our nasty loogie, hocked upon the stupidity that is the Tower.” He grinned up at Sierra and then turned back to an old typewriter he’d been tinkering with.

  “Great,” Sierra said. The Tower had shown up just over a year ago, totally unannounced: a five-story concrete monstrosity on a block otherwise full of brownstones. The developers built the outer structure quickly and then left it, abandoned and unfinished, its unpaned windows staring emptily out into the Brooklyn skies. The Tower’s northern wall sat right on the edge of the Junklot, where mountains of trashed cars waited like crumpled-up scraps of paper. Manny and the other old guys who played dominos in the lot had immediately declared war on it.

  Sierra dabbed dark green paint along the neck of the dragon she was working on. It reared all the way up to the fifth floor of the Tower, and even though most of its body was just an outline, Sierra could tell it was gonna be fierce. She shaded rows of scales and spines, and smiled at how the creature seemed to come to life a fraction more with each new detail.

  When Manny first asked her to paint something on the Tower, she’d refused. She’d never painted a mural before, just filled notebook after notebook with wild creatures and winged, battle-ready versions of her friends and neighbors. And a whole wall? If she messed up, all of Brooklyn would see it. But Manny was persistent, said she could paint anything she wanted, said he’d set up a scaffolding. He added that if her old Grandpa Lázaro was still talking in full sentences instead of laid up from that stroke he’d had, he would’ve wanted her to do it too.

  That last one sealed it. Sierra couldn’t say no to even the idea of Grandpa Lázaro. And so here she was, on the second day of summer break, adding a few more scales along a pair of dragon wings and worrying about crying murals.

  Her phone buzzed with a text from her best friend, Bennie:

  party at sully’s tonight. First of the summmmmer!!!!

  Imma meet you at your house be ready in an hour.

  The first party of the summer was always amazing. Sierra smiled, pocketed her phone, and started packing up her supplies. It was nine p.m. The dragon could wait.

  She looked back at the mural of Papa Acevedo, barely visible now against the crumbling brick wall. It wasn’t just that there was a new tear on his face; his whole expression had changed. The man — the painting, rather — looked downright afraid. Papa Acevedo had been one of Grandpa Lázaro and Manny’s domino buddies. He’d always had a kind smile or a joke for Sierra, and whoever had painted his memorial portrait had captured that warmth perfectly. But now, his face seemed twisted with shock somehow, eyebrows raised, the edges of his mouth turned down beneath that unruly mustache.

  The glistening painted tear trembled and slid out of the old man’s eye and down his face.

  Sierra gasped. “What the —!”

  The scaffolding shivered. She looked down. Manny had one hand on a support beam, the other cupped around the phone earpiece he always had in. His head was bowed, shaking from side to side.

  “When?” Manny said. “How long ago?”

  Sierra looked one last time at Papa Acevedo and climbed down the scaffolding.

  “You are sure?” Manny looked up at her and then back down. “You’re sure it was him?”

  “You okay?” Sierra whispered.

  “I’ll be right there. Ya. Ya vengo, ahora mismo. Dentro de … quince minutos. Okay.” Manny poked the button on his earpiece and stared at the ground for a few seconds.

  “What happened?” Sierra asked.

  “Reporter stuff,” Manny said. He closed his eyes. Besides
being the self-appointed Domino King of Brooklyn, he published, wrote, and delivered the Bed-Stuy Searchlight, churning out the three pages of local gossip and event updates from a little basement printing press over on Ralph Avenue. The Searchlight had been coming every day for as long as Sierra could remember.

  “Somebody you know?”

  Manny nodded. “Knew. Ol’ Vernon, we called him. He’s gone.”

  “Dead?”

  He nodded, shook his head, nodded again.

  “Manny? What does that mean?”

  “I have to go, Sierra. You finish this painting, you hear me?”

  “What? Tonight? Manny, I …”

  “No! Ha.” He looked at her, finally smiled. “Of course not. Just, soon.”

  “Okay, Manny.”

  In a flurry of jangling keys and heavy breathing, Manny shut down the industrial lights and let them out of the iron fence around the Junklot. “Have a good time tonight, Sierra. Don’t worry about me. But be careful!”

  Sierra’s phone buzzed as she watched Manny rush off into the Brooklyn night. It was Bennie again.

  You comin right?

  Sierra texted a quick yeh and pocketed her phone. An early summer breeze wafted through her hair as she fast-walked past brownstones and corner stores, rounded the corner onto Lafayette, and headed home. She had to get ready for the party and check on Grandpa Lázaro, but all she could think about was Papa Acevedo’s teardrop.

  Grandpa Lázaro sat up in bed when Sierra walked into his apartment on the top floor of their brownstone. He regarded her with a concerned shake of his head, the jowly folds under his chin waving back and forth, his clawlike hands clutching the sheets. The old man had barely said anything since his stroke, but occasionally he’d blurt out random boleros from back in the day. Today he seemed different, though: his gaze was sharper and his lopsided mouth curved into a frown. “Lo siento lo siento lo siento,” he muttered.

  “What, Abuelo?” Sierra said. “What are you sorry for?”

  Lázaro looked away, scowling. Ceiling-high windows around her grandfather’s bed made the room feel like the crow’s nest on some urban pirate ship. Outside, streetlights blinked to life along the streets of Bed-Stuy as the swirling orange clouds gave way to dark blue. All over Brooklyn, folks were heading out to their stoops and strolling the avenues to take in another warm New York night.

  Sierra’s phone buzzed again. Bennie was probably trying to rush her along so they could get to the party at Sully’s. Sierra double-checked that Lázaro’s meds were all in order, his glass of water filled, his slippers by the bed.

  “Lo siento lo siento lo siento,” Grandpa Lázaro muttered again.

  Another buzz. Sierra growled and looked at her phone.

  You comin??

  Ya mama down here talking my ear off Sierra cmon girl

  if you dont come ya ass downstairs in the next 2 minutes im OUT i sweartagawddd sierra

  She rolled her eyes and pocketed the phone. “You good, Abuelo?”

  The old man looked up suddenly. His dark brown eyes locked with Sierra’s. “Ven acá, m’ija. I have to speak with you.”

  Sierra stepped back in shock. His eyes were clear and serious. Lázaro’s stroke had left him with full movement of his body — he could take care of himself for the most part — but this was the first time he’d made any sense in a year.

  Grandpa Lázaro lifted a skin-and-bones arm and waved Sierra closer. “Ven acá, Sierra. Quickly. We don’t have much time.”

  She crossed the room. His warm brown hand wrapped around her wrist. Sierra almost yelped. “Listen to me, m’ija. They are coming. For us.” Tears appeared in Lázaro’s foggy eyes. “For the shadowshapers.”

  “The who? Abuelo, what are you talking about?”

  “I’m so sorry, Sierra. I tried … to do right. ¿Entiendes?”

  “No, Abuelo, I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

  “¡Oye!” María, Sierra’s mom, called from downstairs. “Sierra, you coming? Bennie’s here and she says you’re late!”

  “Finish the mural, Sierra. Finish the mural quickly. The paintings are fading …” His voice trailed off and those old eyes blinked a few times. “Soon we’ll all be lost.”

  “Abuelo! What do you mean? The mural in the Junklot?” Manny had just said the same thing to her. But it wasn’t anywhere near done. “That’s gonna take me all summer. I can’t finish anytime so —”

  Lázaro’s eyes sprung open again. “¡No! ¡No puede! You must finish it, Sierra. Finish it now! As soon as possible! They are …” He squeezed her wrist tighter. She felt his hot breath on the side of her face. “They are coming for us. Coming for the shadowshapers.” He released her and slumped back against his pillows.

  “Who’s coming, Abuelo? What are the shadowshapers?”

  “Sierra?” María called again from the first floor. “You hear me? Bennie says …”

  “I’m coming, Mami!” Sierra yelled.

  Lázaro shook his head. “The boy Robbie will help you. Ask him for help, Sierra. You need help. I can’t … It’s too late.” He nodded his head, eyes closing again. “No puedo, m’ija. No puedo.”

  “Robbie from school?” Sierra said. “Abuelo, how do you even know him?” Robbie was a tall Haitian kid with long locks who had shown up midyear with a goofy grin and wild drawings covering every surface of his clothes, his backpack, his desk. If Sierra had been the kind of girl who gave a damn about boys and their cuteness, Robbie the Walking Mural would find himself somewhere on her top-ten list.

  “He will help you,” Lázaro whispered, his head drooping. “You need help, Sierra. They are coming for us all. We don’t have long. I’m … I’m sorry.”

  “Sierra!” María called.

  Lázaro closed his eyes and let out a loud snore. Sierra backed toward the door. Her phone buzzed again. She turned around and ran down the stairs.

  “And so I looked at the headmaster,” María Carmen Corona Santiago said to Bennie as Sierra walked into the kitchen, “and I said, ‘Yes, my students will be reading that book today.’ ” She slapped the kitchen table. “And they did!”

  “Wow,” Bennie said. María turned to face Sierra, and Bennie made a “help me” face.

  “So you finally decided to show up!” María said. “I was just telling Bennie about the time they tried to ban those books.”

  Sierra bent down and kissed her mom on the cheek. María was still in her crisp blue pantsuit. Her graying black hair was pulled back into a sharp bun and her makeup was immaculate, even at the end of a long day. “I’m sure she was thrilled to hear that story again,” Sierra said.

  María swatted her away. “Who taught you to be so sarcastic?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “And why aren’t you changed yet? I thought you said you were ready.”

  Sierra looked down. She was still wearing the same T-shirt with torn-off sleeves, pleated skirt, and combat boots she’d been painting in, and her fro stretched magnificently around her in a fabulous, unbothered halo. She’d stopped by her room just long enough to throw some extra bangles around her wrists and beaded necklaces over her head, and that was that. “I mean …”

  Bennie stood. “I think you look great, Sierra!”

  That was definitely not true: Bennie and Sierra had almost opposite styles, and they never got tired of letting each other know their opinions. Tonight, Bennie had on creased gray slacks and a button-down maroon top that matched her tortoiseshell glasses. “Well, it’s been lovely, Mrs. Santiago. C’mon, Sierra,” she said, smiling a little too hard. She took Sierra’s arm and led her toward the door. “We’re gonna be late.”

  “Bennaldra! Since when you have taken Sierra’s side on a fashion issue?” María demanded. “You know what? Never mind. Have fun, girls. Be safe, okay?”

  Sierra stopped at the doorway. “Hey, Mami, have you checked on Abuelo in the past day or two?”

  “What’s that, m’ija?”

  “He seemed upset just no
w. He was … talking. Whole sentences that made sense. Have you ever heard of the shadowshapers?”

  Something happened in María’s face — the slightest clenching of her cheek muscles, maybe, or perhaps her eyes narrowing the tiniest bit. Whatever it was, Sierra had seen it happen again and again throughout her life: Ask the wrong question, mention some untouchable topic, just catch her mother at the wrong moment, and it was like some invisible barrier sprang into place.

  “I don’t know what that is, Sierra.” María smiled, just a little, but her voice was ice. She turned quickly back to the dishes.

  “That’s weird,” Sierra said, “cuz you look an awful lot like you know what I’m talking about.”

  “Sierra. I said I don’t know. I’ll check on your grandfather later.”

  It would’ve been so much better if she’d just yell and scream like a normal mom. Instead, she didn’t even raise her voice. Sierra knew that was that — the conversation was over, the battle lost.

  “Fine.” Sierra turned. “C’mon, Bennie.”

  “Sierra, come back,” María called, but her voice sounded empty.

  “What was that all about?” Bennie asked. They were fast-walking down Lafayette toward downtown Brooklyn. Some little kids zipped past on scooters. A group of middle-aged women sat in lawn chairs outside a brownstone, sipping beers and laughing.

  Sierra shrugged. “Nothin’.”

  “Right, cuz that wasn’t awkward at all.”

  “C’mon, B! I thought you didn’t wanna be late.”

  The Bradwicks’ elaborate Park Slope brownstone was bursting with teenagers when Sierra and Bennie got there. Just about every ninth, tenth, and eleventh grader from Octavia Butler High was running around the backyard or exploring the winding passageways of the house. The sound system alternately blared hip-hop and grungy emo rock as various DJs took turns pushing one another out of the way. Some kids stood in a little circle out back, beatboxing and freestyling, inventing brand-new ways of putting one another down and sending up wild cheers when a dig found its mark.

  Sierra’s eyes jumped from face to face, but Robbie’s drawing-covered clothes and slender locks were nowhere to be seen. She watched Big Jerome pick up Little Jerome by the scruff of the neck like he was a puppy and toss him into the pool, upsetting the Marco Polo players. Over at the freestyle circle, her friend Izzy delivered a crushing sixteen-bar denouncement of another kid’s mama. Tee cheered her girlfriend from the crowd. Bennie joined the circle, laughing along with each line. Izzy wrapped up with a triumphant and brutal verse rhyming spastic, sarcastic, and less than fantastic, and the crowd erupted in thunderous applause. The other kid, an extra-short and elegantly dressed tenth grader named Pitkin, recognized defeat and stepped back into the crowd with a gentlemanly bow.