Shadow Breakers

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  the 24-hour clock

  CHAPTER ONE

  dreamtime

  CHAPTER TWO

  ice

  CHAPTER THREE

  seaview

  CHAPTER FOUR

  shadows

  CHAPTER FIVE

  decision

  CHAPTER SIX

  fire

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  data

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  tricks

  CHAPTER NINE

  friends

  CHAPTER TEN

  stone

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  enemies

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  animus

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  hunting

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  giada

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  lockdown

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  flashpoint

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  darkness

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  00:00:00

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  aftermath

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright

  EVERY NIGHT I tell myself the dream won’t come again. Do not dream, I recite like a mantra. Do not dream. But it’s no use. It’s been there ever since we moved from London three weeks ago, and sleep just creeps up my sheets the same as it always does, gobbling me up, swamping me. So I dream. And then, in the darkness, I see it.

  The Shape.

  It doesn’t give me a shock or a jolt, like when you see a spider suddenly scuttle for cover. It’s more a creeping chill, like you get from walking through a graveyard, or when you know someone hidden is watching you. We did a poem in school about a man who “walks a lonely road and dares not turn his head.” How does it go on? Something about a frightful fiend treading close behind.

  I call it the Shape because I don’t know what it is. It’s just . . . formless, like a shimmering, ever-changing shadow. But somehow I know — I just know — it’s made of three things: fire and water and the purest, coldest darkness.

  And then there’s the whisper.

  Miranda. Come away, Miranda. Come to me.

  That’s when I wake up, when I hear the whisper.

  Okay, so you know the score. You’ve seen bad movies.

  When people do “waking up from bad dreams” acting, they gasp, uuuuuh! and sit bolt upright. That so does not happen in real life. I’m always wrapped in my sheets, or lying at an odd angle across the bed. But I do sort of spasm, as if I’m falling from a great height. And then I untwist, and realize where I am — in this new house, this new place — and my eyes try to open, even though they feel glued together.

  There’s no hope of getting back to sleep, so I go downstairs and get a glass of water, trying not to wake Mum and Truffle. The running tap is a lonely sound as the sky turns from black to purple, the streetlamps grow dim, and the world wakes. And in the distance is the sound of the sea.

  Not sleeping is becoming a problem.

  I’d give anything not to dream.

  • • •

  My name is Miranda Keira May. I’m twelve, almost thirteen, and I live in Firecroft Bay. It’s getting easier to say. We came here, Mum, me, and my baby brother, Truffle, after . . . well, after what happened. It was in the news. People know.

  My brother’s not really named Truffle, of course — his actual name is Thomas Patrick Zachary May. But as soon as he was born I called him Truffle, because when I first saw him he was wrapped in a fluffy towel, like a white chocolate truffle. It sort of stuck.

  Oh, and the Patrick part comes from my dad, Patrick May. Yep, the Patrick May, known as Paddy May, the man they called Mr. TV. The guy from May I Present, the biggest afternoon talk show on TV here in the UK. Only not anymore.

  Yes, I miss him. Of course I do.

  Every single day.

  I think about how he used to take me swimming and to the playground and to the movies. How he’d smile and never get mad at me, and always call me Panda, his name for me since I was a toddler.

  But now he’s gone, and Mum’s brought us to this dead-end place. Dullsville. The back of beyond, the middle of nowhere, the end of the world. A sad place, in both senses of the word, you know: as in a sad film, like Bambi, and the “you sad loser” sense. It’s the kind of town where people go to die. Where the air smells of fish and seaweed, all splurging together into one seasidey, rotten smell. Where old men shuffle into seafront shelters in the cold, salty wind to eat melting ice-cream cones, and teenagers on bikes rattle up and down the Esplanade, giving them lip.

  A chilly, prowling mist rolls in from the sea sometimes. It’s so thick you can barely see where you’re going, and it can last from a few hours to a few days. Mum says they called it sea fret where she grew up.

  There isn’t even any sand here. Just pebbles as far as you can see, from the harbor all the way to Whitecliff and the posh marina, where the chic apartments and expensive boats are. There’s a halfhearted pier, which seems to be closed most of the time, and rows of pastel-colored motels and inns with cheerful names like “Sunrise” and “Bayview,” though they’ve all got “VACANCIES” signs in their windows and the paintwork’s flaking.

  The town itself is okay, I suppose. There’s an indoor shopping center, a movie theater, a soccer field, and a park with a skate ramp. In the central square, a spooky-looking, fifteenth-century abbey stands out against the sky. And behind the abbey, right at the edge of town, is a massive power station, empty at the moment, that’s just been built for some kind of electricity conversion.

  Our new home, the Old Vicarage, is about five minutes from the beach. It’s a sturdy stone place, set back from the road behind a gravel driveway and iron gates. Mum says it’s Victorian. Sometimes I think I see dark shapes flitting from roof to roof. Only seagulls, I suspect. Or cats. But I’m starting to feel surrounded by shadows.

  And that name — Firecroft Bay. I wondered about it at first, but it’s got nothing to do with fire. I looked it up, and it comes from the Old English, firencræft, which means “wickedness.” In the bad sense. What does that mean? What wickedness happened here? I keep thinking about it.

  I miss my old home, but we’re not going back. London’s in the past now and our new life is here, even though Dad never will be.

  I’m not sure how I feel about it, but I’m living with it.

  THE OLD VICARAGE: MONDAY 08:10

  “Have a good day, my love.”

  Mum gives me a hug in the hallway. Nobody to see us — well, only Truffle from his high chair in the kitchen — so I let her, without pulling away. I’m tired this morning, didn’t sleep well again last night.

  I look at my slim silver watch. Knowing the day and the time and where I am is important to me. Kind of helps me get a handle on the world around me. And the watch was my last ever birthday present from Dad. I wear it all the time.

  “The bus leaves in ten minutes,” I say. It’s two miles up the coast to school. Where I used to live, the school was just a couple of streets from our front door and everyone knew everyone else.

  Not like that here. I’ve got to start afresh.

  “You’ll make a lot of new friends,” Mum says, “so look at it as an opportunity.”

  I look into her eyes. They’re tired and crinkled, and her hair is starting to turn gray. She’s had it cut short in a bob. If you look
at the photos of her a year ago — when Dad was still alive — she’s got a young, smooth face and long, chestnut-brown hair. She looks like a different person now. She doesn’t talk much about all the stuff that brought us here, though. And she’s trying to see the opportunity, too: She already has appointments booked, people wanting her “holistic therapy” — alternative healing treatments.

  I shrug. “It’s only school. What can go wrong?”

  THE ESPLANADE: MONDAY 08:20

  There’s a cluster of kids in blue blazers and ties already huddled in the bus shelter. I grab the straps of my rucksack and try to make my eyes look hard. Straightaway I feel out of place because I haven’t got my uniform yet; I’m in some boring jeans and a plain hoodie. I squirm inside, but nobody even looks in my direction.

  Though it’s late April now and there’s pale sunlight, there’s still a chilly wind. The sea’s gray and choppy. Deckchair Man’s setting out his stall, looking hopeful. I met him yesterday. He waves to me, and I wave back.

  “Why are you waving?” says a tall girl standing next to me. Her voice is cold. She has a pointy face and sharp green eyes, and she wears her bright red hair in a long, elegant French braid on one side. She looks older than me. “And you’re squinting.”

  I feel myself blushing. “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You look like a ferret.”

  “Do ferrets squint?” I ask lightly, trying to ignore her rudeness.

  She shrugs. “No idea.” She holds out one long arm and shakes my hand. That’s weird, formal. Like she’s my mum’s age. “I’m Callista McGovern. Call me Cal. You’re new, aren’t you?”

  “Miranda May. Just starting today.”

  I’m going to say more, but the bus arrives. The doors open with a pssssht, and there’s a lot of pushing and shoving as the bigger boys get on first. I find myself right at the back of the line and only just manage to get on board before the doors close. The bus rattles and thumps off down the seafront road.

  I hang on desperately, trying not to knock the other kids with my rucksack. The bus is close and airless and smells of bad aftershave, minty gum, and cheap perfume. But even with all those bodies packed in around me, I still feel cold. Why is that?

  “You’ll like the school,” says Cal, who’s straphanging beside me. “Eventually.” She sounds very haughty and knowing, and doesn’t look me in the eye as she speaks.

  Why is she even bothering to talk to me if she doesn’t like me? It’s my first day — I just want keep my head down.

  “Right,” I say uncertainly.

  A girl a few rows in front twists around in her seat to stare at me. She looks about ten. Bony and thin, blonde ponytail. I stare back, but she’s got these intense eyes that make me sort of shrink inside. I look away.

  But she’s not the only one interested in the new girl. A boy sitting near her is texting but keeps glancing up at me. Again and again. It’s like a nervous tic. His hair is so fair it’s like a halo of white, and he’s wearing blue-tinted glasses and a duffle coat, of all things. He seems about my age.

  I look out of the window, away from the curious gazes. The bus lurches and judders on — hugging the old smugglers’ bay, past a pub called the Barrel of Rum. It turns in a tight circle by the lighthouse, on the farthest-out spit of land, and begins to head slowly uphill into town.

  Then I notice something strange: It’s so cold I can see my breath.

  The boys at the back of the bus have stopped jostling and thumping each other, and are now shivering and doing up their jackets.

  “Is it always so cold here?” I say to Cal. “It’s supposed to be April.”

  “No,” says Cal thoughtfully. Her palm is pressed flat against the window. “It’s not always this cold.” She scrapes one finger down the wall of the bus and holds it up. The tip of her finger is coated with tiny white crystals. “Ice,” she murmurs, and turns to look at a floppy-haired boy sitting behind us, holding her finger out toward him. “Josh?” she says, her voice questioning.

  He gives her a sharp look, then pulls his iPod earphones out of his ears and stands up quickly. I guess he’s a couple of years older than me.

  The temperature in the bus has dropped even further, biting like a winter’s day; everyone’s looking at each other, pulling blazers and coats tightly around themselves. Through a clear patch in the window I can see it’s still sunny outside; people are walking along without coats. But my face is turning numb.

  And the bus is creaking.

  “Look!” says Ponytail Girl. “Look at the ceiling.”

  Everyone on the bus looks up.

  The ceiling is puckering and sparkling like the roof of an ice cave, and blue-white stalactites are starting to form, sprouting like living things from the metal roof. The windows are frosting, cracking, splintering.

  The world seems to go into slow motion. Reality has shifted.I feel as if I am at the heart of an ice storm, everything whipping and swirling around me, and yet I’m miles away from it all.

  “Whoa,” I hear Cal say. “Ice, ice, baby.”

  I blink, and I’m snapped back into the real world.

  It’s really happening. The bus is covered, inside and out, with gleaming ice.

  The boy named Josh turns, runs to the front, and bangs on the wall behind the driver.

  “Stop!” he yells. “Stop this bus!” He turns toward Cal, his face deadly serious. “We’ve got to clear the bus. Get everyone out now!”

  The bus driver brakes sharply, swings his cab door open, and jumps down.

  “What are you kids going on about?” he snarls. “When I get to that school I’m gonna —” He stops abruptly as he sees what’s happening all around him. “Crikey,” he says in a small voice.

  Cal pushes past him and slams her fist on the emergency door control. The doors squeal and grind, then spring open with a shattering of ice.

  “Come on, rabble!” Cal orders. “Everyone off, quickly and quietly.”

  Rabble? I can’t help thinking. Honestly, what an arrogant cow.

  But everyone obeys. That’s weird — like Cal has some natural authority beyond her age. They don’t get off quickly and quietly, though. There’s a panicked scramble, and for a moment I am swept along in the hordes of blue-blazered kids, my feet skidding. Just as I’m about to lose my balance, a hand grabs me and pulls me to the side. I look up and see Josh looking down at me through his floppy hair. I manage to smile in thanks, but he doesn’t smile back. There is something hard about his blue eyes. Like Cal, I think. Just like Cal.

  And what’s Cal doing, now everyone’s off the bus? She’s scraping some ice off the window with a penknife. Then she puts it into what looks like a small specimen jar and slips that into her pocket.

  “Come on, you lot!” shouts the driver from the door. “I gotta report this to the depot. And you’re walking to school!”

  Outside, the warmth of the spring day hits me, but the bus is still freezing over. The bright paintwork is disappearing beneath a layer of thick ice. It’s as if the whole thing is turning into a solid block. Pupils have gathered in a crowd to watch, their jaws hanging open. Motorists and passersby slow down to stare.

  It’s unbelievable. I’ve never seen anything like it.

  Then I see Josh, Cal, Ponytail Girl, and Duffle-coat Boy standing together, away from everyone else. They’re talking quietly, but with a kind of . . . energy. That’s an odd group, I think suddenly. A strange mix. What can they have in common? Then I get it. The energy . . .

  They’re excited.

  I get a shiver down my spine, which I know has nothing to do with the ridiculously cold bus. It’s just the feeling that this morning is the start of something big, something that’s going to change my life forever.

  KING EDWARD VI HIGH SCHOOL: MONDAY 08:55

  Nothing like a good
near disaster for starting the morning. Makes the whole rigmarole of standing in assembly, being gawked at, and finding my way around a bit easier to bear.

  Everyone’s talking about it in the corridors. You can hear it as you hurry past them. Yak-yak-yak.

  “They said it was a blizzard. Snowin’ inside the bus!”

  “I heard they couldn’t see.”

  “Yeah, I heard their eyelids was frozen up!”

  “Nah, I heard they got trapped inside by the ice and had to dig their way out with a rusty Coke can.”

  My homeroom teacher is Miss Bellini. I like her straightaway. She’s tall and black and striking, with high cheekbones, perfect white teeth, and trendy designer glasses. Her cropped hair is a bit “mad professor,” sticking out in random spikes, but I get the feeling she pays a lot of money for it to be like that.

  “Just find yourselves a place, everyone,” she says as we pile into the room. Her accent sounds American. For a moment, I think her eyes settle on me, as if she is watching me carefully, sizing me up. And then the moment is gone. Perhaps I imagined it.

  I find myself sitting next to a girl with tangled black hair, big hooped earrings, pierced nose, panda-eyes going on with the eyeliner. She’s not wearing a uniform, either. Somehow, she’s got away with coming to school in a battered JumpJets concert hoodie, frayed denim shorts, black diamond-patterned tights, and Goth-type boots with buckles. Looks cool, kind of Eastern European, like a Gypsy, maybe. She must be new as well.

  In front of me sits the ponytail girl from the bus. What’s she doing in my class? She seems much too young.

  Gypsy Girl sees me looking. She puts a hand up to cover her mouth.

  “See her?” she whispers, nodding in Ponytail Girl’s direction.

  “Yes?” I whisper back.

  “Alyssa-Mae Myers. Lyssa, she calls herself. She’s only nine, right? But she, like, got moved up after she found the stuff at her primary school too easy, yeah? Before she was seven, she’d rewritten the times table. And she got her General Certificate in Math in her spare time and made up a new language for fun.”