Shadowshaper Read Online Free Page A

shame.”
    “You guys! What’s a shame?” Sierra forked a load of French toast into her mouth.
    Neville shook his head. “Nobody safe anymore.”
    “Whatsit say?” she asked. “Pass it over.”
    Dominic handed her the Searchlight .
    “Ol’ Vernon missing,” Dominic said.
    Sierra almost spat out her French toast. There, squished in between a wedding announcement and an article about yet another double murder at the Coltrane Projects, was a black-and-white picture of the thing that had attacked her last night. Ol’ Vernon had a big smile, and his eyes were wide open like he expected something great to happen at any moment. He looked a world away from the whispering fiend from the party.
    Vernon Chandler, 62, has been reported as missing from his Marcy Avenue apartment. Vernon was last seen two days ago; family members stated he had been acting unusually quiet the past week. Vernon has no history of mental illness and no criminal history. No note was found at his domicile. A spokesman for the NYPD’s 38th precinct said that if anyone has any information about Vernon’s whereabouts, they should contact the police or medical services. Otherwise, the spokesman said, “He was probably just out for a stroll.”
    “Wasn’t he a buddy of Lázaro’s from back in the sh —” Neville said.
    “Yeah.” Dominic sat at the table and poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe. “But you know …” He nodded toward the kitchen, where María was preparing another batch of French toast. “She don’t like to talk about all that.”
    “Dang, still?” Neville whispered.
    Dominic shrugged. “I mean … It just upsets her.”
    “Why … what don’t we talk about, Dad?” Sierra said. “What’d he have to do with Grandpa Lázaro?”
    “It’s nothing, baby. Old family history. Drama.”
    “You want French toast, mi amor?” María called from the kitchen. “I don’t have to be at the graduation till noon.”
    Dominic cleared his wife’s paperwork off the table. “Sure, babe.”
    “Seconds, Neville?”
    “Only if it’s you that’s cookin’ ’em,” Neville hollered a little louder than necessary. “Sierra, baby, why is your hand shaking?”
    Sierra put the newspaper down. “I dunno. Probably just too much coffee, I guess.” She stood up. “I gotta … Imma go upstairs, ’kay? Still worn out from the party last night.”
    “You going to start job hunting, m’ija?” María called over the din of clanking pots and sizzling butter.
    “Of course, Mami.”
    “That’s my girl.”

     
    On the second floor, Sierra poked her head into her brothers’ room. Her two older brothers could not have been more different. Gael’s walls were completely blank, while glossy photos of fancy guitars and half-naked zombie girls stared out from Juan’s side. Gael could talk through the night about all kinds of random ridiculous facts, while Juan spent his days crafting a careful casualness and practicing guitar at all hours. Then Gael became a marine, which surprised no one, and Juan’s salsa-thrasher band Culebra got a record deal, which shocked everyone, and both disappeared suddenly and completely from Sierra’s daily life. Now Gael was a three-page letter every month about waiting for something to happen in Tora Bora, and Juan was a rare and awkward phone call from Philly or Baltimore or wherever his latest gig was.
    Sierra continued past her own room to the third floor. The murky smell of incense and ramen noodles at the landing meant Timothy Boyd was home and trying to cook. He’d been renting the Santiagos’ extra apartment while he finished up his final visual arts degree at Pratt, and he pretty much stayed out of sight.
    Sierra went up another flight and knocked lightly on the wooden door. She always performed this useless tap-tap , even though Grandpa Lázaro never opened it or even responded. When she walked in, the gorgeous morning sky over New York unfolded before her.
    “Lo siento lo siento,”