Inside the Shadow City (4 page)

“I should really get home,” I said as politely as possible. My feet ached from walking the city all day, and I was pretty sure that the woman was insane.

“But it will only take a minute,” she pleaded. “It is very close by.”

“Okay,” I mumbled, zipping up my coat and heading for the door.

“Oh no,” the woman giggled girlishly. “There is no need to go outside. You will come with me to the storeroom. It is the very best place to see the cemetery.”

Most of the time I feel no need to obey adults whose sanity I question. But I was convinced that the tiny woman was peculiar but harmless, so I followed her up a rickety spiral staircase.

The room above the shop was crammed to the ceiling with books and bore a remarkable resemblance to my parents' bedroom. The woman, who had introduced herself as Verushka on our way up the stairs, led me to a window set in the back of the building.

“There it is,” she said, pointing out the window. “The Marble Cemetery.”

I pushed a box of moldy French dictionaries out of my path and stood in front of the window. Below us lay an empty plot of land the size of a football field. It was carved out of the center of the block and surrounded by a high wall that kept the buildings around it from intruding. I had walked down Second Avenue thousands of times and never suspected that anything quite so remarkable might lie behind its storefronts and apartment buildings.

“Where are the graves?” I asked, searching for tombstones.

“They are underground, of course.” Verushka laughed. “The square blocks of marble you see in the grass? These are the entrances to the vaults. There are dozens of tombs beneath the ground. It is a village of the dead.”

“How can I get down there?” I asked, thrilled to find a way beneath the streets.

“You cannot. Only the families of the dead are allowed inside the Marble Cemetery—and no one has been buried here for many years. But you can step onto the fire escape if you would like a better look.”

I opened the storeroom window and was struck by a blast of icy wind. The fire escape was swinging from side to side. I glanced back at Verushka, who shook her head in disappointment.

“You cannot catch fish if you are afraid of the water,” she chided me.

I hit my head on the windowsill as I crawled onto the fire escape, and it took a few moments for the dizziness
to pass. Once I could focus on the graveyard below, I found it hard to imagine that so impressive a space could remain hidden in the middle of Manhattan. The grass was a surreal shade of green one sees alongside Scottish castles, the color made more vivid by the dreariness of the surroundings.

As I gaped in amazement, the unmistakable sound of a key scraping against a lock echoed through the cemetery. From the fire escape, I could see everything but the small section that lay beneath my feet. Dropping to my knees, I peered through the iron bars and caught sight of someone opening the gate that hid the graveyard from the bustle of Second Avenue. A relative of the dead, I assumed at first, but there was something about the person's size and the unusual color of her hair that almost knocked me off balance and over the side of the fire escape. The gate swung shut and the person disappeared from view. Though I hadn't seen her face, by the time I crawled back inside the storeroom, I was convinced that the person in question was none other than Kiki Strike.

“There was a girl in the cemetery,” I whispered to Verushka.

“How odd,” she remarked, showing no sign of surprise.

One of the most important skills you can learn is how to recognize a lie when you hear one. Over the years, I've encountered enemies who tried to lead me astray and imposters who wanted to swindle me. In each case, I've been able to see through their deceptions, and I can assure you that the truth did not set them free.

Identifying a lie is not always easy. As you may have noticed, people
who make a habit of lying are often quite good at it. But if you suspect you're being hoodwinked, don't say a word. Just pay attention. The following clues should tell you if someone's trying to pull the wool over your eyes.

Listen to Her Voice

A liar is a person with something to hide. And no matter what that something may be, it's probably weighing heavily on her mind. As a result, a liar must make an effort to avoid giving too much away. She'll speak more slowly and pause before answering questions. As she grows more anxious, her voice may start to sound higher. When she does respond, she'll be careful not to offer specific information and may say something vague like, “I couldn't have murdered Hank. I was busy that day.”

Study Her Face

Most people are terrible actors. A liar may have her story straight, but if she can't control her face, she'll be as easy to spot as a soap opera star in a Shakespeare play. A person who's telling the truth will laugh, grimace, or cry when appropriate, but a liar may have to think about it first. She may even be concentrating so hard on what to do that she'll blink less and hold her head unnaturally still.

See if She Squirms

When it comes to body language, there are two types of liars—the fidgeters and the control freaks. The fidgeters can't sit still. They shift around in their seats, tap their feet, or play with their jewelry. They also touch their faces more often—rubbing their noses, running their fingers through their hair, or brushing their hands against their mouths. The control freaks, on the other hand, go out of their way to avoid looking nervous. They may move very little and avoid gesturing altogether. Some will even go so far as to cross their arms or sit on their hands.

It had been more than a week since I had last thought of Kiki Strike, but the instant I saw her at the Marble Cemetery, I was spellbound once more. I suppose some people might have mistaken the encounter for coincidence. But I had long suspected that there are few true coincidences in this world. Something—or someone— was bringing the two of us together.

For the first time in my life, I grew impatient for winter break to end. Hoping one of my classmates could give me the lowdown on the mysterious Kiki Strike, I even arrived early the first day back, only to find that two weeks of presents and parties had erased her from everyone's memories. I was left with no other option but to wait for class to begin, keeping my eye trained on Kiki's desk at the back of the room.

Seconds before the bell rang, I saw her. She was even smaller than I remembered—more like a mythical creature than a human being. She was dressed entirely in
black, and though I've heard her hair described as blond, the truth was that it lacked any color at all. Instead it was a shocking, almost translucent white, and her skin was a bloodless hue common to corpses and cave-dwelling creatures. In fact, the only color about her person was in the form of two little rubies—one in either ear. Though my description may sound ghoulish, I assure you that the total package was surprisingly attractive.

I watched, thinking myself unnoticed, as she removed a notebook (black) and a pen (black) from a leather satchel (also black). She spent a moment arranging these tools on her desk, and just as she finished, her eyes snapped up and caught mine. I could feel my face flushing a deep red, for she seemed to be examining every last detail of my appearance. Her pale blue eyes—so light, they were milky—gave nothing away. Her mouth neither smiled nor twitched nor grimaced nor frowned. Finally, she raised one eyebrow, and held it arched high for a moment before she allowed it to fall. I spun around to face the front of the class, my cheeks burning with humiliation. I swore to myself that I would not be caught again.

• • •

For two months, I did my best to stay out of sight as I stalked Kiki Strike among the library stacks and shadowed her through the forest of gym lockers in the school's basement. But though I tried to be discreet, surveillance was a craft that didn't come naturally to me. I almost blew my cover one afternoon in the library when I tripped over a kindergartner who was cramming a peanut
butter sandwich between two copies of
Oliver Twist.
And I was certain I'd heard someone laugh the day I was mysteriously drenched while hiding in a shower stall in the gym's locker room.

Neglecting my homework, I spent my evenings inventing more foolproof methods of spying on Kiki Strike. I even glued a mirror inside one of my textbooks so I could watch her at the back of the classroom. But everything I saw just made her seem stranger. Kiki said nothing during class, and our teachers never called on her. In fact, she was so successful at blending in that everyone seemed to look right through her.

After several weeks of watching her, I began to wonder if Kiki might be watching someone else. She showed no interest in making friends, but on several occasions, I saw her studying a group of ninth graders like a scientist keeping track of a pack of gorillas. Following her lead, I made my own list of observations.

1. Kiki Strike always wore black.

2. She carried her black notebook everywhere, but never took notes during class.

3. She was nowhere to be found during lunch.

4. No one else seemed to know she existed.

5. She possessed a remarkable ability to disappear at will.

This last observation—or lack thereof—was the main reason my list stopped short. Countless times on countless days, I would follow Kiki down one of the corridors only to turn a corner and find myself pursuing the wrong girl.

By March, I grew frustrated. I made up my mind to follow Kiki Strike home, hoping to uncover her secrets once and for all. Were there flowery curtains on her bedroom windows? Did her mother meet her at the door with a big hug? Were there other little Strikes running about? I hoped not. The chance that Kiki might be an ordinary girl filled me with dread.

I wouldn't have admitted it, but Kiki had given me a glimmer of hope. Until she had arrived at the Atalanta School, I had resigned myself to a lonely existence. No one ever passed me notes or invited me to parties. As far as my schoolmates were concerned, I wasn't even there. Kiki was invisible, too, but she appeared to like it that way. She wasn't interested in being popular. For some reason I had yet to discover, she had chosen to be dangerous instead. More than anything, I wanted to learn her secret. And if Kiki Strike turned out to be just another social misfit, I would be crushed. But that was a risk I was willing to take.

I suppose you're thinking that I could have asked her, but if so, you're missing the point. A girl who's announced that she'd like to be dangerous is hardly a reliable source of information. I wasn't interested in what Kiki wanted me to know or was willing to tell me. I wanted the truth, and I needed a way to see it for myself.

• • •

The day I decided to follow Kiki Strike home, I skipped my last class and prepared to hide outside the school and wait for her to appear. It wasn't until I opened the front door that I realized I had failed to check the weather report. The steps of the school were covered with snow,
and I worried that my tracks might give me away. But I was too curious to postpone my plan. I wrapped a beige scarf about my head for camouflage and searched for a hiding place.

I didn't have to look for long. The exterior of the Atalanta School was riddled with countless nooks and crannies just large enough to conceal a girl—though few girls chose to use them. We had all heard the story of the boy who had hidden in one of the crevices back in the days when the looming Gothic structure had been a home for wayward children. Before the boy could make his escape, a daggerlike icicle fell from a window ledge and speared him through the chest. Every winter, at least one hysterical girl would claim to have seen his ghost staggering through the halls, the melting ice leaving a watery trail.

I had always believed the story was nonsense, but when I looked up at the building that afternoon, I could see crops of icicles growing under every window. I kept a safe distance and crouched in the shadow of a boxwood bush near the school's only exit—an iron gate that opened onto the sidewalk.

Shortly after the three o'clock bell, Kiki Strike emerged from the building and walked briskly down the path that led to the gate. Wearing a military-style coat that reached down to her ankles and a Cossack hat of the blackest fur, she looked as dangerous as anyone under five feet could. More importantly, because she was dressed entirely in black, she stood out against the snow. For once, I thought, she had nowhere to hide.

Thanks to the weather, the streets were empty, and for the first few blocks, I was able to follow Kiki at a safe
distance. From the school, she walked west on Sixty-eighth Street. There was no car waiting for her on the corner of Lexington Avenue, and she passed both the subway station and the bus stop without even a glance. Just past Madison Avenue, I saw the trees of Central Park stretching above the mansions that lined either side of the block. As we drew closer to the park, the city appeared to come to an end. Two or three cars inched along Fifth Avenue, their wheels leaving icy tracks that disappeared in moments as the snow reclaimed the street. Murky, yellow pools of light lapped at the poles of two streetlamps, and the eyes of a statue peeked out from beneath a thick white blanket.

Kiki stood at the edge of the park, her gloved hand resting on a stone wall. Against the wild white backdrop of the park, she appeared even smaller, and the rocks and trees held back by the wall threatened to swallow her alive. I watched from the other side of the avenue and hoped she didn't plan to make her way through the park. The afternoon light had already begun to dim. By four o'clock, it would be dark, and Central Park is not a place you want to find yourself at night. Even during the day, it can be difficult to navigate. Its wooded paths twist, turn, and circle back on themselves. The park is nothing less than a giant labyrinth—a maze constructed to fool city dwellers into believing they've left civilization behind, when in reality, they're never more than a few hundred yards from a Starbucks.