Shadows of Change (Arcanum Academy #1)

1. Kaia

Present, Age Twenty-three

The shadows are restless today, coiling around my ankles like anxious cats as I weave between the cramped tables of Joey’s All-Night Café. My regulars don’t know it, but this greasy spoon is protected by the world’s most dramatic security system. Three plates of congealed eggs balance on my arm while my shadows flick at napkins and nudge at coffee cups, determined to make my job harder than it already is.

Joey hired me two years ago after Mouse caught a rat in the kitchen. 'A cat with actual work ethic,' he'd said, not realizing Mouse was anything more than a stray who'd followed me in. The health inspector wasn't thrilled, but Joey insisted Mouse was part of the 'authentic diner experience.'

The rat never came back.

“Order up for table six!” Joey bellows from the kitchen. His voice bounces off the grease-stained walls, mixing with the clatter of silverware and the death rattle of the ancient coffee maker.

I bite back both a sigh and the urge to scold my shadows out loud. Normal people don’t talk to their shadows. Normal people don’t have shadows that move independently at all. But I gave up on normal somewhere between losing my parents and gaining a collection of clingy darkness that refuses to behave.

The morning rush hits like a tidal wave. The door chimes every few minutes, bringing in the usual mix of bleary-eyed office workers and construction crews fresh off the night shift. Their shadows—the ordinary, well-behaved kind—stretch across the checkered linoleum. Mine twitch with interest, teasing and blending with others, though no one ever notices the way their darkness subtly stirs when mine touches it.

“Can I get a refill, sweetheart?” A middle-aged man waves his empty mug at me. His suit’s seen better decades, his tie boasts an impressive collection of coffee stains, and his smile has all the warmth of week-old toast.

“Coming right up.” I paste on my best customer service smile—the one that says both I totally don’t hate this job and please tip well enough that I can make rent this month.

Sixteen years in this world, and I still don’t fit. Not in the noisy diner where the coffee machine screams like banshees, not in the city that smells like hot asphalt and desperation. And definitely not among these humans who can’t see the shadows clinging to my heels like lost puppies.

As I pour his coffee, my shadows dart beneath his chair, making him shiver. He glances around, confused, and I mentally beg them to behave. They retreat, but I can feel their sulky presence like a toddler denied their favorite toy.

“Thanks, hon,” he mutters, shaking off the odd moment. I move on to the next table, a group of construction workers debating the finer points of last night’s game.

“Kaia, more coffee here!” one of them says, tapping his empty cup. I grab the pot and top off their mugs, catching snippets of their banter. As I turn away, one shadow snakes out to nudge a dollar bill off the table. I grab it mid-air and slap it back down before anyone notices. Not helpful, I think toward them, but they just flutter smugly around my ankles.

Mouse watches from his perch on the windowsill, violet eyes tracking my movement across the diner. To most, Mouse is just a black cat—when they notice him at all. The regulars have gotten used to him, though a few still mutter about health codes. But I know better. He's been my constant companion since the night everything changed, though those memories are as hazy as his current form suggests.

The weight of the amethyst necklace against my collarbone reminds me of those gaps in my memory. It’s the only thing I have left from before Mouse and I woke up alone in a world that made no sense. Sometimes I catch my reflection in the diner’s chrome surfaces, and the stone seems to shimmer faintly, like it holds secrets I can’t access. Its presence is a constant reminder of what I’ve lost—and what I don’t understand.

"Kaia!" Joey’s voice snaps me back to reality. "Table three’s been waiting five minutes for their check!"

I scramble to print out their bill, but my shadows get there first, sliding the receipt book from the counter into my hands. “Thanks,” I mutter under my breath, then catch myself. Great. Now I’m thanking them.

The morning drags on in a blur of coffee refills and forced smiles. A kid in a booth by the window drops his syrup-covered fork, and my shadows dart out, catching it before it hits the ground. His mother blinks in confusion when I hand it back, probably wondering how I moved so fast. If she notices the flicker of movement around her son’s feet, she doesn’t mention it.

At one point, they even smooth the edge of a wobbling table as I pass by. The couple seated there exchange baffled glances, and I make a show of adjusting the napkin dispenser to cover for them. Shadows with an odd streak of helpfulness—who knew?

These small slips are happening more often lately. The shadows are bolder and harder to control. Even Mouse seems on edge, his ears constantly swiveling toward the door like he’s waiting for something. Or someone.

Finally, mercifully, my shift ends. I hang up my apron, counting the meager tips in my pocket. Another day, another barely-enough paycheck. The necklace feels heavier than usual, and my shadows twist around my wrists like bracelets made of smoke.

"See you tomorrow, Kaia," Joey calls as I head for the door. "Try not to be late this time."

I wave without turning around, more than ready to get out of here. My shadows curl closer in their version of a hug like they somehow know just how I'm feeling. Mouse hops down from his window and pads along beside me, his tail held high like he’s proud of surviving another shift without causing chaos.

That makes one of us.

My shadows stretch along the pavement, restless and alive. Mouse’s fur bristles slightly, and he keeps pace with me instead of running ahead like usual. A sense of unease settles in my stomach, as dark and heavy as the shadows themselves.

Sometimes I really wish he could talk. It would make life so much easier.

The neighborhood is quiet, just the opposite of me. A cool breeze brushes my cheek, carrying a faint smell of rain. For a moment, it’s like I’m back on the streets, huddling under a tattered blanket after being kicked out for the first time...

Even as a kid, my shadows made noise—not the kind you hear, but the kind you feel. The kind that makes people shiver and cross the street when they see you coming without really knowing why.

I learned to shrink, to make myself smaller, but the shadows? They never got the memo. One night, when I was about seven, my foster brother screamed when he saw something move. Not that he could see my shadows, but he could definitely see his stuffy inching toward the edge of his bed. I froze, unsure what to do. I hadn’t moved it, but my shadows had—and it terrified me just as much as him.

His mother came running in, and I'll never forget the way her face twisted in fear as she listened to her son. As he convinced her wasn't making it up. I didn’t understand at the time what I'd done wrong.

Then came the anger.

“You’re cursed,” she hissed, pointing to the door like she couldn’t stand to be near me. "Get out!"

So I did. It was the first of many nights I spent on the streets.

I spent the next ten years bouncing between homes, each one more eager than the last to be rid of the weird girl with the "overactive imagination." No one ever saw the shadows directly—just their effects. A book sliding off a shelf. A door closing without wind. Little things that added up to too much strange.

Foster families had tried to help, but what could they do with a cursed girl? My shadows didn’t care about boundaries. They slithered into bedrooms at night, knocking over picture frames and spilling secrets. I learned quickly: keep my head down, say nothing, trust no one.

The memory fades, Mouse nuzzling my ankle, a quiet reminder that he’s here. But even he doesn’t know the whole truth—the screams I still hear in my dreams, the isolation that comes with being different. The shadows aren’t my enemies, but they aren’t my friends either. They were just… there. And now, with the necklace growing heavier and the shadows growing bolder, I can’t shake the feeling that my past is catching up to me.

My pity part is cut short by a sharper awareness of the present. My necklace presses against my chest, and my shadows writhe with a tension that wasn’t there before slowly curling around my legs as though they'll shield me.

Something’s wrong.