Shadow Days by Andrea Cremer

A n d r e A C r e m e r
    A N o v e l l a PHILOMEL BOOKS
    AN IMPRINT Of PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC.
    ACknowledgments
    Writing this prequel was an extraordinary experience not unlike a relay race — to succeed it required the speed, precision, and skill of the whole team. fortunately I work with an exceptionally talented team of publishers, editors, and marketers. I can’t thank my editor, Jill Santopolo, enough for believing this whirlwind project and racing along with me toward the finish line. The Penguin marketing team is beyond fantastic: Lisa DeGroff, Shanta Newlin, Emily Romero, Erin Dempsey, Courtney Wood, and Anna Jarzab put so much energy and creativity into the campaign, making it shine. I’d also like to thank the smashing folks at Campfire for bringing Rowan Estate to life and particularly to Dan Rodriguez, Brian Cain, Bret Kane, and Charissa Kane for welcoming me into their world. Will Browning deserves heaps of confetti and sparklers for being the fabulously talented and lovely person he is. There isn’t a day that goes by when I’m not thankful for my amazing crew at InkWell: Richard Pine, Charlie Olsen, and Lyndsey Blessing, who are the backbone of all my endeavors. finally, to all the incredible, clever, and creative fans who’ve traveled with Shay from his first explora-tions of Rowan Estate — you are what makes writing so rewarding.
    Thank you for helping Shay step into the real world; it is our friends who make us brave and give us the strength to solve life’s mysteries.
    This novella is dedicated to you.
    one
    E
    Home wAs A word witHout much meaning for me,
    but Portland was the closest I’d come to knowing one. That ended with a phone call, like it always did.
    “Morning, Seamus, my boy,” Uncle Bosque said, his voice crackling through the static.
    Since I’d turned eighteen at the beginning of the month, I didn’t appreciate that he insisted on still calling me “boy.” But considering that it was Bosque, I had to accept that he likely saw anyone who didn’t possess a stock portfolio worth at least five million dollars as less than a real man.
    I rolled over in bed, blinking at the clock. 7:00 a.m. On a Saturday.
    Bosque was one of those workaholic types with an unhealthy com-mitment to productivity.
    “Hey, Uncle Bosque,” I croaked around the morning frog lodged in my throat.
    “Exciting news,” he said. “I’m taking you home.”
    I sat up, rubbing my eyes. “I’m sorry?”
    “Home, dear nephew. We’re finally going home.”
    “What are you talking about?” I rolled out of bed, stumbling toward a laundry basket. I found a clean pair of jeans and pulled them on with one hand while holding the phone to my ear with the other.
    “You want to take a trip to Ireland?”
    2
    This was the only possibility I could dredge up. Ireland was as much home as anyplace else: I’d been born there.
    “No, no.” Bosque’s laugh was indulgent, as if I’d just asked if he was taking me to meet Santa Claus at the North Pole for Christmas.
    “We’re moving to the family estate.”
    The phone dropped from my hand. I swore under my breath.
    “Shay?” Bosque’s voice sounded tinny from where the phone lay.
    I scooped it up. “Sorry, I’m here. We have a family estate?” This was the first I’d ever heard of it.
    “Of course.” Bosque’s tone implied that us having an estate was akin to keeping a family photo album.
    “Where is it?” Now that I was beginning to wake up, I felt the too familiar discomfort, like a rock had landed in my gut. Another move. He was talking about another move.
    “Colorado.”
    I closed my eyes. “When?”
    “You haven’t asked where in Colorado,” Bosque said. “I think you’ll be quite pleased.”
    “Where?” I forced myself to be polite.
    “Vail.” I could hear the self-satisfaction in Bosque’s reply. “Think of all the rocks you can climb there. They have these rather large ones called the Rocky Mountains.” He laughed at his own poor