Afterworlds (35 page)

“No.” Her voice had gone soft again. “Just to remember her.”

For a long moment, Darcy listened to the sound of Imogen breathing. It was heavy with weariness and alcohol, and something else.

“Holy crap. Did she die?”

Imogen nodded, still staring at the open closet. “Suicide. We think.”

“Shit.” Darcy sat up. “I’m so sorry.”

“It feels like a long time ago.”

“It still totally sucks.” Darcy wrapped her arms around Imogen.

“I was away at college and couldn’t afford to fly back, which made it a lot worse. I kept forgetting, somehow. In the morning, I’d go five minutes before remembering she was gone.”

“I didn’t mean to bring all this up, I swear.”

Imogen shook her head. “I don’t mind you knowing. I wasn’t hiding her, really. And I kind of love it that you want to know everything.”

They drew each other closer and the room was silent for while, except for the rumble of traffic starting up below. The light was shifting as morning approached. Darcy felt her body shifting as well, fitting itself against Imogen’s. The bite of alcohol and smoke softened into more familiar scents.

When they parted, Darcy said, “On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the most insecure, how shitty a girlfriend am I?”

“You’re not a shitty girlfriend. You’re hard work sometimes, is all.”

Darcy looked away. “When I saw her picture, I was jealous. Not because you were in love with her. Because she made you want to write books.”

“Lots of things make me want to write books. But yeah, she did.” The hint of a smile crept into Imogen’s expression. “And
that
made you jealous?”

“Of course.”

Imogen keeled slowly backward onto the bed, like a drunken tree falling. Her laugh was throaty and raw. “Like that night with Kiralee, when you were jealous about my
Phobomancer
idea. You’re hilarious.”

“No, I’m not. I’m horrible!”

“Yeah, right. I just got home from six hours of drinking, dancing, and talking mostly about sex with a half-dozen beautiful, dauntless, smart-as-shit women. And what are you jealous about? Where I got my nom de plume!” At the sound of her own French accent, Imogen bubbled over with raspy laughter again. “And because you didn’t get to hear my pitch before anyone else. That’s just hilarious.”

Darcy stared down at her girlfriend, wondering if she should have waited for sobriety to have this conversation. But when Imogen’s laughter finally subsided and her eyes opened again, they held a look of absolute clarity.

She reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Darcy’s ear. “You’re amazing.”

“I’m a mess, Gen. I don’t know how to stop being this way.”

“At least you care about the right stuff.” Imogen gave her a slow, catlike blink. “Do you really need to know my real name?”

“Do you want to tell me?”

“It won’t kill me, I guess.”

Darcy held Imogen’s gaze for a moment. Was this the sort of thing that normal people argued about? Names and noms de plume and novel pitches? Surely not. “Keep it secret. You’re Imogen to me.”

The resulting smile was beautiful. “Okay, but just for now. Do you want to come on tour with me?”

Darcy only stared at first, because the words didn’t parse. They
were too far from this conversation to make sense. But then their meaning fell into place, and she smiled back. “That would be nice. Maybe someday we’ll have a book out at the same time.”

“I don’t mean someday. I mean next month.”

Darcy blinked.

“Hotel rooms don’t cost more for two people,” Imogen went on. “And Paradox is paying for them, and for the cars that pick us up and stuff like that. And food’s cheaper outside of New York, so we’d save money there. All you’d have to pay for is your plane tickets, which I could help you with.”

“Wait. You mean go on tour with you . . . and
Standerson
?”

“Right—we should ask him first, to be polite. But he likes you, and I already talked to Nan about it. She said that prepub tours are great, especially when they don’t cost Paradox any money.”

Darcy nodded, her mind focusing at last. She’d been unmoored since finding the picture of Imogen White, but solid ground had suddenly appeared beneath her feet. Imogen was talking about
publishing
, a subject that always cleared Darcy’s head.

“A prepub tour? Is that a real thing?”

“Sure. You travel around meeting booksellers and librarians, and charm them so they’re all excited when your book comes out.” Imogen’s smile grew. “And we’ll be with Standerson, so his rock-star glow will rub off on us.”

“And Nan really said it was okay?”

“She loved the idea. But like I said, we’ll have to split your plane fare.”

“I’ll pay for my own planes, silly.”

“What about your budget?”

“Fuck my budget.”
Darcy threw her arms around Imogen again. “I get to go on tour with you and Standerson? That’s amazing!”

“You are kind of lucky, aren’t you?”

Darcy pulled away, laughing. “This isn’t about my luck, Gen. It’s because you don’t want to leave me alone for a week!”

“God only knows what you’d get up to.”

“I promise I won’t ever snoop again.”

“Take it from a half-assed expert in obsessive-compulsive disorders: you can’t stop yourself. But it’s okay, as long as you don’t look in my diary.” Imogen’s face went serious now, her voice suddenly sharp and ragged. “My mom used to read my notebooks when I was little, and I hated it more than anything. So don’t do that.”

“Never. I promise, Gen.”

The hard look on Imogen’s face turned swiftly back into a smile; her moods were oiled by the alcohol in her veins. “I’m glad you like my name.”

“I love your name. Her name. I’m sorry you lost her.”

“Me too.” Imogen’s eyes drifted toward the closet. “Even if she could be a total pain sometimes.”

Darcy followed her gaze. “Are all those matches for her? For Firecat?”

“At first, but then I realized how useful they could be.” Imogen reached for the half-full plastic box at her bedside. She turned it, looking at the matchbooks pressed up against the sides. “Whenever I need a location or a random job, I use them. See? I’ve got pawn shops and yarn stores and shoe repair places in here. Locksmiths and carpet cleaning and tattoo parlors, and look . . . roof restorations!”

“They’re for writing?”

“All my collections are.” Imogen reached toward the windowsill for more stuff, let it fall onto the bedcovers. “These paint samples are for colors. They have the best names: Candy Apple, Metal Smoke, Stone-Washed Surf.”

“And the polaroids?”

“What people wear, what they look like. People who aren’t in magazines.” Imogen shrugged, staring down at the scattered pieces of her collection. The spark in her eyes was fading now, weariness taking over.

Darcy said softly, “I love you like crazy, Imogen Gray.”

“Love you, too.” Her smile was slow and soft, and then her eyes closed, and Imogen curled around herself, wrists pressed together beneath one cheek.

Darcy took the paint samples and matchbooks and placed them back on the windowsill. By the time the bed was clear, Imogen’s breathing was slow and even, and Darcy reached carefully into the pockets of her jeans, sliding out keys and a crumpled wad of money . . .

. . . and Imogen’s phone, a diary wrapped in black glass and slivers of titanium. When Darcy flipped the mute button to silent, the screen lit up expectantly.

“Never,” she whispered to it, and placed the phone carefully beside the keys and cash. Then she curled up next to Imogen Gray,
her
Imogen, and closed her eyes to sleep at last.

 CHAPTER 26 

THE SCHOOLHOUSE WAS EASIER TO
see tonight. My flipside eyes had grown sharper. Every tile on the roof glimmered, clear and distinct in the gray moonlight.

I crossed the parking lot, hardly noticing the transparent hulks of school buses around me. I could see only the past, luminous and real. The first time I’d come here, the school’s front steps had looked smooth and featureless, but now they were chipped and mottled with chewing gum stains.

Yama was right. Every time I crossed over, every time I traveled the river, the ghostly world laid a stronger claim on me.

But what did it matter? According to him, I’d been born to this. I wasn’t even sure if he wanted me anymore, or if that fight on his ocean-swept island had been our last.

The front door of the schoolhouse was open, inviting me in.

“This isn’t scary anymore,” I murmured. “I belong here.”

The hallways were silent tonight. The ghostly children’s songs had faded or been frightened away, leaving my slow echoing steps the only sound. I walked carefully, because the squeak of sneakers on tile still paralyzed me. It took a few minutes’ wandering to find the place where the voice had first taunted us.

“Are you still here?” My mouth went dry around the words.

No answer, just the fear in my own voice. The lockers wavered for a moment, as if desert heat were rising from the floor.

I pushed my dread down, letting the cold place inside me smother it.

“It’s me, from the other night. You followed me home. You said you wanted an apprentice.”

Nothing at first, but then motion flickered in the corners of my eyes, and the sound of laughter came from behind me.

I spun around, but found nothing but a sign on the wall:
NO RUNNING
.

It wasn’t the old man in the patched coat, just the ghost of some ancient infraction.

I sighed. “You’re
really
annoying, you know?”

That time I hadn’t expected an answer, but one came—the sound of a fingernail against the floor, traveling down the hallway toward me. It clicked across the cracks between tiles, slow and patient. The sound was an icicle on my spine.

When it passed beneath my feet I jumped, feet dancing, a shiver rippling through me in its wake.

“For fuck’s sake.” I faced the empty hallway. “I’m here to ask you for help.”

“You want a favor?” the response came, leaking up from the
floor. His voice sounded so pleased, so eager, that I almost ran for the exit. Color flitted in the corners of my vision.

I took a slow breath to keep myself on the flipside, and said, “I need to know some things.”

In answer, black oil bubbled up, seeping from the cracks in the floor, the spaces between the lockers. It rolled hungrily toward my feet, and a moment later I was sinking down into the river, ready to face the old man in the patched coat again.

*  *  *

He was shinier than last time, his skin luminous in the dark. Maybe that was just my eyes again, more attuned now to the gleam we psychopomps gave off. These days, I could even see the cold, wet things in the river, like scraps of shadow floating against the darkness.

“What a nice surprise,” the old man said. “I was starting to think you didn’t like me.”

“Feel free to keep thinking that.” My hand went to my back pocket, where the knife I’d brought along was sheathed.

His eyes followed my motion. “A little rude, for someone asking a favor.”

“Whatever.” I let my hand fall back to my side. “You said you wanted to teach me things. I’ve got questions for you.”

“Questions?” he said, amused. “You mean there are things your dark-skinned friend doesn’t know?”

I decided to ignore that. “There’s a man, a murderer. His victims are buried in his front yard, I think. They’re haunting his house.”

“Are you offering me some little ghosts? How sweet.” He
smiled, but the expression didn’t quite reach his pale eyes. “Alas, my tastes are very particular.”

“I’m not
offering
you anything. I just need to know how to deal with him.”

“Oh. You’re talking about revenge.”

“Not really. What I mean is . . .” My next words faltered in my mouth. To say that I wanted
justice
sounded pompous. I wouldn’t mind if the bad man suffered, but mostly I just wanted to fix things. “I want my friend to stop being scared.”

“Your ghost friend,” the old man said. “The little one, who was with you when we met.”

“Yeah, the one you wanted to
collect
.” Saying that, I wondered why I’d come to the old man for help. But there was no one else to turn to. “He killed her, too. For all I know, he’s still killing people, and I have to stop him.”

“Interesting.” The old man said the word like he meant it. As if none of this seemed evil or nightmarish to him, or even unusual. Just interesting.

I had to keep talking. “I have all these powers now. I can go places, see the past. I
know
what he did, but I can’t prove it.”

“You mean, you can’t change it.” He gave a little shrug. “People like us don’t change the world. We just clean up its messes.”

“There’s no
people like us
. You and I aren’t the same! But you said you wanted an apprentice, so teach me how to fix this.”

He had a way of smiling—the expression surfacing slowly, like a bubble rising in a tar pit. “Your dark friend is keeping secrets from you, isn’t he? That’s why you’ve come crawling to me.”

I was angry enough to have stabbed him then, but instead I
said, “He thinks I’m changing too fast. He wants to protect me.”

“He’s a fool then. There’s no safety in ignorance. When you get called the first time, you’ll need all the tricks.”

“Called?” I shook my head. “By who?”

“Who do you think? By death.”

I stared at him, the cold place inside me growing just a little. Every time I thought I had a grasp on the afterworld, it got more complicated.

“What does that even mean? Death isn’t like . . . a person, is it?”

He laughed at that, hard enough that shiny little tears leaked from his translucent eyes. “A man with a scythe, you mean? Hardly. Or if he is, we aren’t on speaking terms. Maybe death is just a force of nature, or maybe it has a flicker of intelligence. Either way, once its hooks are in, it will take you where it needs you.”

I shook my head. “Which is . . . ?”

“The places you’d expect. A fire, a massacre. Perhaps a war. My first time was all three of those, an entire city dying. I was not entirely prepared.”