Texting the Underworld (12 page)

“It is not for you,” Ashling said stiffly. “This is between Conor-boy and me.”

“Is it about tonight? Something horrible we don't know about?”
Maybe we can't go after all.
Conor's cowardly heart lifted.

Ashling shook her head. “It is about the dreams you've been having. I have had one, too.”

A door slammed downstairs. “Hurry up, kids,” Mom yelled up the stairs. “Pizza's here! Get it while it's hot.”

“Can you tell me real quick?” Conor wanted to know what she'd remembered, but he also wanted an hour or two off—a normal Saturday night of pizza and a movie.

Ashling sank into the beanbag chair, woebegone. “I will have to tell you later.”

The pizza was hot and the movie was funny. When the night was over, Conor and Glennie departed for bed without complaint.

“What, no late-night comedy show offensive?” Dad said. “Whatsamatter with you two?”

“We're tired because we're so worried about Grump,” Glennie said, in a flash of brilliance.

“Aw,” Mom said. “He'll be fine, kids. I just talked to him, and they took out the IV and everything.”

Upstairs, Conor shoved a sad-faced Ashling into the game cupboard, put on his pajamas, and climbed into bed so he'd look normal when his mother came to kiss him good night. The minute she was gone, he leaped out of bed and layered on long underwear, corduroys, flannel shirts and two sweaters, finishing with his parka, hat, and scarf. Ashling emerged from the game cupboard and laughed in spite of herself at the care he took to organize his layers.

“What did you remember?” Conor whispered. “Can you tell me quick?”

The light went out of her eyes. “It's complicated. Last night, as I slept, I saw Declan as if I were standing with him, and so much came flooding back to me. I admired him, wanted to be with him—the feeling was strong. I watched him work, I loved his hands, his eye for beauty. But he boasted he would rescue me from the smelly old man, and that angered me. I said, ‘I am a woman of the Uí Néill, not a thing to be carried off. I make this marriage for my family.' And I told my father and . . . and I told the smelly old man.”

Conor fished his mittens out of his parka pocket and waited for more. She took her comb out and tidied up the end of her braid.

“Is that all?” he whispered. “Who was I?”

“I don't know. Declan was nothing like you. He was . . . big. Strong.” She smiled, remembering. “Loud.”

In other words, not a boy named Pixie with peaked-up eyebrows.

At eleven, Conor's parents came upstairs and turned on the television in their bedroom, which meant they'd be asleep in three minutes. Glennie tiptoed into Conor's room, mouth full of Fruity Foolers.

She had on corduroys, two sweaters, her winter jacket and scarf, and a gray raccoon-face hat, complete with a stuffed nose and little ears. “It's the only one that ties under my chin,” she said when she saw Conor's expression. Her mittens had frog faces on them and were tied to a string threaded through her sleeves.

“My sister, the walking zoo,” Conor muttered.

“Take off that thing with the eyes.” Ashling pointed at a frog mitten. “I must not touch Worldcraft, remember?”

Glennie took off one mitten and let it dangle. Then she helped Conor on with a backpack he'd stuffed with Grump's warmest clothes.

His cell phone vibrated, dancing across the top of his bureau. A text from Javier:
Brng yr cel.
“Oh, cripes,” he muttered. “Why?” Typical Javier. No experience was complete without electronics.

“Dunno, but do what he says.” Glennie handed Ashling her ravaged cloak. “Javier's smart.”

At the open window, Ashling held out her hands to Conor and Glennie. “Shall we go?”

Glennie gave a soft squeal and danced over to take Ashling's hand. Conor did not follow. “We're going to fly now? Why not climb down the fire escape?”

Glennie made a
snerk
noise. “He's chickening out. I knew he would.”

Ashling ignored her. “Come, Conor-boy. No sense putting it off.”

Conor took off a mitten, stuck it in his pocket, and grabbed Ashling's hand. His arm buzzed and went light, then the rest of him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on not puking. His foot knocked against something—the window frame? Cold air bathed his face, and he knew he was outside, floating.

It felt weird, like swimming without getting wet. And without the comforting presence of water, buoying him up.

“Wheeeee!” Glennie squealed.

“Shhh,” Ashling said. “Conor-boy, where is Javier's house? You must open your eyes and show me. And you must help me kick, or we will float with the wind.”

Conor opened his eyes a crack, saw lights under his feet. “Gohhhhh.”

“Conor-boy.”

He opened his eyes all the way. They were drifting over a deserted Crumlin Street, twice as high as any house. He pointed two streets over. “I think it might be that house there, with the gray chimneys.”

“There's the cupcake store!” Glennie yelled. “And my school!”

“Dude, hush,” Ashling said. “Time enough for shouting when we are over the sea. Kick now.”

It was awkward, coordinating three sets of legs. Finally they figured out that they had to let themselves go horizontal, as if they really were swimming, and kick for all they were worth while Ashling pointed herself in the right direction. Their progress was slow.

“This is impossible,” Conor panted as they herky-jerked along over the rooftops. “How are we supposed to cross an ocean like this?”

“Nergal said if I had to fly, I should rise above the clouds and the Other Land will draw me to it,” Ashling said. “This part is harder because nothing is pulling us.”

Javier was on the corner near his house, under a streetlight. He pointed across the intersection, where there was a little park.

They met in the dim light under the trees. “We'd better go up pretty high,” Javier said. “You were way too visible coming over the rooftops.”

Great,
Conor thought.

“Cool,” Glennie said, smirking at him.

Ashling perched on the back of a bench. Under Javier's eye, Conor lashed Glennie's arms to Ashling's legs in best Adventure Boys fashion.

“Go up a little and see if it holds,” Javier advised Ashling.

“See if it
holds
?” Conor and Glennie asked in unison.

“It will, it will,” Javier reassured them. “But . . . you know . . . let's see.”

“You'll be light, remember,” Ashling said. “We must only be touching.” She closed her eyes, breathed deep, and lifted off, Glennie dangling underneath.

“Ooo, I don't like it,” Glennie said. “My arms feel weird sticking up like this.”

Conor and Javier climbed up on the bench so Ashling could reach their hands. Conor felt himself go light again. He swallowed hard to keep his dinner down.

“
Guuuhhhh,
” Javier said. “Wish I hadn't eaten so much.”

Ashling couldn't kick with Glennie tied to her legs, so Glennie did it for her. Conor and Javier kicked, too, and tried to stroke with their free arms as if they were in a pool. They could see the hospital in the distance, all lighted up, but for a long time it seemed they were making no progress toward it at all, just drifting on the east wind.

Conor was working up a sweat under his layers of clothing.
Can't believe I worried about being cold.

After what seemed like hours, they reached the hospital and found the right roof. Grump was at his window, waving his good arm.

Ashling dropped Javier and Conor off first—literally, from about three feet over the asphalt roof, right by the door. Then she hovered while they untied Glennie. Conor prayed no one was looking out the window. They tapped on the door and it swung open, Grump grinning behind it. He was wearing his hospital gown and, oddly, a surgical cap.

Far away, a bell started pinging.

Excited voices. Footsteps, hurrying in their direction.

“Holy macaroni,” Grump said. “There's an alarm on the door.”

And the bell kept pinging.

“Quick,” Grump said. “Hide in that broom closet.”

Conor and the others hustled into a large closet three steps down the hall. Grump stayed outside and shut them in. They were in pitch darkness, listening.

“Mr. O'Neill!” It was Angela Timulty, RN. How many hours did she work? “Did you open that roof door?”

“I needed some fresh air,” Grump said. “I feel all closed in.”

“Are you breathing all right? How are your ribs?”

“I'm fine. Here, take my pulse.”

“You need to get back into bed, Mr. O'Neill. You'll make yourself sick and you won't be going home in the morning.”

They walked down the hall, their voices retreating. “Dr. Murphy says we're to let you sleep tonight, but I don't see you sleeping,” Angela Timulty said. “Didn't you have a sleeping pill?”

“Yeah, and it's kicking in. I'll definitely sleep now.”

“Make sure you do.”

And they were gone.

“How are we going to get to Grump's room now?” Glennie whispered. “She'll be watching it like a hawk.”

“I wonder,” Ashling said.

“Wonder what? Keep your voice down.” Conor knew that nothing they'd planned was going to work. They were doomed.

“Take my hand,” Ashling said. “Does this room have ee-let . . . ee-letra . . .”

“Electricity,” Javier said. “Just a second . . . it must be here by the . . . yup.” They all blinked in the blast of light.

Ashling grabbed Conor's hand, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and vanished.

Conor felt cold air wash over him. He looked down at himself. He was gone, too—except for his outer sweater, floating in the air, and a pair of empty shoes on the floor.

“Whoa,” Javier said. Conor had to admit, it was pretty cool. He danced his foot around to watch the shoe move by itself. Glennie giggled.

Ashling reappeared, beaming. “If I touch you, you disappear when I do!”

“Whoa,” said Javier. “But . . . what's with the shoes and sweater? Some part of them must have to be touching Conor's skin.”

“We'll take off our socks,” Conor said.

“How will we all connect?” Glennie asked. “We can't tie me to Ashling's legs again.”

“It's only down the hall,” Javier said. “If we're each touching her hand with one finger it'll probably work.”

They tiptoed out of the closet and down the little hall to the main corridor, Ashling keeping one arm out straight so Glennie and Javier could both touch it. Conor held her other hand, trying not to blush and grateful to be invisible. He carried his socks and cell phone, and pulled the sleeves of both his parka and outer sweater down over his hands to make sure they touched his skin.

They had to creep along, as they discovered right away when Javier kept losing contact and flickering into sight. It was weird once they made the turn onto the main corridor. Angela Timulty, RN, hurried past them without a glance, and they had to shuffle sideways to avoid a janitor with a big floor buffer. Glennie found it hard to keep touching Ashling's arm while shuffling, so she winked into view as the janitor passed. He stopped dead (not really) in his tracks and whirled around, but by then Glennie and Ashling had reestablished contact. The janitor shook his head and continued to the hallway leading to the roof door, where he stopped and plugged in his floor buffer.

Conor tried to avoid looking down—seeing only the floor tiles, with no feet on top of them, made him dizzy. Because he couldn't see his feet, he couldn't be sure where they were. He was afraid he'd step on himself and fall over.

When they reached Grump's door, a sneeze erupted out of thin air. Javier. They all froze. A guy standing at the nurses' station down the hall glanced up. He stared straight at them just about forever, then shook his head and returned his attention to a chart he was reading.

Grump was sitting on his bed, disgruntled, but he cheered up when he saw them all materialize inside the door. “That's a neat trick. Can we all do that?”

“My left foot is still invisible,” Glennie said. “It kind of tingles.”

“Shhh.” Conor glanced at Grump's roommate, a tiny little guy with a huge snore.

“Oh, he's out like a light,” Grump said. “I would be, too, if I'd taken that pill they gave me.” He handed Javier his surgical cap. “Smart, huh? So you can pretend to be me. I said my head got cold. This way they won't notice you got all that nice black hair.”

“I plan to snore if anyone comes in,” Javier said. “That'll keep them away.”

“A nice loud fart would do it better,
amigo,
” Grump said. Javier was so horrified he didn't even roll his eyes about the
“
amigo.”

Glennie tiptoed to the door and listened. “Cripes. That janitor's working right by the door to the roof.”

I knew it,
Conor thought.
We're doomed.
His brain went into overdrive. “Okay. Okay. So . . . we'll go out the front door. We'll go invisible. But”—he considered Grump's pallid face—“we need a wheelchair.”

“I don't need a wheelchair,” Grump said.

“Yes, you do.” Glennie jutted out her jaw.
“
All you did was walk down the hall and back, and you sound like a walrus.”

Grump jutted his jaw precisely the same way as Glennie. “I. Don't. Need. A. Wheelchair.”

Conor's heart sank. His eyebrows peaked up.

Grump got a load of Conor's eyebrows and the set of Glennie's jaw, and grunted exactly like a walrus. “Oh, for cripes' sake. Okay, okay. Curb the eyebrows and find me a friggin' wheelchair.”

While Grump and Javier changed their clothes, Glennie stood watch at the door. Conor and Ashling, holding hands, tiptoed out into the hall invisible. There was a wheelchair about thirty feet away—pretty close, but also within a couple yards of the nurses' station. No chance the staff wouldn't notice it making off by itself down the hallway.

The only hope was to empty the nurses' station. “Can you think yourself to the elevator and create a disturbance?” Conor whispered to Ashling.

She nodded. Conor's hand went empty—and became visible. He ducked into Grump's doorway. Thirty seconds later, a blood-freezing scream echoed down the hallway on the other side of the nurses' station. “Ahhhh!” Ashling yelled. “The fright alligator! It has me! Ahhhhh!”

Which made no sense, but it didn't seem to matter. The nurses exchanged a panicked glance and rushed off in the direction of the noise. Conor scuttled down the hall, nabbed the wheelchair, and hustled back to the room, arriving just as Ashling rematerialized.

“It's
elevator,
not
alligator,
” Glennie informed Ashling.

“I wondered,” Ashling said. “The American alligator lives fifty years in captivity, thirty-five in the wild.”

Grump was all dressed, and Javier had on the hospital gown and surgical cap. He stuffed his clothes in Grump's closet, first taking out a wide belt of sturdy white canvas. He lunged at Grump and, without asking, snaked the belt around the old man's waist, outside his winter jacket.

“What in the Sam Hill is this?” Grump picked at it with his good hand.

“It's called a gait belt.” Javier cinched it tight. “It belonged to my grandmother. Conor and Glennie can grab it if you start to fall.”

Without waiting to catch the look on Grump's face—which would have terrified a soul-sucking demon warrior—Javier climbed into bed and pulled the covers up until only the top of his head was showing. They stuffed a pillow in at the foot of the bed to make him seem taller.

“Conor.” Javier's voice was muffled by blankets. “Got your cell?”

“Yeah.” Conor patted his jacket's inside pocket. “Don't see what good it'll do me.”

“I'll text you if anything happens that you should know.”

“
Text
me? Javier, we'll be in the afterlife.”

“You never know. Maybe they get a signal.”

“If you could text dead people, I think it would have been on the news by now.”

“Just keep your phone on, okay? And zip it in before you take off . . . You don't want it to fall in the ocean.” Conor envisioned the cell phone falling down, down, down into the water. It hit him that he was about to fly over the Atlantic Ocean holding hands with a banshee, to a place he'd never seen on a map.

His stomach gurgled. He sat down on the end of Grump's bed, spaghetti-legged.

“C'mon, kiddo.” Grump got into the wheelchair. “Let's get this show on the road.”

The wheelchair had to stay visible—there were too many separate parts, and no way somebody's skin could be touching all of them. “Is there anyone at the nurses' station?” Conor asked.

Ashling went invisible. The door opened all by itself, and closed. They waited. Then the door opened again and Ashling reappeared. “There's a man sitting there talking to himself. I'm scared of him.”

“Does he have one of these?” Conor fished his cell phone out of his pocket.

“I don't know. I didn't stay long enough to notice.”

Conor looked at Glennie, who shrugged. “We have to try it,” she said.

Javier's voice rose from the mass of blankets on the bed. “If someone sees you, stop and hope they think the chair rolled by itself. If you stay by the wall, maybe they'll leave it there.”

Conor sighed.
This will never work.
“Okay. Let's go.”

He and Glennie took hold of the two handles on the back of the wheelchair, Ashling between them with her right hand on Grump's neck. Glennie grabbed Ashling's right wrist. Ashling put her left hand on Conor's wrist. Again, he felt that wash of cold air, and where his feet used to be, there was nothing but floor tile.

He'd forgotten his cell phone, which was hanging in midair. He took it out of his pocket and gave it to Grump, who was already holding everybody's socks.

The corridor was empty as they pushed the wheelchair out of Grump's room. They hugged the wall all the way to the nurses' station, where a guy in scrubs talked on his cell phone. He had his back to them, and the long, curving counter would have kept him from seeing the chair anyway, but they had to inch along for the wheels to stay as quiet as possible.

The counter curved around to another corridor, the one that led to the elevators. Conor, who was on the outside, pushed his half of the wheelchair a little harder to make the turn. He couldn't consult with Glennie, though, and instinctively—competitively—she pushed harder, too. The chair wobbled in its course, squeaking, and then—disaster!—bumped against the counter, probably grazing Glennie's knuckles.

Glennie let out the teeniest, tiniest
huff.

“Hang on,” the man in scrubs said. “I heard something weird.”

The man heaved himself up onto the counter on his belly so he could see over it. “Huh,” he said to the wheelchair. “Look at you. You weren't there before, were you?”

Conor tried not to breathe, concentrating on absolute stillness. Grump's walrus breathing quieted, too.

The man slid off the counter and got back on his phone. “Nothing. Just a wheelchair. Must have rolled from someplace.” He listened to whoever was on the phone, staring straight at Conor, who felt an almost overwhelming urge to duck down and hide.

He can't see me, he can't see me, he can't see me . . .

Minutes ticked by, and still the man stood there and talked. But then Angela Timulty, RN, hustled up the corridor from the elevators. The man stuffed his cell phone into his pocket.

“What's this wheelchair doing here?” Angela Timulty paused in mid-hustle.

“I think it rolled here,” the man said.

“Well, roll it back. This is a terrible place for it.”

“Yeah, I was going to. You find the screamer?”

“No, and security didn't either. I'm going down to check on Mr. O'Neill. He's a bit of a happy wanderer.”

Angela Timulty hurried down the hall. The man in scrubs craned his neck to watch her go, then hauled out his cell phone. His back was to them now, as he kept his eye out for the nurse's return. “I gotta go, babe,” he told the cell phone. “Hatchet Face is back. She's working a double shift, so she's even more . . . Huh? Yeah, I guess.”

It was now or never. Conor reached around Ashling to poke Glennie, and they pushed the chair slowly down the corridor to the elevator.

The man kept talking on his phone. Conor kept waiting for pandemonium to erupt in Grump's room. But nothing happened. They reached the elevator. Conor pushed the call button. They waited. And waited.

The man said good-bye to whoever was on the phone. He rustled around behind the desk. Any minute,
any
minute, he'd come out to deal with the wheelchair and find that it had rolled all the way to the elevator.