Underworld

by Meg Cabot

  “What good news?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine what good news there could possibly be, except that we had figured out a way to drive Furies from the human hosts they were possessing, then destroy them. Although it wasn’t a very practical solution to the problem, unless I was going to touch every Fury I encountered with my necklace, which meant that I had to get way more up close and personal to them than I thought was advisable.

  “I already told John, Patrick,” Mr. Smith said. “Honestly, they have to go now, the poor girl —”

  “Told John what?” I asked. “Is Alex all right?” After my recent scare — or series of them — I felt hypervigilant.

  John’s hand went to my arm. “He’s fine,” he said gently. “You don’t need to worry about anything. Frank’s going to watch to make sure Alex gets home safely. I gave him your cousin’s phone and keys, and told him only when Alex gets safely to his door is he allowed to have them back. Frank is to find your cousin’s car — Kayla will tell him where it is — and disable it, so Alex can’t go anywhere. Then I’ll fetch Frank and bring him home.”

  I blinked at him. “That … that’s perfect. Thank you.”

  He smiled at me. “Take Henry’s hand.”

  “What?” I did as he asked. “All right. But why?”

  Then I realized what John was about to do, and dropped Henry’s hand, which was still sticky from all the cotton candy he’d consumed anyway.

  “John,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “No.” Then I turned to Patrick. “What were you saying about good news?”

  “Oh,” Patrick said, looking confused. He’d been following our conversation intently, almost as if he’d been taking mental notes. I hoped it wasn’t for a blog or anything. “I don’t remember now. What was it? Something about pomegranates?” He looked at Mr. Smith, who appeared to be wishing for death. “I swear, I don’t know what Richard is talking about half the time, but this afternoon, he got on the phone with some professor in California, and afterwards, he would not stop going on about pomegranates, and how they are purely symbolic, and you can eat whatever you want and not worry. Is there some new pomegranate diet where you can eat what you want and not get fat or something? Because I could totally —”

  “Henry,” John said curtly. “Take Miss Oliviera’s hand.” Henry reached up to take my fingers in one hand, then grabbed Mr. Liu’s arm with his other.

  “Good-bye,” John said to Mr. Smith.

  Then he stepped off the porch and out into the courtyard, pulling me with him, into the pouring rain.

  “But I —” I began to say, turning my head to look back at the cemetery sexton and his partner. The latter seemed extremely surprised by our abrupt departure. Mr. Smith, however, appeared relieved to see us go. I saw him raise a hand to wave as the needle-like drops of rain began to stab me, quickly dampening my dress and hair.

  Then I blinked to keep the water out of my eyes, and all of it — Mr. Smith, Patrick, the hotel, the courtyard, the rain, the entire island of Isla Huesos — disappeared.

  When I opened my eyes again, we were in a different courtyard … the one where I’d found Henry hiding, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Though hours and hours had passed on earth since we’d been gone, little seemed to have changed in the realm of the dead. Time appeared not to move at the same pace in the Underworld as it did on earth. The grayish pink light in which John’s world was continuously bathed might have grown slightly more lavender, but not by much. The features of the marble woman in the courtyard’s center fountain were still easily discernible. The fire burning brightly in the enormous hearth in John’s bedroom continued to cast the same warm yellow glow against the white curtains in the interior archways as it had when we’d left. Nothing seemed different at all.

  Until a bit of movement caught my eye, and I looked up, and saw the birds.

  There were dozens of them — maybe hundreds — wheeling around and around in the air, their wings a pitiless black against the roof of the cavern. They weren’t flying in any sort of formation, they were just circling, the way vultures do when they’ve spotted dying prey.

  But these birds weren’t making any sound. They appeared to be hovering over the island across the lake, down by the beach where the dead got sorted.

  I gasped when I saw them, even though I was still reeling from having been ripped so suddenly from my world and thrust back to John’s. I forgot my indignation at John’s having done so in the middle of what I’d considered a pretty interesting conversation.

  “Look!” I cried, pointing at the birds. Hope was the only bird I’d ever seen in the Underworld.

  But to my relief, I saw that she wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention to those ominous birds. She’d swooped to a perch on top of the fountain and was already busy grooming herself after her long journey.

  “Why are they doing that?” I asked about the circling birds. “What does it mean?”

  “That we’ve been away too long,” said Mr. Liu, and strode off in the opposite direction of the archways, towards a large wooden gate, his expression forbidding. “Henry, come. There’s work to be done.”

  “Blankets,” Henry said, with a sigh. “I’ll have to tell Mr. Graves about the Fury and the cotton candy later.” Apparently to him, tasting cotton candy for the first time and seeing a Fury torn from its human host and destroyed were equally exciting. He dumped my book bag unceremoniously at my feet, then ran after Mr. Liu, calling, “Can we at least take Typhon with us? I swear I’ll keep him from biting anyone this time.”

  Then the gate banged shut, and John and I were alone for the first time in … well, what seemed like ages.

  That was the only explanation I could think of for why, in the silence between us, the sound of Hope’s contented cooing and the water bubbling in the fountain both suddenly sounded so absurdly loud … and why there appeared to be an electrical charge in the air, so strong that I felt the hairs on my arms rising.

  I tried to think of something to say to break the silence, because clearly he wasn’t going to do it. He was just standing there staring at me with an odd expression on his face, an expression I thought I recognized: It looked like the same one from that night by my mother’s pool, when he knew I’d learned something terrible about him from Mr. Smith, and was sure I must hate him.

  He was partly right … I had learned something terrible about him. What I couldn’t figure out was how he knew. Had Mr. Smith told him that he’d loaned me the book? I doubted it, or Mr. Smith would have been soaking wet, along with his partner.

  Yet there John stood, looking defensive and ashamed all at once, his jaw thrust out and that muscle twitching in his cheek … but his eyes shining bright as stars.

  The problem with eyes that shined as bright as stars was that stars were unreadable. You couldn’t look into the sun and tell what it was thinking.

  There were so many questions I wanted to ask him — needed to ask him. But I hardly knew where to start. I could tell from the way he was staring at me — studying me, like he was waiting for something, some signal or sign from me — that he knew questions of some kind were coming, and dreaded them.

  Obviously, I couldn’t come straight out and ask, Why did you kill your father? Or What was Patrick talking about, I can eat whatever I want and not worry? Why did you tell me that I couldn’t, then?

  Stalling for time, I reached up to push back some of my hair, expecting to find it wet — I had, after all, just been pulled through a downpour to get here — but instead discovered it was dry as bone.

  I looked down. Every other time John had dragged me to his world, he’d seen fit to give me a nineteenth-century fashion makeover.

  But not this time. I was surprised to find myself in my own clothes, the white dress I’d taken from my closet at home. It looked fresh and newly pressed, despite the fact that I’d been recently wrestling in it on a hotel lobby floor with a member of Isla Huesos’s finest.

  Pleased, I lifted my gaze back up to
his, and smiled.

  “Now this,” I said, fingering the skirt of the dress, “is more my style. If I had a closetful of clothes like this, I could deal with life down here a whole lot bet —”

  In three long strides he was on me, seizing me around the waist and pulling me roughly to him, so that my soft body met his hard frame with a jolt I felt all the way down to my toes.

  “John.” I looked up at him in surprise. This was not the response I’d been expecting to my fairly innocuous statement. Something inside of him had seemed to break. I had no idea what, or why. He didn’t make a sound, or even change expression. “What’s the matter with —?”

  I never got to finish the question. Instead, his lips came down over mine, his mouth and tongue so commanding that any token resistance I might have considered putting up was quickly forgotten … not only because there didn’t seem to be any point, but because I realized the truth:

  I wanted him every bit as much as he wanted me.

  When his lips slid from my mouth to my throat to kiss each place the links from my necklace had left red marks, I knew I was lost. I had to cling to his shoulders just to remain upright. I could feel his heart racing through the walls of his solidly muscled chest.

  My own heart was like a wild thing, urging me to do things I knew perfectly well that I shouldn’t. But who was going to stop me? Certainly not him. Something had come over him, a kind of desperate need that I could feel in every kiss, every look, every caress. I wasn’t sure where it was coming from, or what had sparked it so suddenly. There was a sense of urgency to his movements, even though I hadn’t heard the marina horn, so I didn’t know why he was in such a rush.

  This time, however, when I found his fingers on the buttons on the front of my dress, I didn’t push his hand away. My own fingers tangled in his thick dark hair, and I murmured his name.

  I don’t know why this caused him suddenly to lift me off my feet, carrying me through one of the archways to his room after impatiently kicking aside the gauzy white curtain. The next thing I knew, I was sinking into the impossibly soft, downy comforter on the big white bed. I couldn’t help thinking, Oh, this is probably a mistake.

  But I couldn’t see how it could be a mistake, or how it could be wrong, especially when, a second later, he was on top of me, the masculine weight of him so deliciously heavy, and his big callused hands slipping inside my dress. Soon his fingers were touching me in places no one had ever touched me before, each caress leaving my nerve endings feeling as tingly as if they’d just been kissed by a shooting star, landing on my skin and leaving it as glistening as a newly formed galaxy.

  Surely that couldn’t be wrong, could it?

  At one point, though, he too seemed to experience a moment’s doubt. His body, in the firelight, was beautiful, even with the scars. I would have traced every one with my fingers, then kissed it, if he had let me.

  When I tried, however, he took both my wrists and pressed them back against the comforter, saying, “Stop,” in a voice that sounded choked with emotion. He looked down at me with eyes that were no longer shining, but filled with a darkness I couldn’t read.

  “You said you wanted to take things slow,” he reminded me gruffly.

  Had I? My mind was moving so sluggishly from all the mini-explosions his fingers had been setting off along my skin that it took a moment to recall the conversation he was referring to. It seemed to have taken place a million years ago.

  “Oh, that,” I said. “No, it’s okay.”

  “Is it?” he asked, strangely anxious. “Are you sure? Despite the … consequences?”

  Consequences? I couldn’t bear hearing the word consequences again. And certainly not now.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s quite all righ —”

  His mouth came down over mine before I could finish what I was saying, kissing me with so much passion that I felt as if he and I were one already. Apparently the only thing he’d been waiting for was my permission. Once he received it, he took decidedly emphatic action. It wasn’t long before the shooting stars returned, only now they were entire galaxies of sparkling suns and planets that seemed to expand and expand until finally they collapsed, showering us both with little bits of stars and moons and cosmos.

  Afterwards, he fell asleep … his head on my shoulder, for a change. I marveled at how untroubled he looked … the first time I’d ever seen him that way. It must, I decided, have been how he’d looked as a little boy.

  Then I remembered Hayden and Sons, and decided it was probably best not to think about his childhood.

  Still, he and I were obviously always meant to be together. Of course we had a few things to work out, like any couple. Well, maybe more difficult things than most couples.

  But the storm was finally over.

  I should have known it was only beginning.

  I opened my eyes. Just like before, it took me a few seconds to remember why the light filtering through my bedroom curtains looked so unfamiliar. It was because I wasn’t in my bedroom.

  This time when I turned my head and saw the boy in bed next to me, I didn’t freak out … at least until I saw the book he was reading.

  I sat up … too fast. I sank back down against the pillows, putting a hand over my eyes.

  “Headache?” John asked. His tone was solicitous, but also a little … something else. I couldn’t tell what.

  I nodded. I didn’t really have a headache. I had actually slept dreamlessly and amazingly well.

  But I thought I might get a headache soon if we had to discuss the book in his hands.

  “Here,” he said, and I looked between my fingers to see what he was offering me.

  A cup and saucer. I sat up, more slowly this time.

  The cup contained hot tea with milk. I took it from him and sipped, keeping a careful eye on him.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said. I noticed that he’d already showered. His hair was damp. He had on a fresh new shirt and pair of jeans. He’d even put on his boots.

  I, on the other hand, was still wearing my white dress. It had never been intended for use as a nightgown, and was scandalously wrinkled. He had the distinct advantage over me, lookswise.

  Hoping to change the subject from the book, which I feared he wasn’t going to let go — it was a conversation I knew we had to have. I just wasn’t prepared to have it before breakfast — I asked in a too-bright voice, “Off to sort the dead?”

  “To get Frank,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said. I’d forgotten all about Frank. “Well, tell him hi from me. I hope he had fun with Kayla.”

  He held up the book. Rats.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice hard as stone.

  “Where did you get it?” I countered. It was always better to go on the offensive than be on the defensive. “I believe that was in my bag, my personal property, and you removed it. You should know better than to —”

  “I believe part of cohabitation means that what is mine is yours and what is yours is mine, as you proved yesterday when you went through every single one of my personal belongings while I was at work. Or is that not how you found your bag in the first place?” he asked.

  I took another sip of tea while I considered how to reply. He completely had me.

  “Mr. Smith gave it to me,” I said, finally deciding it was best to go with the truth.

  “Mr. Smith,” he said, scowling. “I should have known.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You should have. What was that about last night, with Patrick and the pomegranates?”

  Some of the color left his face. “I thought you knew,” he said.

  “Of course not,” I said. “You made us leave before I got to find out.”

  “You said last night” — he took the teacup from me and swiftly downed its contents, as if he needed quick sustenance, then set the cup aside — “that you understood the consequences.”

  “There won’t be any consequences from last n
ight,” I said. “Life can’t grow in a place of death. I checked with Mr. Smith.”

  “That’s what you meant?” He looked even paler.

  “Well, of course. What did you mean?”

  He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He kept his gaze glued to the book in his hands. He looked as if he’d been punched in the gut.

  “John.” Anxiety gripping me, as much due to his expression as his silence, I rose to my knees. “What sort of consequences did you mean? And what did Patrick mean when he said it was all right to eat whatever I wanted? When I told you the exact same thing yesterday, you said I was —”

  I saw that some color had come back into his cheeks, and I realized something amazing: He was blushing. “I know,” he interrupted. “I know what I said yesterday. But I didn’t want you to think you could leave if … well, if things didn’t turn out well between us. All I wanted was for you to give me a chance. I thought if you felt you had to stay because the Fates had decreed it, then you would. That’s how badly I wanted you to stay. I lied.” He stared down at the book in his hands. “I realize now it was the wrong thing to do. But you hadn’t even given it twenty-four hours, and you already wanted to go —”

  “I wanted to take things at my own pace,” I reminded him. “Not leave. Those aren’t the same thing, John.”

  “I understand that,” he said. He lifted his tortured gaze. “Now. And I’m sorry. If it means anything, I honestly did think you knew. And I felt sick for lying to you. I wanted to tell you, lots of times. But I just … couldn’t. And when we got to your mother’s house, and I could see how much you missed her and wanted to stay there, I almost … I … but when it came down to it, I couldn’t let you go. I was almost glad when your grandmother showed up,” he added, with some of his old wild ferocity. “It gave me a good excuse to take you away again.”

  I knew I should have been horribly angry with him … and a part of me was.

  But there was another part of me that wanted to laugh at his masculine bullheadedness, though I restrained myself, not feeling laughter would be the appropriate response.