Afterworlds

by Scott Westerfeld

  Darcy found herself poised between worry for Imogen and a sense of betrayal that she still wasn’t here.

  “I admire your monklike simplicity,” Johari was saying. “A room for sleeping, one for books and clothes, one for food, and the biggest one for writing.”

  “Are you going to keep it like this?” Oscar asked. “Au naturel?”

  “You mean empty?” Darcy shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s not exactly a design choice. More of a money thing.”

  “Ah, yes,” Oscar said. “I was a rent slave before I moved out to Hoboken. Had the best view of the Chrysler Building, but I had to suck my sheets for food.”

  “Enough about your personal life, Oscar.” Johari patted his shoulder and asked Darcy, “How’s your writing adjusting to a new space?”

  “I haven’t really tried yet.” Nan’s editorial letter still hadn’t arrived, making revisions impossible to begin, and the thought of starting on Untitled Patel without guidance was too terrifying. “Should I be worried?”

  “Writing fairies can get grumpy in a new house,” Johari said. “Like cats. Mine pissed on the pillows every night for a week after I moved up to New York.”

  Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Your writing fairies pissed on your pillows?”

  Johari ignored him. “I’d be worried about those mirrors. I couldn’t write a single word if I had to watch myself at it.”

  Darcy turned to the mirrored wall and regarded the three of them. Oscar and Johari both towered over her, making Darcy in her blue sundress look very young.

  “Those are left over from when it was a dance studio. But if I take them down, it’ll be nothing but white.”

  “Like every other apartment in New York,” Johari said sadly.

  “I know!” Darcy said. Back in Philly, the rooms of her parents’ house each had a signature color—pale yellow for the kitchen, forest green in the dining area, and dark purple for Nisha’s bedroom walls, a leftover from her twelve-year-old goth phase. “What is it with all the white up here?”

  “It’s gallery space,” Oscar said. “Neutral background for all the artists at work.”

  “Pfft,” Johari said. “It’s boring.”

  “I was in the hardware store yesterday,” Darcy said. “And they had a whole section of white paints. But instead of ‘white,’ they all had names like Linen, Chalk, and Washed Rice.”

  Oscar laughed. “My walls are Dover, I think.”

  “Picket Fence,” Johari admitted.

  “Maybe I’ll keep the mirrors,” Darcy said.

  “Good heavens! Are we all staring at ourselves?” It was Kiralee Taylor, whom Darcy hadn’t seen come in. Other people were working the intercom now, and even giving tours of the apartment to new arrivals. Moxie was making drinks, and Rhea collecting money for more beer and ice. The party had found its own momentum, its own heartbeat.

  “Thanks for coming, Kiralee,” Darcy said. They kissed each other’s cheeks, like old friends.

  “Lovely apartment. And what a handy wall of mirrors!”

  “Dancers left it here,” Darcy said. “Johari thinks my reflection will keep me from writing.”

  “One’s own face is rarely as distracting as the internet,” Kiralee said. “And you seem the industrious sort.”

  Darcy smiled at the compliment, but a tremor of nerves passed through her. Imogen had forwarded the first draft of Afterworlds to Kiralee two weeks ago. Enough time for her to have read it by now.

  Darcy searched for some clue in the older woman’s expression as to whether she had loved or hated it, or even started it at all. Was “industrious” some sort of damning faint praise?

  “That said, I spent all day worrying about my face.” Kiralee turned to the mirrors to adjust her tie, a pulvinate double Windsor. “Bloody photo shoot this afternoon.”

  “Ah, I hate authors’ photos,” Johari said. “I don’t see why my looks are relevant to the story!”

  “Indeed.” Kiralee checked out her profile in the mirror. “I liked my old photo, but it’s getting a bit long in the tooth. Or, rather, I am.”

  “And you are touching your face in it,” Oscar said.

  Kiralee punched him, and Darcy looked at them questioningly.

  “Beware, my dear.” Johari’s arm encircled Darcy. “When you get your author’s photo taken, be sure not to touch your face.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “It’s a mystery, but quite common. You must have seen this one.” Oscar struck a brooding pose, his fist beneath his chin. “For the author whose brain is too heavy to stay up on its own.”

  “Friend of mine got stuck with one of these for a whole trilogy.” Johari stroked her cheek thoughtfully. “Like he was coming up with amazing ideas right in front of the photographer!”

  “Yikes.” Darcy turned to Kiralee. “You did that?”

  “No, I went for the dreaded temple massage. It was a long time ago, and I had no wise elders to save me.”

  Darcy tried to recall the back of Bunyip. “But I totally had a crush on that picture. You look so smart in it.”

  “I look like a TV psychic.”

  Darcy glanced across the room at Nan and Rhea. “Paradox won’t make me get an author’s photo, will they? I mean, lots of books don’t have them.”

  “Pretty young thing like you?” Johari shook her head. “I should think it’s unavoidable.”

  Darcy stared at herself in the mirror again, a familiar vulnerable feeling descending on her. Not only would her words be duplicated thousands of times for everyone to weigh and judge, but also her face.

  She could see why it would be tempting to sneak a hand into the frame, just for a bit of protection.

  Her phone pinged, and Darcy glanced down at it—Imogen.

  “Pardon me, guys.” She spun away and crossed to an empty corner, raising the phone to her ear. “Where the hell are you, Gen?”

  “I’m on your roof.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Someone buzzed me in, and I need to talk to you alone for a second. Come up.”

  “Um, my party . . . ,” Darcy began, but as her eyes swept across the room, she saw Johari drawing Kiralee to the window, pointing out something below. Rhea was helping Moxie mix drinks, and Oscar was making faces in the mirror at Max.

  The party could be left alone to find its own way, and Darcy still had a confession to make before Imogen met her high school friends.

  “All right,” she said. “See you in a minute.”

  * * *

  Darcy hadn’t been up to the roof before. But on the sixth-floor landing she found a smaller, separate staircase leading up to a metal door that was wedged open with a piece of concrete.

  As she stepped out, the tar roof squished a little beneath her feet, like a bouncy playground surface. It had been a hot day, and the tar was giving up its scent.

  “Gen?”

  “Over here.”

  Imogen was sitting at the building’s edge, her legs dangling off the side. Darcy sat next to her and leaned forward to stare down at the street. A shimmer of vertigo traveled from her toes to her fingertips.

  “Don’t fall,” Imogen said. “I like that dress.”

  “If I decide to jump, I’ll change.” The words came out a little harshly.

  “Look . . . sorry I was late.”

  “Me too, Gen.” Darcy turned to her. “I spent all day shit-scared no one would come. My friends from Philly are late, and then you totally bailed!”

  “It was a shitty thing to do.” Imogen swung her legs, staring out at the skyline. “But I wanted to finish your book.”

  Darcy blinked. “What?”

  “I’ve been putting off reading it, because I really like you. But then I realized that Oscar was here tonight and was going to ask me what I thought, and you might be standing there when I did. So I was like, fuck it, and started reading three hours ago. But yeah, my timing kind of sucked. I would have started sooner if I hadn’t been scared to.”

  “Wait. Why were
you scared?”

  Imogen spread her hands. “Because what if it was crap? It would be really weird, me liking you this much if you were a shitty writer. I mean, would you want me to tell you if I thought it sucked? Or just politely never mention it? Because those would be your choices. I couldn’t lie about it.”

  Darcy took a slow breath. The drop into space before them suddenly yawned, as if the roof were tipping, trying to spill her onto the street below.

  “You didn’t think I could write?”

  “I had no idea. You’re awesome, but a lot of awesome people can’t write their way out of a wet sack.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And it makes things awkward! Everyone at Oscar’s parties always talks about writing, so I’m all polite and everything, but inside me there’s this tiny voice, like when you’re at a wedding and you know the whole thing is doomed, and you get paranoid that when the preacher asks if anyone knows any reason why this wedding shouldn’t happen, you’ll shout, ‘Marriage of fail!’ ”

  “Let me try again,” Darcy said carefully. “You read my book, and . . . ?”

  “Oh.” Imogen smiled, taking Darcy’s hand. “Well, I’m late, aren’t I?”

  “Because . . . ?”

  “Because I couldn’t stop. Because it was really fucking good.”

  Darcy still felt dizzy. “And you wouldn’t be saying that right now if you hated it?”

  “No.” Imogen’s voice was steady, undeceptive. “If it had sucked, I would have put it down and gotten here on time, and never mentioned it again.”

  “And I never would have known.” A shudder went through Darcy, relief mixed with the rattle of fear, as if the shadow of some monstrous bird of prey had passed over her. “You know, Gen, you could have started with the part where you liked it.”

  “Not liked. Loved.” Imogen squeezed Darcy’s hand. “I love Afterworlds.”

  Darcy felt a smile prying at her annoyed expression. “Why did you have to tell me on the roof?”

  “I wanted to right away.”

  “Yeah, but you could have said it down there. I mean, feel free to make these thoughts public!”

  “Even the part about liking you?”

  Darcy blinked again, and for a second time said, “Wait. What?”

  “I know this is a stupid way to tell you,” Imogen said, taking both of Darcy’s hands. “But it all got tangled up today, liking you and liking your book. So on the way over I decided to say both.”

  The roof was tipping again. “You mean . . . you like like me?”

  “Yeah, a lot. Of course, it’s possible you just regular like me, and if that’s the way it is I’m not going to storm off and stop being your friend. But you should know that I’m hot for you, and for your book, too.” Imogen was almost laughing, stumbling over her own words now. “I’m totally hot for Afterworlds.”

  “That’s just weird.” Darcy felt a blush creeping behind her cheeks.

  “No it isn’t. Your book is smart and beautiful. I want to have its sequels.”

  Darcy laughed. “Really?”

  “You take all the right stuff seriously. Like, Mindy’s backstory is brutally sad, and you never try to skim past it. And the way the terror of that first chapter never really fades out, Lizzie just learns to use it.”

  “It’s her origin story,” Darcy said softly.

  “Exactly.” Imogen took a strand of Darcy’s hair between her fingers. Their eyes stayed locked. “And it’s not just about the gnarly powers it gives her, it’s how other people see her differently. Like, when anyone thinks Lizzie’s still a kid, she’s all, ‘When’s the last time you survived machine guns, dude?’ And they have to respect her.”

  Darcy didn’t answer. No one had said things like this about Afterworlds before. Those first letters of praise from Underbridge Literary and Paradox had been full of compliments, but nothing as specific as this. Being fathomed was even better than being flattered, it turned out. The words made her skin tingle and her lips burn.

  “I like books where magic has a cost,” Imogen went on. “The more powerful Lizzie gets, the more she loses.” She leaned closer. “You’ve got the juice.”

  “The what?” Darcy asked.

  “You don’t just write well, you tell stories.” Imogen’s voice was a whisper now. “Beautiful sentences are fine, but the juice is what makes me turn pages.”

  Darcy closed her eyes. Their lips met, and she breathed in the scent of the sun-heated tar beneath them and the salt of Imogen’s skin. She felt the rumble of the traffic below traveling up through the building and into her spine, her fingertips, her tongue. Her breathing slowed to match the pace of Imogen’s, steady and deep.

  Imogen’s hand moved to the back of Darcy’s neck, fingers interlacing with hair, holding her close even after the kiss was over.

  Darcy whispered, her lips brushing Imogen’s as she spoke: “Wow. You are hot for my book.”

  “Totally.”

  It meant everything, but Darcy wanted more. “No criticisms?”

  “Well, you know. It’s a first draft. And a first novel. And don’t ask me if you’re hijacking Hindu gods, because I don’t have a clue.”

  Darcy opened her eyes. “Okay. But what did that second one mean?”

  “About it being a first novel? Well, it might be a little bit innocent, for a book about death.”

  “Innocent?” Darcy pulled back. “Is that what you think I am?”

  “Good question.” Imogen drew closer, studying her. “Until ten seconds ago, I had no idea whether you were into me or not. Are you, like, incredibly smooth or just . . .” She blinked slowly. “Have you ever kissed a girl before?”

  “I never kissed anyone before,” Darcy said in a rush, so she wouldn’t have time to chicken out and never say it at all. “Not really.”

  Imogen was silent for a moment—a little too long.

  “Seriously?” she said at last.

  Darcy nodded. There had been a sort of practice kiss with Carla once during a sleepover, and an attempt at real kissing with the boy who was cocaptain of the Reading Zealots. But neither of those had counted, and this did.

  “Was I okay?” Darcy asked.

  “Better than okay.”

  “If you hated it, would you be lying right now?”

  “That’s the second time you’ve asked me that.” A smiled curled Imogen’s lips. “Don’t you trust me?”

  Darcy had never seen anyone talk the way Imogen did about things that mattered to her. No one could lie that fiercely, could they?

  “I trust you.”

  “Good.” Imogen’s eyes shone with the last band of pink in the sky before nightfall. She leaned closer, and they were kissing again. At first Darcy’s hands clutched at the warm tar of the rooftop for balance. Then she reached up to take Imogen’s shoulders, to feel the muscles flexing. She drew Imogen closer, tighter, and they stayed that way until Darcy’s phone buzzed in her pocket.

  “Sorry . . .” She pulled away, reaching for it. “My friends from Philly might be lost.”

  “Like I said, my timing sucks.”

  Darcy read the message. “Crap, they’re already here! Someone let them in and they’re down there looking for me!”

  Imogen got to her feet and held out a hand. “Come on. Duty calls.”

  Darcy stood, guiltily wishing that Carla and Sagan had missed just one more train. But it would be cruel to leave them alone in a room full of authors they idolized.

  At the roof stairway, Imogen kicked the piece of concrete aside, and the metal door slammed shut behind them. They descended quickly, and a moment later stood before the door to 4E. The sounds of a healthy party were leaking out into the hall.

  Imogen took Darcy by the shoulders. “You okay? You look kind of dazed.”

  Darcy was very dazed and very okay, too much of both to discuss in the hallway. Instead, she rose a little onto her toes and they kissed again.

  Then she straightened herself and, still holding Imogen�
��s hand, opened up the door.

  CHAPTER 16

  I DRESSED QUICKLY IN JEANS and a sweatshirt, then crept to the kitchen to get a knife.

  I didn’t know if metal blades worked on ghosts, or even if the thing in the basement was a ghost, but any weapon was better than bare hands. I chose a short, narrow knife with a fat metal handle.

  Mindy was still standing on my bed, afraid to touch the floor. Her eyes widened when she saw the knife. “We should just run away, Lizzie.”

  “And hide in my mom’s closet?” I slipped the knife into my back pocket. “I live here, Mindy. I don’t have anywhere to run. And didn’t you say that ghosts should be afraid of me?”

  “Whatever’s down there doesn’t sound very afraid, does it?”

  As if in answer, the voice beneath us started up again, close enough to the floorboards that it could whisper. “Come down and play. . . .”

  I shuddered, and slipped on the pair of sneakers beside my bed.

  “Please, let’s just run away,” Mindy begged.

  “No. I’m going to call someone.”

  She stared at me. “Who?”

  “Someone I met when I started seeing ghosts. Someone I didn’t tell you about.”

  “You mean a dead person?”

  I shook my head. “Someone like me.”

  “A pomp?” Mindy turned away and jumped onto my desk, like a kid playing don’t-touch-the-floor. She was headed for the bedroom door, and then my mother’s room and the safety of her closet.

  “It’s okay, Mindy! He’s nice.”

  She turned back to me, balanced on the dresser. “They always say they’re nice. But then they take you away.”

  I shook my head. “He saved me.”

  Mindy looked at me like I was an idiot, and for a moment I wondered why I trusted Yamaraj so much. What if he took Mindy away from me?

  But I’d seen enough horror movies to know that you didn’t check out scary noises in the basement all alone. Especially if your house didn’t have a basement.