Afterworlds (17 page)

“Are you sure? I mean, if ghosts are real, why not all the other creatures of legend? Golems? Garudas? Selkies?”

Mindy’s smile faded. “I don’t even know what those are, but I think some monsters never got legends. Some places are just
bad
.”

“Okay,” I said. “You don’t have to know everything, I guess.”

“Good, because I don’t.”

Mindy was an eleven-year-old girl, I reminded myself. To her, a monster wasn’t something to be analyzed, it was something to be feared.

Not that I had the energy for monster analysis. The last dregs of my adrenaline were fading, and school was starting back up the day after tomorrow. The beginning of my last semester, and my first day in public as a national symbol of hope.

I’d avoided my friends since getting home, except for sending Jamie an email saying I wasn’t ready to see anyone. My dad still hadn’t bought me a new phone, despite promising to, so avoiding people had been easy enough. But I was going to have to face the real world soon.

I put the antiseptic away and slipped under the covers.

“Good night,” I said, and turned off the bedside light.

Mindy, as always, sat on the end of my bed. Ghosts didn’t sleep, which probably contributed to their boredom and restlessness. It was clear that Mindy wandered the neighborhood at night. She knew all the neighbors’ names, and their secrets too.

“Sleep tight, Lizzie,” she whispered.

“Thanks for taking me to ghost school.”

She giggled, and we were silent for a while, my brain searching for sleep. But the pain of my injuries came and went like ants traveling around my body, first one scraped palm itching, and then the other.

The sting of the antiseptic slowly faded, though, and I was almost asleep when the scratching sound began.

It was like a fingernail running along the underside of the floorboards, almost too soft to hear, too quiet to believe in. But the sound persisted, refusing to disappear even as my brain tried to ignore it.

By the time I opened my eyes, Mindy was standing on the end of my bed, staring wide-eyed down at the floor.

I sat up slowly, carefully, but already my skin was damp with fear.

“What the hell is that, Mindy?”

“I think it followed us home.”

“
What
did?”

The sound came again, scraping its way from my bedroom door toward me. My spine turned to water as it traveled beneath the bed.

It fell silent again, and Mindy whispered, “It’s all connected.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s down there, Lizzie. That thing we heard singing.”

“What do you—!” My voice rose almost to a shout, and I forced my mouth shut. Mom was a heavy sleeper, but I didn’t dare wake her with a monster in the house.

“I’m sorry, Lizzie.” Mindy’s voice was shaking. “I didn’t know it would follow us home!”

“Where is it?” I hissed. “This house
doesn’t have a basement
!”

She looked at me with exasperation. “It’s not in the basement. It’s down in the river.”

I shut my eyes, trying to make sense of Mindy’s words. My body was wide awake, but my brain was still spinning up from being half-asleep.

“Come down, come down, whoever you are!”
sang a voice from beneath my bedroom floor.

CHAPTER 15

THE INVITATIONS TO DARCY’S HOUSEWARMING
party had said seven, but at seven thirty not a single person had arrived.

“Crap.” Darcy kicked the bucket of beer and ice waiting in the corner. A pool of condensation had collected beneath it, like an unloved and sweaty pet left by its owner on a country road.

It was awfully hot in here in the big room, and would only get worse if any guests ever arrived. Darcy pushed open another of the windows, letting in the roar of Chinatown traffic and a tired breeze that stirred the hem of her sundress. She’d bought the dress at a vintage shop that morning, only to realize moments out of the store how close it was to the one Imogen had worn the day they’d found apartment 4E.

It wasn’t rust colored, at least, but the blue-gray of an overcast sky.

Darcy stared at her phone. Imogen had promised to arrive at six
for moral support, but had texted an hour ago to say she’d be late. On top of that, Sagan and Carla had missed their intended train from Philly and wouldn’t be showing up till after nine. Aunt Lalana was out of town on business.

The inevitable question was forming in Darcy’s mind: What if no one came? It had been pure hubris, having a housewarming party in a city where she knew hardly anyone. Of course, a
few
people would show up, just enough to witness and ratify her humiliation.

The phone pinged in Darcy’s hand, and she raised it eagerly.

Still nobody there? #Loserfest

Only 438 days till publication!

“Thanks a lot, Nisha,” Darcy muttered, resolving never again to share doubts with her sister.

As she composed a suitably rude reply, the intercom sounded.

Darcy ran and buzzed open the downstairs door without asking who it was—party crashers were better than no one at all. She primped her hair in the wall of mirrors, opened the door, and stuck her head out. Climbing the stairs were Moxie Underbridge, her assistant, Max, and a young woman whom Darcy recognized from YA Drinks Night—Johari Valentine, a writer from Saint Kitts.

A moment later the three were inside, drifting past Darcy’s greetings and toward the windows of the big room. Darcy felt a swell of pride as they exclaimed over the views. This was the best time for looking out, the hour before sunset, when the sky was rosy and the shadows long and sharp.

For the first time all day, Darcy felt that neither the party nor the apartment had been a terrible mistake.

“This’ll be splendid in winter.” Johari was staring down at the street. “The rest of us down in the darkness, you up here in sunshine!”

“Really now, Johari,” Moxie said. “It’s July. Are you still traumatized?”

Johari gave Darcy a mock shudder. “My next book’s set on an ice planet. Dark and freezing, like winter up here.”

“It’s called
Heart of Ice
,” said Max. “ ‘Who holds the secret of fire, rules the world!’ ”

Johari shook her head. “Listen to you, Max. Peddling taglines for a book that isn’t half-done. Might be about penguins by the time I’m finished.”

“ ‘Who holds the secret of penguins, rules the world’?” Max said. “See, it works with everything.”

“Sounds awesome,” Darcy said, but all the talk of fire made her think of Imogen, and wonder again where she was. She glanced at her phone—nothing.

“Sorry to arrive so early, my dear,” Moxie said. “But we have a dinner at nine.”

“I’m just glad someone’s here!” Darcy put her phone away, praying that more people would arrive before they left. It would be inhumane of the universe to make her suffer
two
preparty freak-outs in one night. “You guys want drinks?”

They did, and as Darcy set to work, Johari and Max poked their heads into the bedrooms.

“Great idea,” Johari called, “having a party before moving in your furniture. Nothing broken if we get too lively!”

Darcy didn’t explain that all her furniture was, in fact, moved in. Her new desk was in the corner of the big room, holding soft
drinks, plastic cups, and two bowls of guacamole. It wasn’t a real desk, just an unfinished door laid across two sawhorses. Page proofs and copyedits needed large surfaces, and doors were cheaper than desks.

Darcy was sleeping on her futon from home, which her father had driven up from Philly, along with a chair, some linens, and a few dozen indispensable books, which were now in the second bedroom on cinder-block shelves. Sagan and Carla had been warned to bring sleeping bags, but Darcy had forgotten to buy them pillows.

“And no TV?” Max was laughing. “The sign of a true writer.”

“I’m all about the words,” Darcy said, though she had yet to write a single sentence in apartment 4E.

She’d hardly noticed her lack of a television, given all the other things she didn’t own. Aunt Lalana had been right. She had no extension cords, no vacuum cleaner, no umbrella, nor a vase if anyone brought flowers tonight. She had no bathroom curtains and hardly any real dishes, only two bowls and a tea mug, and exactly one pan for making masala chai and instant noodles, the only cooking she’d done so far. She had a spice rack, complete with cardamom and tamarind and even saffron, but that had been a housewarming present from her aunt.

As Darcy handed out red plastic cups, she wondered what else she was missing. She’d only remembered to buy a corkscrew this afternoon, and the tiny speakers connected to her computer were unlikely to get anyone dancing tonight.

“Thank you, darling.” Moxie took her drink and swirled it thoughtfully. “Did you know Stanley David Anderson was in town?”

“Really? For an appearance?”

“Business. That’s who we’re dining with. You follow him, I presume?”

“Who doesn’t follow Standerson?” Darcy asked. That was one of his internet nicknames. The other was the Sultan of Social Media. Standerson had a million followers, and there were a dozen YouTube channels
about
his YouTube channel. “But you don’t represent him.”

“Not at the moment.” Moxie brushed an index finger across her lips. “But he’s a bit unhappy over at Sadler Lit, and might be looking around.”

“Whoa, that’s great,” Darcy said, though she was suffering a moment of petty jealousy. She wasn’t invited to dinner with Moxie, Max, Johari, and Standerson, and her housewarming party wouldn’t be the most glamorous YA event in New York tonight.

But this irrational moment passed when the buzzer sounded again, and Darcy sprang for the door.

*  *  *

As if the party’s surface tension had been broken, the guests arrived quickly now. Soon the big room was pleasingly full. Darcy recognized a dozen writers from YA Drinks Night (thanks to Oscar Lassiter’s email list), and Nan Eliot had come down from Paradox with a young assistant editor named Rhea. Carla had texted that she and Sagan were approaching Penn Station, but Imogen was still missing.

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.