Afterworlds (19 page)

“I can’t, and he’s shooting everyone.”

The cold became a physical thing, pushing at me from all sides.

“Well, honey,” I said softly. “Maybe you should pretend to be dead.”

As the last word left my mouth, I felt myself cross over. It happened all at once, the shadows flattening to soft grays, the bright digits of my alarm clock going flickery and dim.

But this time the air didn’t taste flat and metallic. A sugary scent, like I’d smelled out in the desert, lay heavy around me. I looked down and saw a pitch-black stain growing in the center of my floor.

It was like the ink flooding the ghost school, or the black rivers I’d seen in the desert—a pool of emptiness. It started no bigger than a spilled cup of coffee, but spread across the floor as I watched.

“Don’t let it touch you,” Mindy said.

I took a step back. “Yamaraj, I need you.”

His name suddenly sounded like “mirage,” and it seemed crazy to expect him to hear me. He could be a thousand miles away, or a thousand miles below. . . .

But he’d come the first time I called him.

“Yamaraj, please come to me.” As I spoke his name again, heat flickered across my lips.

The pool of nothingness was drawing closer to my feet. I took another step away from it, and felt the wall at my back.

“What
is
this stuff, Mindy?”

“It’s the river,” she squeaked. “The stuff between up here and
down there
.”

The bed was close enough for me to jump to, but the blackness had reached the toes of my sneakers, and suddenly my feet were ice-cold. The muscles of my calves felt too weak to move.

A moment later my sneakers were sinking into the floor.

“How do I get out of this stuff?”

Mindy was too scared to answer, and only watched with wide, terrified eyes. I could feel the blackness creep up to my knees, as cold as winter mud. I reached out, trying to grab the edge of my bed, but it was too far away.

The iciness crawled up my body as I sank, every inch sending fresh waves of shudders through me. The sweet smell filled my lungs, almost too thick to breathe.

Just as it passed my waist, the door to my bedroom opened. It was my mother in a white nightgown. She must have heard me arguing with Mindy before I’d crossed over.

“Lizzie?” she called softly, squinting at my empty bed.

“Mom!” I yelled, but of course she couldn’t hear me. I was on the flipside now, hidden from her. Suddenly, being invisible wasn’t such a great superpower.

The black goo passed my shoulders.

“Yamaraj, I need you,” I cried one last time, and felt heat kindle on my lips again.

I tried to scream, hoping that my panic would pop me back into the land of the living. But the cold ink slowed the pounding of my heart and pressed the air from my lungs. It covered my mouth, my eyes, my ears, like liquid midnight sliding over me.

A moment later I was down in the river.

*  *  *

It was cold down here, and dark.

The only sound was a low moan, a steady wind scouring a huge, empty space. The air felt almost solid, ruffling my hair and clothes and trying to push me off my feet. But I wasn’t drowning, and at least I was standing on something solid; my feet had settled on a surface in the formless dark.

A glimmer of white appeared, not too far away—a man’s face.

He looked older than his voice had sounded, as old as my grandfather, very pale with white hair. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the rest of him came into focus. He wore a long coat covered with patches, and his hands were plunged into its pockets. The hem of his coat rippled in the wind.

He was staring at me. “You’re alive.”

“No kidding.”

His hand emerged to stroke his chin, pallid fingers shining in the darkness. His skin was pale, but not quite gray. It had a sweaty glow, like the gloss of a marble statue.

“What the hell are you doing under my bedroom?” My voice sounded thin against the constant wind.

“I smelled a little girl.” He had the slightest accent. “Is she yours?”

“Mine?”

He raised one pale eyebrow. His eyes were colorless, almost transparent, like those pale fish that live in ocean trenches, too deep for light to reach.

“You don’t collect?”

“Collect
ghosts
?”

“You must be new.” The man’s smile appeared gradually, like something controlled by a dial. It made the basement colder.

Then I realized that his skin glowed softly in the dark, just as mine did.

“You’re like me,” I said. He wasn’t some monster of legend. He was another psychopomp.

“Well spotted.” He was smirking at me. “But do you really know what we are?”

“Yes. And I don’t collect ghosts.”

“I could teach you how,” he said, taking a step forward.

“Stay
right
where you are.”

He smiled again. “Do I frighten you?”

“Terrorists with machine guns frighten me. You’re just pissing me off. I was trying to
sleep
.”

“My apologies.” He made a little bow. “But sleep is not something you need anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sleep is a little slice of death. And you’ve already had a
big
slice, haven’t you? All the cake you’ll ever need.”

“You kind of suck at metaphors,” I said.

The old man’s eyes flashed in the darkness. “English may not be my first language, but I’m good at many other things, and I’ve always wanted an apprentice. I can show you my tricks. All it will cost you is that little girl.”

I wanted to scream at him then, but the anger I should have felt was missing. The cold had a firm grip on my muscles, and the constant wind seemed to strip my emotions away.

My lips were tingling, though, a flicker of heat in all that dark.

“No thanks,” I said.

The old man’s fingers tugged at the corners of his pockets,
which opened wider and wider. Somehow they were darker than the basement itself, depthless and hungry.

“Don’t you want to see what’s in my pockets?”

Finally I felt a trickle of fear, and my muscles jolted to life. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the knife. “Not even slightly.”

He looked disappointed. “A knife? How absurd. There’s no need for violence, my dear. I have no interest in anyone as
lively
as you.”

“Then leave me and my friend alone.”

“That little ghost is not your friend. They aren’t really people, you know.”

I didn’t want to hear this, and yet I asked, “Then what are they?”

“They’re loose threads of memory, stories that tell themselves. And if you know how, you can weave the most beautiful things from them.” He stroked his pockets with his palms. “Are you sure you don’t want to see?”

The horrible thing is, part of me wanted to look. Part of me wanted to learn all the secrets of the afterworld, no matter how terrible they were. But even listening to him felt like a betrayal of Mindy. I shook my head.

“There are lots of other tricks I can teach you. Nothing to be squeamish about.”

“Like what?” I asked.

His smile returned. He knew that my curiosity was hooked. “How to use a ghost’s breath to keep yourself warm here in the river. How to make the pestering ones fade. How to slice out the finest memories for yourself. You can taste the best bite of birthday cake
your little friend up there ever had. Or feel what it was like to listen to her favorite bedtime story, all snuggled up in warm covers.”

“Are you serious? Those are your
nonsqueamish
tricks?”

“I’m as serious as death.” He took another step toward me. “You don’t know what you’re missing, girl.”

My hand tightened on the knife handle. Its metal flashed in the darkness. “Stay away from me.”

“I’m offering you wonders.” He was still drifting toward me. “Don’t insult me in return.”

“Stay away from me!”
I took a step backward, and something cold and damp brushed against my spine, like wet leaves.

“What’s that behind you?” asked the old man very gently.

I wanted to turn around, but I was frozen, my fingers tight around the knife handle. A breath of a whisper played across the back of my neck, as if the wind had spoken.

But then something shifted in the air, the darkness growing warm around us. My tingling lips began to burn, and whatever had been behind me was suddenly gone.

I smiled and let the knife slide back into my pocket. “You’d better go. My friend is coming.”

“Your little friend?” The old man looked up greedily, smoothing his pockets with pale hands.

“This one’s too old for you.”

The man’s smile faded.

“What’s the matter?” I said. “I thought you
liked
cryptic bullshit.”

“You’re becoming annoying, my dear.”

“Annoying? Like being woken up in the middle of the night?” My anger was bubbling up from where the cold had tamped it down.
“Like noises under your bed? Like old men who chase little girls?”

All false politeness had left his expression. His face was as cold as marble. “You should show some respect.”

I just smiled and looked past him. A wave of heat was sweeping through the darkness, along with a sharp and smoky scent. From the darkness Yamaraj strode toward us, sparks coiling around his feet, like someone walking through embers. The pinpricks of light scattered in the wind.

It was a magnificent sight, but the old man didn’t cower. He turned back to me a moment, his expression curious.

“You have interesting friends,” he said, and shoved his hands back into his pockets and spat on the ground in front of him. Then he stepped forward and seemed to fall into the earth, disappearing like a snuffed candle.

I stood there, breathing hard.

Yamaraj raised a hand, which flared hot and white. The light scattered the darkness of the basement, confirming that the old man was gone. At last I saw where we were standing, on a gray plain that shone like damp earth, stretching away endless and empty. Above us, where my bedroom floor should have been, loomed an empty sky. A column of smoke rose up from Yamaraj’s glowing hand, billowing wider as it climbed, bent into an arc by the constant wind.

He looked about carefully, and then dropped his hand. We were plunged again into a darkness that shimmered with shapes burned into my vision.

“Are you okay, Lizzie?” came his voice.

Even as I nodded, my hands began to shake. The other psychopomp might have looked like an old man in a patched suit, but
something monstrous had lurked beneath his pale skin. I could still smell it in the sweet, heavy air around us.

“What did he want?” Yamaraj asked. I couldn’t blink away the fiery afterimages in my vision, but I could feel him coming closer.

“He wasn’t after me,” I said. The words calmed me a little.

Yamaraj was close now, warming the air around us, which only reminded me how cold I’d been a minute before.

“Except he wanted to show me something,” I said. “Something made from ghosts, I think.”

“But you didn’t look?” Yamaraj’s gaze held mine. His brown eyes cut through the darkness, and through my fear.

“No. I didn’t.”

His gaze softened. “Good. Some of us collect things, pieces of lives. Things you can’t unsee.”

A shudder went through my body then, a mix of leftover anger and fear. A chill clung to me, something I couldn’t shake. Part of me wanted to throw my arms around Yamaraj’s warmth, but I didn’t want to seem pathetic. Besides, last time just touching him had thrown me back into reality.

This wasn’t at all how I’d imagined things going when we met again. I’d wanted to impress Yamaraj with everything I’d figured out on my own, but here I was, cold and scared and dressed like a slob.

“Thank you for coming,” I said.

“Of course.” He looked around. “But how did you get here?”

“You mean . . . down into the river? That old man followed me home, I guess, from this ghost building we were exploring. And he was under my floor, and driving me crazy. I had to face him.”

“You were exploring.” A half smile, unintended and beautiful, played on Yamaraj’s lips. He was worried for me, but also impressed.

I couldn’t take my eyes from him. I’d pictured Yamaraj a thousand times in the last week, and now my memories were fitting themselves into the sharper details of reality. That hitch in his eyebrows, like the bend of a boomerang. The hard line of his jaw, and the way his dark hair curled behind one ear, but had been tugged free from the other by the wind.

“Did you say
we
?” he asked.

“Yeah, my friend. She’s this ghost that lives with me.”

His smile faded now. “Your friend? Ghosts can be hard to get rid of, Lizzie, once you let them into your life.”

“She was
already
in my life. She was my mom’s best friend a long time ago, and she’s been around me since I was born. She’s teaching me things.”

“What things, Lizzie?”

“How to see ghost buildings. How to walk inside them.” I remembered the old man’s voice singing in the school hallway, and shivered. “What
was
he? A psychopomp, like you and me, right?”

“He’s not like you and me.” Yamaraj turned away from me, his gaze scanning the darkness. “He’s something heartless and empty.”

“He said that ghosts aren’t people.”

“Some of us see the dead that way—as objects, as toys.” Yamaraj sighed. “But some people see the living that way too.”

“Great, psychopomps and psychopaths.”

He didn’t answer.

The heat Yamaraj had brought with him seemed to be fading,
and I crossed my arms over my chest against the cold. Suddenly the reality of everything I’d seen that night was crashing down on me.

At least now I knew why Mindy was so afraid of psychopomps. The afterlife had a food chain, and we were higher on it than ghosts.

“The old man wanted to teach me things,” I said.

“There are things you don’t want to know.”

I held Yamaraj’s eyes for a moment. The problem was, I wanted to know everything, the good and the bad. Maybe being the old man’s apprentice wasn’t for me, but this was a whole new world, and I needed to explore it.