Afterworlds (31 page)

*  *  *

Just after the waiters had cleared the appetizers (barramundi risotto cakes with pickled red onions), Kiralee began out of the blue.

“I was intrigued by Anna.”

It took Darcy a moment to realize that the long-awaited critique of
Afterworlds
had arrived, and her voice broke a little as she asked, “Lizzie’s mom?”

Kiralee nodded. “I love how she hadn’t told Lizzie about her murdered childhood friend. That she had a skeleton in the closet, literally.”

“Not
literally
,” Imogen groaned. “Mindy’s not a skeleton, she’s a ghost.”

“She was literally in the closet, and surely ghosts have skeletons. Otherwise they’d be wobbly.” Kiralee turned back to Darcy. “And Mindy is very sturdy indeed. I like that Lizzie doesn’t simply realize that the world has ghosts, she finds out that
she
has ghosts. Or rather, that her mother does, which is more interesting. Well done.”

“Thanks,” Darcy said, relieved that Kiralee had begun with praise. “Actually, that’s where I got the whole idea.”

“How so?”

“From my mom. When she was little, her best friend was murdered. But she never told me about it.” Darcy thought back to the fevered musings of last October, which seemed so long ago now. “I found out by accident, randomly googling my mom’s family name. The case was a big deal in Gujarat.”

Kiralee swirled her wine, watching it carefully. “And did your mother explain why she never told you about her friend?”

“I never brought it up with her. It was too weird. But I kept wondering about Rajani—that was the friend’s name. Did my mother remember her? Because if she was haunting Mom, maybe she was also haunting me and Nisha. That started me wondering
what a world with ghosts would be like, and the rest of
Afterworlds
kind of fell into place.”

Darcy paused, realizing that she’d never said all this aloud before. She’d always been afraid to disturb the seed that had started everything.

She glanced at Imogen. “Sorry I never told you about this. I never told anyone but Nisha.”

Imogen smiled. “Like I said, some ideas need to stay inside.”

“What did your mother think after she read
Afterworlds
?” Kiralee asked.

“My parents haven’t read it yet.” Darcy stared at her hands, which were neatly folded on the table, like a little girl’s. “I’m making them wait till it’s published for real, with a cover and everything.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” Kiralee said. “Until you’re finished with that world, maybe you need to stay haunted.”

Darcy looked up at her. “Haunted?”

“The fact that your mother’s friend was a secret is what kept her ghost alive. When you talk about it with your mother, you’ll put something to rest between you. So don’t have that talk yet—stay haunted until you’re done writing about Mindy.”

Kiralee said this with a seriousness that sent a cool trickle through Darcy.

Which was strange. Even as a little kid, Darcy had never believed in ghosts or monsters. Her father, ever the engineer, had always been very clear about the difference between reality and make-believe. What Darcy liked about ghosts and vampires and werewolves were their traditions and rules: cold spots and holy water and silver bullets. The actual possibility of them was just silly.

“I don’t think of Rajani that way. I’m not even superstitious. I toast with water all the time!”

Kiralee smiled. “I’m not talking about superstition. I’m talking about characters. How they die a little when you reach the last page. Try to keep Mindy out of your mother’s sight until you finish writing about her. You sold two books, I recall?”

Darcy nodded, though she hadn’t started
Untitled Patel
, and had no idea when it would be finished. The contract said she had another year to turn in the first draft, which seemed both too much time and too little. The contract didn’t call for a third book, but so many fantasy series were like ghosts, rattling their chains forever, never fading.

“I can’t stop my mom from reading
Afterworlds
once it’s published. I mean, all her friends will be reading it.”

“My dad still hasn’t read
Pyromancer
,” Imogen said. “Novels aren’t his thing.”

Darcy nodded. Her own father preferred old aircraft manuals, but novels were definitely Annika Patel’s thing. She devoured prizewinning literary works, rubbishy bestsellers, the occasional YA series that Nisha and Darcy had raved about, on top of rereading the complete works of Jane Austen every other year. Extracting a promise from her to avoid
Afterworlds
until it was published had been almost as tricky as coming to New York.

“It’ll be weird when she reads it,” Darcy said. “But even weirder if she doesn’t.”

“That’s publication in a nutshell,” Kiralee said. “Both terrifying and necessary. As long as Rajani stays with you.”

The chill came again, hearing Kiralee say the murdered girl’s
name. Darcy had never uttered it aloud before tonight. Rajani had always been more a concept than a person, but now a presence hung in the air around the table, like someone missing from an empty chair.

A moment later, though, three waiters swooped in with main courses in hand, breaking the spell and leaving only a few wisps behind.

Kiralee went on to dissect the book’s opening chapters, pointing out the same problems that Nan Eliot had. With Imogen’s help, Darcy explained the changes she was making, and Kiralee seemed appeased.

But then she said, “How old is your Agent Reyes? FBI agents have to be twenty-three, it turns out.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” Darcy said.

“Is your Google broken?” Kiralee tutted. “There’s a checklist for hiring on their site. You might also want to differentiate a bit more between the old man in the patched jacket and the bad man. Because the bad man is rather old, and the old man is definitely bad.”

“But one’s a normal human serial killer,” Darcy said. “And the other has psychopomp powers. How would anyone get confused?”

“Because serial killers are the death gods of the modern world,” Kiralee said. “That’s why they always have superpowers. Perhaps you should give one of your bad old men a name.”

“I have a name for the man in the patched coat,” Darcy said. “But it’s kind of obvious, so I didn’t use it.”

Kiralee raised her glass. “No one ever starved from being too obvious.”

Imogen raised her own glass at this, and Darcy toasted with
them. Her anxiety was gradually fading into contentment mixed with a red wine buzz. Maybe Kiralee wasn’t as scary as she liked to pretend.

So Darcy broached the issue she’d been dreading most: “I’ve been working on the whole religion thing, trying to make Yamaraj more serious. Less Disney.”

Kiralee looked puzzled.

“At Drinks,” Darcy said. “You said I was using someone’s god for purposes of YA hotness.”

“Ah. I think the key word there is ‘drinks.’ Sorry for descending on you like that. It sometimes happens when I’ve had a few.” Kiralee gave her a sheepish smile. “You don’t need some whitefella’s permission to adapt your own culture.”

“But what if it’s not mine?” Darcy stared at her plate. “I eat meat. I don’t pray. It feels weird, erasing a god and using him as a mortal.”

“Maybe it is.” Kiralee considered this a moment, pressing two fingertips against her forehead, for a moment like her old author photo. “But speaking as an atheist, raised Catholic, who finds her only succor in the stories of the Wemba-Wemba people, how the hell should I know?”

Darcy sighed. “So I have to figure this out for myself.”

“You write as respectfully as you can, and then you publish. You uncover your mistakes by lobbing your books into the world.”

“But people might yell at me!”

“Yes, it’s a bit like learning French. When you open your mouth, you risk sounding like an idiot. But if you don’t take that chance, you’ll never speak at all.”

“Yeah,” Imogen said. “But bad grammar doesn’t offend anyone’s religion.”

“Have you
met
the French?” Kiralee asked.

Darcy leaned back in her seat, letting them argue. She’d been silly, of course, coming to Kiralee for absolution. She would find her answers in the words she wrote, in the stories she told, not by asking for permission.

“What else did Nan suggest?” Kiralee asked as they began to eat again. “Nothing catastrophic, I trust.”

Darcy shared a long look with Imogen, and neither spoke.

“Oh dear. What is it?”

When Darcy still didn’t answer, Imogen spoke up. “Nan wants to change the ending. Less tragic. More marketable.”

“Ah.” Kiralee gave Darcy a look of boundless pity. “That’s a tricky one.”

“No kidding.”

“Here’s how I always look at it: you want to find an ending that you believe in, while keeping your publisher happy. That’s not a moral crisis, it’s a writing problem. One I have faith you’ll solve.”

“Thanks.” Darcy tried to smile. “But won’t
Afterworlds
suck with a happy ending?
Any
happy ending?”

“I doubt that. There are probably a dozen perfect happy endings you could write. And a thousand bittersweet ones, and at least a million that are gloriously tragic. Alas, you only get to pick one.”

Darcy stared at Kiralee. She’d expected outrage, or at least indignation. But Kiralee was smiling, as if this was all some writing exercise or, worse, some sort of
learning experience
.

But this was Darcy’s first novel, which for a whole year would
be the only book in the world with her name on it. And it had always had the same ending in her mind.

“I seem to have paralyzed you, Miss Patel,” Kiralee said.

“No, it’s just . . . ,” Darcy began, then steadied herself with a slow breath. “Don’t you think the ending’s good like it is?”

“It’s very good. But there are other fine endings out there, some not quite so tragic. Maybe you can find one.”

“But don’t you think it’s
annoying
that I have to?”

“Do you find it annoying that your publisher wants to sell heaps of your book?”

Darcy opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Now
she was paralyzed.

“It’s awesome that they want
Afterworlds
to sell,” Imogen spoke up. “But less awesome that people only like happy endings.”

“And not even true.” Kiralee’s gaze stayed locked on Darcy. “
Romeo and Juliet
has enjoyed some popularity. But perhaps killing Yamaraj limits your story going forward.”

Darcy stared back, examining Kiralee’s expression. Was this a test of some kind? Was she supposed to prove herself now, not just by standing up to Paradox Publishing but also by facing down Kiralee Taylor, author of
Bunyip
, as well?

“But Yamaraj was always supposed to die. He
has
to die. My book is
about death
!”

“And death is always tragic?”

“When terrorists are involved? Pretty much.”

“Fair enough. But art can mix emotions as well as distill them.”

Darcy looked at Imogen for help.

“Wait a second,” Imogen said. “You’re not saying Darcy should
make her ending happy, you’re saying she should make her
publisher
happy. Right?”

“Exactly.” Kiralee was staring at the Jesus made of toast. “It’s your story, Darcy. Which means you’re allowed to change anything about it, especially the parts that are most precious to you.”

“Kill your darlings,” Imogen murmured.

“Indeed,” said Kiralee. “Now, shall we have some dessert, darlings?”

*  *  *

“She was nicer than I thought,” Darcy said as she and Imogen rode back to Manhattan in a mostly empty subway car.

Imogen was looming over her, holding onto the straphanger’s metal bar and swaying with the motion of the train. “You thought she’d be mean?”

“Totally. The first time she heard about my book, she started making fun of paranormal romances.”

“She was pretty harsh tonight. You’re just tougher now.”

“I am?”

Imogen let out a laugh. “Can you imagine if she’d read your book back then, and straight up told you that half of it was exposition?”

“Not
half
, just those two chapters. But yeah, I would have flipped out.”

“You would’ve melted on the spot, then burst into flame.” Imogen swung closer, her knees pressing against Darcy’s. “But now you’re an old pro with thick skin. ‘Skip the praise and give it to me straight’ is your motto.”

“Very funny. Do you think she hates me and was just being nice?”

“Kiralee’s never nice if she hates someone.” Imogen stared out
the window over Darcy’s head. The tunnel walls were strung with construction lights that flashed with the train’s passage. “Maybe she was thinking about her own career, and wondering if a few more happy endings might have been a good idea.”

“Right. I keep repressing the fact that she doesn’t have huge sales. I mean, if she can’t make it, I’m doomed.”

Darcy wondered what must Kiralee have thought, reading in
Publisher’s Brunch
that some teenager was getting so much money. Some pipsqueak who had the gall to come out to Brooklyn to ask for guidance and advice. And at the end of the meal, Kiralee had even paid!

“She’s never going to blurb me, is she?”

“Kiralee doesn’t think that way. If she likes your rewrites, she’ll give you a blurb.”

“Really? Even though I’m hideously overpaid?”

Imogen shrugged. “She’s seen debs like us come and go. Most careers don’t last as long as hers.”

“This is my favorite conversation ever,” Darcy said.

“Hey, this was a good night!” Imogen swung down into the seat beside Darcy and put an arm around her. “Kiralee Taylor liked your book enough to talk to you about it, in person, over dinner! Tell
that
to your three-months-ago self.”

“But every time I asked her what to do, she said it was up to me.”

“So she thinks you can figure your own shit out. Boohoo.”

Darcy sighed. She supposed that maybe it
was
a compliment, being told that you could find the answers yourself. But part of Darcy—maybe even most of her—wished that Kiralee had simply told her how to fix everything.