Afterworlds (39 page)

Imogen glanced at Darcy, shrugging a little.

“For example, check out this weird thing that happened to a friend of mine,” Standerson went on. “A couple of months ago, his girlfriend got a new job. It was a normal job at first, nine-to-five, but after a few weeks she started working later and later. She kept saying she loved the job, but never told my friend much about it. And she was hardly ever home at all. So finally one day he got fed up and drove out to where she worked.” Standerson leaned forward, his voice dropping just a little. “And there she was, coming out the door at five o’clock on the dot. So my friend ducked down in his seat, and when she drove away, he followed her, and found where she’d been spending all that time. . . .”

He stopped, letting the silence linger. There were a few squeaks of the chair hinges, a smattering of whispers, but the auditorium held its silence for second after endless second.

Finally Standerson said, “And that’s why plot is the most important element of a story.”

A confused burble broke out, breaking the silence that gripped the auditorium.

“But what
happened
?” one of the kids yelled.

Standerson shrugged. “I don’t know. I just made that up.”

A kind of roar erupted from the audience, half laughter and half annoyance. As the librarian tried to calm the students, Darcy heard them proposing theories to each other, finishing the story on their own, as if the narrative
demanded
its own completion.

When the room had finally settled, Standerson leaned back and
said, “See? That story had no setting, no theme, hardly any conflict, and two characters called ‘my friend’ and ‘his girlfriend.’ And yet you all hate me right now because you will never, ever know what happens next. Plot rules.”

Standerson pulled his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and dropped them on the stage.

Laughter came from the audience, still mixed with annoyance.

Darcy looked at Imogen, wondering how they were supposed to follow that answer. Obviously, Standerson had done this whole plot schtick before. But Imogen was smiling, already standing up.

She walked over to where Standerson’s sunglasses lay on the stage, and looked down at them disdainfully. Then she knelt, picked them up, and put them on.

“He’s totally wrong,” she said. “Character rules.”

The audience went silent at once, like a light switching off. This had become a competition.

“I’m going to give you a hundred million dollars,” she began, which set off a few trickles of noise. She raised her hands. “And you’re going to make a movie. With all that money, you can put in whatever you want, right? Dinosaurs, spaceships, hurricanes, cities blowing up. No matter what your story is, your movie is going to look totally real, because of all that money, and because computers can make anything look real. Except for one thing. You know what that is?”

She waited in silence, daring them not to answer. Finally a boy called up, “Actors?”

Imogen smiled as she took off the sunglasses. “That’s right. You’re going to need actors, because people never look right when
you make them with computers. They look wrong. They look creepy. So why is that? How come special effects can make dinosaurs and spaceships, but not people?

“It’s because everyone you love is a person, and everyone you hate is too. You look at people all day long. You can tell from the slightest twitch when they’re angry or tired or jealous or guilty. You are all experts at people.”

God, she was beautiful.

“And that’s why character rules.”

Imogen dropped the sunglasses back onto the floor. The reaction was less intense than what Standerson had produced, but the entire audience was engaged now. Like a pendulum, huge and sharp, their eyes swung to Darcy, whose brain began to race.

What was she supposed to do? Discuss the importance of theme? Of
setting
? She suddenly hated Standerson and Imogen with all her heart. How dare they make this a contest?

And with that thought, the answer was obvious.

Darcy stood up and crossed the stage to where the sunglasses lay. She rolled her eyes at them, and there was a smattering of laughter. This might work.

“How many of you woke up this morning worrying about which of the five elements of a story was most important?”

There was a little bit of laughter, and two or three hands went up.

“Right, no one cares. But for some reason you’re all waiting to hear what I have to say. You know why? Because at some point this became a
competition
.”

She turned to look at the other two. Standerson was leaning back in his chair, smiling. He’d figured her out already.

“You want to see who wins,” Darcy continued. “It’s like with reality shows. Millions of people watch contestants who can’t sing, just to see who sings the least badly. Or those survival shows, where you watch total strangers competing over who can eat the most ants. You never cared about ant eating before. But suddenly it’s important, because you want to know
who wins
.”

She knelt and picked up the sunglasses, and handed them back to Standerson.

“Which is why conflict always wins,” Darcy said. “Because conflict makes it a story.”

She crossed back to her chair and sat down. Her heart was racing, her body electric with a full flight-or-fight response. But the audience didn’t hate her. They weren’t applauding or laughing, but they all wanted to know what would happened next, like readers who had to turn the page.

We’ve got the juice
, Darcy thought.

“Well, okay then,” the librarian said. “Three different answers, all very interesting. Who’s got the next question?”

 CHAPTER 28 

HIS HEAT PRECEDED HIM, ALONG
with the smell of burning grass. A swarm of sparks streamed from the darkness to whirl around me, dancing on the invisible eddies and currents of the river.

And then the beautiful sound of his voice. “Lizzie, what happened?”

He was coming toward me, fire and warmth in the darkness.

“The man in the patched coat, he came back.” My voice still trembled from my panic in the closet. “He took Mindy away.”

Yama came to a halt, close enough that I could feel his heat. “I’m sorry, Lizzie.”

“We have to find her!”

He didn’t answer at first, and for a moment I thought he would tell me it was for the best. That the last thing I needed was a little ghost dragging me into the arms of the afterworld.

But he said, “Do you know where he took her?”

I could only shake my head.

Yama turned, surveying the emptiness around us. “So they could be anywhere. Predators are hard to track.”

“But there must be some way to follow him. He found us, and we were thousands of miles from home!”

“Then he has a bond with you.”

I stared at him. “What do you mean?”

Yama took a step closer, his voice calm. “The river is made from memories of the dead, but the bonds of the living tie it together.” He reached up and touched my tear-shaped scar. “That’s why I can hear when you call me. We’re connected.”

I pulled back, needing to think. “But I didn’t call that old man, and I’m
not
connected to him. I don’t even know his name!”

“He must know yours,” Yama said. “Names have power here, Lizzie.”

I remembered the first time he’d followed me home. Mindy might have said my name in the schoolhouse, or in my room. “Maybe.”

“But it’s not just your name. He feels something for you.”

“Are you serious?”

“He wants something, badly enough that the river carried him to you.” Yama put his hands on my shoulders. “Tell me everything he said.”

I looked into his eyes. We hadn’t seen each other since the fight, and Yama didn’t know I’d gone to see the old man again.

“He wanted me to kill someone.”

“To
kill
someone? Who?”

“The bad man.”

It took Yama a moment to figure it out. “When did he tell you this?”

My arms crossed, covering me. “I went to find him, to see if he could help with the bad man. This is all my fault.”

“No, it isn’t. This is his obsession, not yours. Which means he doesn’t want Mindy. He wants you.”

My breath caught, and the darkness of the river closed in around me, as if I were trapped in my father’s closet again. A psychopomp stalker. Perfect.

But with that trickle of panic in my veins, I saw why the old man had taken Mindy in New York, and not in my home, where I felt strong and safe. He’d chosen that moment in the closet because he
wanted
me scared.

This wasn’t about Mindy at all.

I pushed the thought away, let myself feel the warmth of Yama’s hands on my shoulders, his current on my skin.
This
was a real connection. How did that crumpled old predator dare to think there was anything like this between me and him?

“He said he was going to put her in his pockets.”

Yama’s hands tightened. “It’s only a threat. Taking her was a way to get your attention.”

“He
has
it. So what do we do?”

“Nothing. He’ll come for you when he wants to talk again.”

“Can’t the river take me to Mindy right now?” I closed my eyes and thought of her face, but Yama gently pulled me closer, breaking my concentration.

“You can’t follow a ghost, Lizzie. The river is made of them.”

I opened my eyes. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“You have to wait. He’ll test your will, maybe for a long time. But I’ll stay here as long as you need.”

“Thank you.” My voice sounded so earnest in my ears, I had to make a joke of it. “You aren’t afraid of getting death all over me?”

Yama tried to hide his smile. “I’m afraid for you sometimes. But that didn’t stop me coming when you called.”

A shudder of relief went through me. Since our fight, part of me had been afraid that he would stop answering.

I pulled him close, needing his heat on my lips, his body against mine. My palms slid down his back, searching for the ripple of muscle beneath silk. As his scent filled my lungs, the river’s current surged around us, and my hair whipped and tangled.

When our lips parted, we were silent for a long time. I wondered if we could stand there forever in the River Vaitarna’s embrace, never getting hungry, never tiring, never growing old. In the end forgetting ourselves and fading, becoming part of the river.

Even here in his arms, my thoughts were so grim.

“What if it’s too scary?” I asked.

“Then we’ll go to my island,” he said simply.

“But what if it’s
all
too much? Ghosts, predators, the dead in every stone. What if one little stretch of sand isn’t enough?”

“Then we’ll find somewhere else. Somewhere you feel safe.”

My heart faltered a little as I realized what Yama had said. After a thousand years searching for his island, he’d just offered to set it aside and find another place for me.

Yama came closer, his voice a whisper. “This is all happening so quickly, Lizzie. I wish I could slow it down.”

“I just wish I could fall asleep.” The thin edge of panic was still in my voice. “The old man said I didn’t have to anymore, because sleep is a slice of death. So I stopped, and now I
can’t
.”

“Ah. That happens sometimes.” He put his arms around me. “Take me home, and I’ll show you a little trick.”

*  *  *

It was strange seeing Yama in my room. I’d been with him in a bloody terrorist attack, in a river made of dead memories and the places it had carried us, but never anywhere so mundane, so much a part of my real life.

Thankfully, I’d cleaned up the mess on my bed, not wanting my mother to see piles of research about serial killers and missing children.

“Here we are,” I said, wishing I’d also shoved the school clothes hanging across my chair into the laundry hamper.

Yama was gazing at the pictures over my desk. “You have so many friends.”

I sighed. “Not these days. Since Dallas, not everyone gets me anymore.”

“Death shows you who’s real,” he said simply, and turned to me. “This works better in the overworld.”

“What does?”

A smile flickered on his face. “Sleeping.”

“Oh. Right.” If you couldn’t get tired or hungry on the flipside, then sleeping there would be pointless as well.

I was already nervous having him here, so a few quick breaths was all it took to throw myself back into the real world. The streetlights coming through the windows showed color spilling across the room.

Yama closed his eyes and took a slow breath, as if savoring the air.

I reached out and touched his face. He felt solid, not like a ghost.

“Wait,” I whispered. “You’re here too? I thought you never left the afterworld.”

His eyes opened. “Call this an extravagance.”

I looked at my bedroom door. “But my mother . . .”

Yama pressed close, until he was near enough to whisper, “Don’t worry, Lizzie. We’ll be very quiet.”

His breath brushed my ear with fingertips of air, and a little shudder went through me. For a moment, nothing pierced the sound of the blood rushing in my veins.

A little dizzy, I sat down on my bed. Yama settled beside me, and I leaned against him. Here in the overworld he wasn’t sparks and fire dancing on the wind, but he was still warmer than anyone I’d ever held.

I turned. “Okay. What now?”

“Do you usually sleep in a jacket?” His voice was still a whisper, sharpening every word.

“Oh.” I unzipped it, let it fall from my shoulders.

Of course, I didn’t sleep in sneakers either. I pulled off my shoes and socks. And I never slept in jeans. I stood up and let them slip onto the floor. Then I crossed the room and drew the curtains tighter.

In the darkness, the psychopomp shine on our skin seemed to grow stronger. The night air felt cool on my arms and legs.

I settled back onto the bed, stretching out beside where Yama sat, basking in his warmth.

“Somehow this doesn’t feel very . . .
sleepy
.” There was a quaver in my voice.