by Hudson, Tara
Eli’s netherworld.
I squeezed my eyes tighter, concentrating on the things I remembered about it: the violent purple sky; the gnarled, glittering trees; the river of tar moving toward the dark abyss underneath the netherworld version of High Bridge. Then I pictured the black shadows—dead souls trapped there by Eli under order of his masters—as they shifted among the netherworld trees.
I wanted them to reappear so badly I could almost hear them whispering in the darkness. Begging, in hushed but urgent voices, to be set free. I kept my eyes shut for a few more moments, wishing, praying.
But when I opened my eyes, my heart sank. Nothing around me had changed—not the cold gray sky, not the icy grass, not the muddied river.
I sank to the ground, letting my dress puddle around me. I didn’t want to admit defeat, but I’d started to run out of excuses for myself. Every day I tried to reopen the netherworld, and every day I failed. Why should today be any different?
When I’d decided to pursue this task several months ago, Joshua thought I’d lost my mind. After all, I’d only narrowly escaped an eternity spent trapped in the netherworld. So he had no idea why I would want to waste even a second trying to get back into it.
Even now a small part of me wondered whether Joshua had a point: maybe what I’d spent months doing at this bridge was crazy or, at the very best, in total disregard for my own safety. Honestly, though, I didn’t care about my safety, and I certainly didn’t care about crazy. Not where my father was concerned.
It broke my heart when I learned that my father had died not long after I had. But not knowing what had happened to his ghost hurt far worse, mostly because I knew what waited for him after death.
If my experience as a ghost was any indication, my father was now spending his afterlife in one of two ways: either lost like I’d been or trapped by Eli in the darkness of the netherworld. Since I’d never run into my father during my years of wandering, I had to assume he’d fallen victim to Eli—a fate I obviously couldn’t allow him to suffer.
But none of my attempts to help him had worked.
At this point I couldn’t deny my strongest suspicion: that I’d lost whatever ghostly powers I had discovered the night I overcame Eli and his dark masters. Sure, I could still touch Joshua, and I could still (sometimes) control my materializations in the living world. But I could no longer create that supernatural glow upon my skin or feel its surge of power, and I couldn’t materialize into the netherworld.
Arguably, what I did at the river this afternoon was no more productive than what I’d done every few mornings for the last two months: sit on the front porch of my childhood home and watch, unseen, as my mother prepared for her day.
Though my visits were sporadic, I’d easily memorized her daily routine. Each morning she drank two cups of coffee in the front room, staring blankly at either the steam rising from her mug or at photos of my father and me; I couldn’t tell which. After that she left—usually forgetting to lock the front door—and drove off to work in her creaking brown sedan.
Every time I saw her she looked tired and lonely; every time, the sight of her flooded me with angry, impotent guilt. Which was why I couldn’t bring myself to visit her every day. I just didn’t have the strength.
But today I did.
This morning, after I’d left Joshua, I followed my mother to work and watched unseen as she worked a punishing job as the stockroom clerk for the local hardware store. When her shift finally ended at 3 p.m., I materialized to the river, determined to do something—anything—for at least one of my parents.
Now, standing uselessly beside the river, I sighed. However much I wasn’t helping my mother, I certainly wasn’t helping my father, either. This afternoon’s activities had proven as much.
I ran one hand through my hair, tugging at its dark brown ends as if the pressure might force me to concentrate harder. Assuming my concentration had anything to do with my ability to reopen the netherworld. Assuming I hadn’t been barred from it entirely.
I released the poor strand of hair, which I’d twisted fiercely around my index finger, and groaned in frustration. The groan echoed back from the barren tree line, mocking me.
I pushed myself up off the ground and brushed my skirt smooth, although the ice hadn’t actually wrinkled it. Then I turned my back on the river and walked toward the tree line. There, on the trunk of the largest cotton-wood, hung a wristwatch. Joshua had nailed it there a few weeks ago, after I’d come home late one too many times.
I leaned in close enough to see both the little and big hands resting near the dayglow five.
“Crap,” I murmured. Late again.
I could try to blame it on the blank gray sky—much darker, I realized, than it looked when I usually left. But what was the point? No matter what my excuse, I’d probably still find Joshua disappointed but unsurprised when I materialized back to the Mayhews’ house. On the plus side, he’d have almost no time to obsess over his calculus final, and even less time to argue his way out of the party I’d finally convinced him to attend.
I cast another brief glance at the watch, and a thought struck me. What if each second ticking away on the watch’s little face meant something? What if those seconds, blending together into minutes then hours then days, had started to create something?
Like a rift. A growing distance between Joshua and me, lengthened by each second that we lived separately—me haunting my parents, and Joshua living his life, as he should.
The rift had already begun to form, I was sure of it. But when would it become too wide to cross? Maybe sooner than I thought …
Suddenly, a blast of frozen December air hit me. I felt the cold along my bare shoulders, and the chilly silk of my skirt raised goose bumps wherever it touched my legs. Before I could react, I heard a soft snap somewhere inside the forest.
I immediately dropped into a protective stance, shoulders hunched and fists clenched. The sudden chill, the mysterious noises … past experience had taught me what—or who—they preceded.
“Eli?” I whispered, staring into the darkness of the forest.
Then I blinked back in surprise at myself.
Because, upon saying his name, my voice had sounded hopeful. Was I so desperate to rekindle my powers, so intent on reentering the netherworld, that I would welcome the reappearance of my enemy? My murderer?
I had to be crazy to want to see him again.
Fortunately or not, nothing answered my whisper. I waited, motionless, but I saw no movement in the woods except the occasional stir of a branch in the wind.
In all likelihood I was probably freaked out over something as benign as a squirrel running across a twig. That explanation made far more sense than the return of my ghostly nemesis who, for all I knew, was trapped somewhere darker than I could imagine. Besides, the cold sensation had disappeared almost as soon as it had arrived, even before I spoke Eli’s name.
But still, I shivered—whether from the memory of the chill, or from the dark thoughts buzzing around my pessimistic brain, I didn’t know. All I knew for sure was that I wanted to leave, now. So I closed my eyes, thought of Joshua, and prayed that this materialization took me where I really wanted to go.
Chapter
FOUR
Of all the things I didn’t trust, a tall bonfire in the middle of an enclosed structure ranked pretty high on the list. And yet I found myself huddled near one that night, desperately trying to maintain a wide smile.
To the right, an unfamiliar couple had practically melted into each other on top the hay bale next to ours. To the left, near the entrance of the barn, a group of guys threw mock punches at one another. They looked playful right now, but probably wouldn’t after everyone had knocked back a few more drinks.
With his eyes still locked on the flames in front of us, Joshua took another swig from his bottle of beer. He gulped and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “If one more person pukes in a horse stall, we’re leaving.”
&n
bsp; I forced a laugh. “At least they’re aiming for the stalls and not the bonfire.”
Joshua arched one eyebrow and looked at me from the corner of his eye. I sighed and raised both my hands in defeat.
“I know, I know. But you said you were going to try to have fun tonight. And all you’ve done for the past two hours is drink and talk to me.”
“Talking to you is fun.” He flashed me that charming grin, the one that made my chest ache. Tonight, however, I wasn’t buying it.
“No dice, buddy,” I warned. “I’m not going to sit here and watch you lose friends because of me.”
Joshua’s grin shifted from sly to sweet. He stretched one hand across the hay and laid it on top of mine. “You’re worth it,” he said. Even over the roar of the fire and the noise of the party, his voice sounded quiet, sincere.
I could feel the ache in my chest tighten when, as if on cue, Joshua’s best friend, David O’Reilly, stumbled over to us. With an enormous belch, O’Reilly collapsed onto the hay next to Joshua, forcing Joshua to scoot so close to me I nearly dropped to the ground.
“Make yourself comfortable, O’Reilly,” I grumbled, but then I bit my lip. I reminded myself that I couldn’t really blame either boy: O’Reilly had no idea there were two people on the hay, and Joshua could hardly tell O’Reilly to make room for me since O’Reilly didn’t even know I existed.
Sighing, I pushed myself up off of the hay and turned to face them. What I saw didn’t surprise me, unfortunately.
Joshua and O’Reilly sat beside each other, not moving or speaking. Both stared intently into the bonfire as if it might do their talking for them.
Joshua’s eyes caught mine. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here.
“What are you waiting for?” I asked him, putting on what I hoped was an encouraging smile. “He’s your best friend, and this is his party, in his barn. Say something.”
Joshua nodded slightly. Then he spoke, keeping his eyes fixed on the fire.
“Hey, O’Reilly.”
“Hey, Mayhew.”
Their greetings hung in the air like balloons waiting for something to tether them. But as the seconds ticked by without any follow-up, I realized that a conversation between these boys obviously wouldn’t happen without help.
I sighed, this time in genuine irritation. I couldn’t believe Joshua had let it go this far. O’Reilly was Joshua’s oldest friend in the world. And they hadn’t spoken to each other in weeks.
Their awkward exchange tonight was just one example of why I’d practically forced Joshua to stay at this party far longer than he wanted to. Because, for as much as my daily activities worried Joshua, his worried me, too. Or, more accurately, his lack of activities.
Over the course of just three short months, Joshua went from the friendliest person at Wilburton High to the most reclusive. Like his grandmother Ruth, Joshua had lost his social life; but unlike her loss, his was self-inflicted.
At first I thought he just needed some time away from his friends. After all, he’d watched those same friends try to kill his sister while under Eli’s dark spell. Who wouldn’t need to recoup after something like that?
Joshua, however, recovered from the shock faster than anyone, including Jillian. Only a few days later, he seemed as sunny and doggedly optimistic as ever.
Yet he kept avoiding his friends, long after I laid waste to High Bridge. No more eating lunch with them, no more answering their calls. When one of them tried to talk to him at school, he would take one look at me and politely excuse himself, putting as much distance between them and us as possible.
Every time I brought up this strange behavior with him, he simply shrugged and flashed me that charming grin. “Nothing’s wrong,” he would reassure me.
But I wasn’t fooled, nor was I the only one who noticed the change. In October his buddies had teased him about his new reputation as a loner. In November they’d call a few times a day, leaving concerned messages on his cell phone. By early December they’d stopped bothering to do even that.
If Joshua kept this up, he’d have no friends left by graduation.
I watched him continue to squirm uncomfortably on the hay for a few more seconds. Then I folded my arms across my chest, squared my shoulders, and gave him my most commanding look.
“‘Hey, O’Reilly’ isn’t good enough, Joshua. Talk to him. Please. For my sake.”
Joshua squirmed a bit more but nodded again. He cleared his throat, like anything more than a casual greeting would take serious effort, and asked, “So … a beard, huh?”
O’Reilly ran a hand over the thick red stubble on his cheeks. “Yeah. I had to celebrate No-Shave November.”
“And now you’re celebrating … what? Don’t-Get-Any-Play December?”
“Dude,” O’Reilly protested, “like you have any room to talk. You haven’t had a girlfriend in, like, forever.”
Joshua’s eyes met mine for just a second. Then he looked back at the fire. “Whatever, Grizzly Adams. You look like a bear died on your face.”
O’Reilly boomed out a deep guffaw and, before he had time to remember how distant they’d been, punched Joshua roughly on the shoulder. Joshua laughed, too, the sound gusting out of him like a sigh of relief.
Boys, I thought, shaking my head. An insult and a punch, and all is forgiven.
Then I grinned broadly, feeling no small amount of relief myself when they began to talk as if the past few months hadn’t even happened. Maybe, if the two of them kept this up, I wouldn’t have to worry about Joshua being lonely.
Because you are going to leave him, aren’t you?
Another voice broke into that dark thought, calling out to Joshua.
“Thank God, man. I thought we were gonna have to hold an intervention. I was afraid you were becoming one of those guys who moves into the attic and starts collecting toenails or something.”
A figure came strolling toward us, his face obscured by shadows and shaggy, light-brown hair. I knew what I’d find if I could see him fully: a genuine smile, warm brown eyes. Scott, Joshua’s second closest friend, was a good guy. Someone I normally welcomed. My smile faltered, however, when I saw who had followed him across the barn.
Jillian and her friend Kaylen walked behind Scott, both swaying unevenly in the firelight. When they grew closer, I could see that Kaylen had thrown one arm over Jillian’s shoulder. In her free hand, Kaylen held a brown bottle, which tilted toward the barn floor and spilled its foamy contents onto the dust and hay.
Both of Jillian’s arms were occupied by the effort of keeping Kaylen upright. Once they got close enough to the hay, I saw Jillian’s frustrated expression, the one she often wore around Kaylen. It made me wonder why Jillian spent any time at all with her supposed best friend.
Still struggling to hold Kaylen steady, Jillian accidentally bumped her knees against O’Reilly’s.
“Little help here?” she complained.
“Any time, Jilly-bean,” O’Reilly said, drawling the “any” suggestively. He reached up to grab Kaylen’s waist; but at the last moment, Kaylen seemed to regain some of her composure. Just as Jillian released her, Kaylen slipped almost gracefully onto the bale between Joshua and O’Reilly.
She made a small noise—a cross between a hiccup and a giggle, I think—and somehow, annoyingly, managed to sound more adorable than drunk. Even her thick blond hair still looked good, tousled in all the right places. She shifted backward, propping her arms behind her and letting her impossibly short jean skirt ride higher up her thigh.
“Blech,” I murmured. In a rare moment of recognition, Jillian’s eyes met mine and she snorted softly in agreement. Quickly, she looked away, back at the crowd on the hay.
“She’s all yours, boys,” Jillian said. “Come get me when she’s ready to go home. Or when you get tired of her, too.”
With a quick nod at Scott (who so obviously had an enormous crush on her), Jillian turned and walked back into the darkness of the barn. From the corner of my
eye, I saw Scott sigh heavily, no doubt pining after her.
The three figures on the bale, however, captured more of my attention. Well, two of the three figures anyway.
By now Kaylen had leaned forward again and placed one hand on each of the boys’ knees. But only her left hand, which clasped Joshua, moved. She ran it up his thigh and back down to his knee, talking rapidly as if to distract him from the uninvited touch.
“Josh, honey,” she slurred. “Does this mean we’re friends again?”
An involuntary growl escaped my lips.
Joshua shot me a worried look and tried to move farther away from her without falling completely off the bale. “Yeah, we’re all friends again. Aren’t we, O’Reilly? Why don’t you tell Kaylen how much you missed me?”
O’Reilly was more than happy to take over the conversation. He leaned around Kaylen, grinning widely at her. “Yeah, dude. I missed him so much, I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep … couldn’t shave.”
“Bah-da-dum-dum-ching,” Joshua sang, crashing his hand in the air against an imaginary cymbal.
Unfortunately for O’Reilly, Kaylen clearly wasn’t interested in the performance. She didn’t spare him so much as a glance. Instead, she pressed herself more firmly against Joshua’s side.
“Well, I know I missed you,” she said. Then she lowered her voice for just Joshua—and, unintentionally, me—to hear. “Can I show you how much?”
I felt an abrupt wave of heat from the bonfire, sharp and stinging against my back. The sensation was so strong I arched my neck against it. It quickly spread across my whole body until my cheeks flushed and I had to fan my face rapidly with one hand.
When Joshua grabbed Kaylen’s hand—to take it off of him, I’m sure—the heat intensified. Without thinking, I stepped away from the fire and closer to the hay bale. Close enough to hear Kaylen whisper, “Kiss me, Josh.”
