I stared at him. “You mean, I’m not going to age anymore?”

“You will in the overworld.” He looked up at the empty sky. “Whenever other living people can see you and talk to you, you’re getting older every second, just like a normal person.”

“So you must never leave.”

He shook his head. “I’ve spent a few years in the real world, since I crossed over that first time. A few days here and there, but that’s all.”

“Oh.” My eyes dropped to the black expanse beneath our feet. “So you live down in the underworld? That’s where Yami was taking all those people.”

He nodded.

“What’s it like down there?” My thoughts went to Mindy’s fears. “Is it a good place, or a bad place?”

“It’s quiet, mostly. Only the memories of the living stir the dead, and most of the dead have been forgotten. We do what we can.”

“We?”

“There are many of us, living people who’ve found the underworld. We each have our own people. We learn their names, so they don’t fade away.”

I nodded, remembering what Mindy had said, that my mother’s memories kept her from disappearing. “But millions of people must die every year. How can you remember them all?”

“We don’t. Most wander lost until they’re forgotten. Some are taken by people like that man you met, and used. The lucky ones find us.” Yamaraj stood a little straighter. “My people are only a few thousand, but I know all of them.”

“A few thousand, out of millions? That’s kind of depressing.”

“Death can be that way.” For a moment, he looked older.

“So I’ve noticed,” I sighed. “Is there anything you can teach me that’s not depressing?”

Yamaraj thought a moment, then a smile played on his face again. “How about this: The river isn’t just a boundary. It’s also a way to travel.”

He held out a hand, and I stared at it for a moment.

“Are we going somewhere?”

“Name a place you’d like to go.”

“Seriously?” My eyes blinked a few times. “Like, the Eiffel Tower? The Great Pyramids?”

“That depends. You need a connection to the place you’re going. Memories of having been there, some kind of bond. But yes, the River Vaitarna connects the entire world.”

I stared at him, wondering what places I had a real connection to. I’d lived in the same house all my life. There were my elementary and high schools, of course, but the idea of going to another empty school building gave me the creeps. I couldn’t exactly show up at my friend Jamie’s house, or my father’s apartment in New York.

But there was always the rest of New York City. I’d always had a soft spot for the Chrysler Building, since I was little and read a book about how the Empire State had cheated to become the tallest in the world. I’d made my father take me during my visit. But did that count as a bond?

I wanted to learn how to do this. If I could travel anywhere, being a psychopomp might be worth having ghosts in my life.

With the thought of Mindy, I suddenly knew where I wanted to go.

“What about a family connection, like the house my mother grew up in? She’s never taken me there, but I’ve seen pictures.”

Yamaraj frowned. “Out of the whole world, that’s where you want to go?”

I hesitated a moment. I didn’t want to lie to Yamaraj, but finding Mindy’s bad man didn’t sound like the sort of expedition he would be happy about. “It’s part of my family history. Something happened to my mother there when she was little. Can we go there?”

“If the place is important to you, then yes.”

“So teach me how.”

“Of course. But one more warning.”

I sighed. “What now?”

“If you feel something behind you, don’t turn around.”

“Um, okay.” I remembered the cold, wet thing that had brushed against me just before Yamaraj had arrived. “What’s going to be behind me?”

One crooked eyebrow lifted. “I thought you didn’t want to learn any more depressing things.”

“I guess not. So what do I do?”

Yamaraj reached out to take my hands, but I pulled away, afraid his touch would jolt me back into the real world.

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “This is the river.”

“Which means what?”

“You’re in too deep for panic to matter.”

I stared into his eyes. “I don’t panic. I think we established that in Dallas.”

“What would you call it then?” Yamaraj was almost smiling.

I didn’t tell him that his touch was electric. That it was sparks and heat and fire. That his one kiss in the airport had lingered on my lips for the last ten days.

What I said was, “Jitters.”

“Sorry.” He pressed his hands together, bowing a little in apology. Then he held them out for me to take.

I reached out for him, and as our fingers brushed, a trickle of current spilled across my skin. It made my heart flutter and jump, but there was no sudden burst of color in the sky, no pulse of the overworld breaking through.

This wasn’t my bedroom. This was the River Vaitarna, the boundary between life and death. And Yamaraj’s hands were warm and real.

“I’m ready to go,” I said.

The reluctant smile finally spread across his face. “Hold on tight.”

CHAPTER 17

THE PARTY HAD GROWN. THE big room was more crowded and also more alive, or perhaps the buzzing of Darcy’s lips just made it seem that way.

In the weeks they’d known each other, Darcy had never thought about kissing Imogen. Attraction wasn’t something that burned inside her, not like the forest-fire crushes that Carla went through every few months. Darcy could still list the guys she’d thought were hot in high school, but none had ever made her heart beat sideways. And at the beginning of senior year when Sagan had asked her quite seriously if she preferred girls, Darcy hadn’t been able to answer him.

But now she was certain—about Imogen at least, if not about girls and boys in general—and it was a relief and a revelation. She felt as though she’d leaped across a thousand pointless crushes and landed someplace real.

She also felt, now that Imogen had taught her the term, like she was more full of juice than ever. Darcy wanted to sweep the bowls of chips and guacamole from her desk and start on Untitled Patel right now, with Imogen at her side.

But a few steps into the room, Kiralee descended on them and swept Imogen away. There was the tiniest rip in Darcy’s heart as her hand parted from Imogen’s, but she didn’t follow them off to the corner where Oscar was holding court. She had to find her friends.

Darcy scanned the crowd, recognizing more arrivals from YA Drinks, a pair of publicists she remembered from a meeting at Paradox, and then—

“Sister deb!” It was Annie Barber, with three more sister debs in tow.

“Oh. Hi, guys.”

“Twenty-fourteen!” Annie said, and they all put up a hand.

“Right!” Darcy high-fived them all. “Listen, I’m looking for—”

“This is such a rock-star apartment!” Annie cried. “And in Manhattan.”

“You are, like, our official idol now,” said Ashley, whose book was a dystopian on Mars, Darcy remembered.

She found it hard to answer. Her lips were buzzing, her body still thrumming from the kiss with Imogen. She felt like a rock star, a little, but mostly she was dizzy.

“So we have a confession,” Annie said. “We all have bets on how old you are.”

“It’s not really a—”

“No spoilers!” Annie interrupted. “We want to wait for the reveal, like everyone else. I’ve got seventeen.”

“I’ve got nineteen,” Ashley said. “I know, that’s probably way too old.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Darcy said. She’d finally spotted Carla and Sagan alone by the guacamole, looking wide-eyed and terrified. “And I kind of have to deal with something. Besides, a single word might reveal too much.”

“Of course,” Annie said, and the sister debs parted for her.

“Guys!” Darcy called to Sagan and Carla as she threaded her way across the room.

“There you are!” Carla gathered her into a hug, and they spun once in a circle.

“Sorry. I was up on the roof. There was . . . a situation.” Darcy touched her own lips, and for a moment her first real kiss seemed imaginary.

“I’m just glad we made it.” Carla’s eyes swept across the room. “Look at your glamorous apartment, city girl!”

Sagan nodded at this, a corn chip in his hand. “Illustrious party is illustrious.”

“Seriously illustrious.” Carla’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I mean, is that Kiralee Taylor over there?”

“Yep.”

“She didn’t even have to look,” Sagan said to Carla. “You’d think someone would check on a claim like that, Kiralee Taylor being in their living room. But no, she just assumed it to be true.”

“Because Darcy is, like, famous now,” Carla said. “And there are frequently famous people in her living room.”

Darcy rolled her eyes. “Come on, guys. I’ll introduce you.”

“Introduce us?” Sagan asked, sputtering on his corn chip. “But I didn’t bring my copy of Bunyip.”

“This isn’t a signing, Sagan,” said Carla. “It’s, like, Darcy’s living room, somehow full of famous authors.”

“It’s just my housewarming party,” Darcy said, though suddenly none of it seemed believable to her either. She turned to confirm her own existence in the wall of mirrors.

“But what if I go all fanboy?” Sagan said. “Because Bunyip.”

Darcy smiled. “You should fanboy her about Dirawong instead. Kiralee’s pretty much over Bunyip, because everyone loves it so much, and because . . .”

She left the rest unspoken, but reminded herself to ask Sagan later about using Hindu gods for purposes of YA hotness.

“Right,” Carla said. “Like John Christopher was totally bored of Tripods.”

Sagan nodded. “Ravel hated Boléro by the end.”

“Jimi Hendrix and ‘Purple Haze,’ ” Darcy said, then waved her hand. “This game is already stupid. Come on over, guys. She’s awesome.”

Darcy took a step toward Kiralee, but her friends didn’t move.

“What?”

“I think we need a second,” Carla said, her gaze drifting along the floor. “We haven’t even unpacked yet.”

Darcy saw the rolled sleeping bags shoved beneath the desk, along with two small suitcases. “Right. Sorry. You just got here, and I’m dragging you around my party. Hostess failure.”

“We should have arrived before your party started,” Sagan said. “The Amtrak timetable incident may have been my fault.”

“Finally you admit this!” Carla said.

Darcy knelt to pick up the sleeping bags. “I’ll put these in your room.”

“We’ll stay here,” Sagan said. “Your party is nervous-making, but I don’t want to miss anything.”

“No problem.” Darcy extended the handles of the suitcases and wedged a sleeping bag under each arm. She managed to wheel her way through the throng without knocking anyone over, and soon was alone in the guest bedroom.

“Crap, still no pillows,” she muttered, letting the sleeping bags fall to the floor. She rolled the suitcases into a corner, wondering how illustrious Carla and Sagan would think she was when they saw their room.