“So I just realized,” Sagan said. “Your book is all about fire, Imogen, and Darcy’s is all about a cold place inside. Funny, huh?”
Imogen and Darcy stared at each other for a moment, unsure what to say.
Then Carla spoke up. “Did you ever get that letter from your editor? The one that tells you what you have to change?”
Darcy shook her head. “Nan keeps promising, but it never comes. You think I should ask her about it, Gen?”
“At your own party? That’s kind of tacky. But I bet Moxie would do it.”
“Right,” said Darcy. The great thing about agents was, they did 100 percent of the unwriterly parts of the job for 15 percent of the money. “But she had to leave early.”
“Leave? She’s right over there, talking to . . .” Imogen blinked. “Is that . . ?”
“It is,” Sagan said. “Your party just got way more illustrious, Darcy.”
“Squee,” Carla added in a tiny voice.
Darcy turned, wondering if Coleman Gayle had finally arrived. But it wasn’t Coleman headed straight toward her across the room. It was no less than the Sultan of Social Media, Stanley David Anderson.
“Hello,” he said, extending a hand. “I understand you’re the hostess of this affair.”
“Yes,” was the best Darcy could do. She took his hand and shook it, and then remembered to say, “Darcy Patel.”
“Stanley Anderson.”
“I know,” Darcy said. “I mean, um, this is Imogen and Carla and Sagan.”
“Carla and Sagan?” Standerson nodded. “That’s quite funny, though you might be too young to know why.”
“The odds against it are astronomical,” Sagan said.
“Billions and billions to one.” When Standerson giggled, his expression barely changed. “I hope you don’t mind me crashing your party, Darcy.”
“Of course not. But weren’t you having dinner with Moxie?”
“I was. But I’ve had one of my frequent bouts of dyspepsia.”
“Oh,” Darcy said. “That sucks.”
“The ‘Frequent Bouts of Dyspepsia’ episode was my favorite,” Sagan said. “From season one, anyway.”
“Mine too,” Standerson said. “I wish I’d had a better camera back then. Is that guacamole?”
“Yes,” Sagan said. “I find its consistency soothing.”
“I concur.” Standerson took a corn chip from the bowl and loaded it up. He turned to Imogen. “I think we’re touring together this fall.”
Darcy turned. “You are?”
“Paradox wants us to.” Imogen looked a little stunned. “But it’s not a done deal, so I didn’t think . . .”
“Could be fun.” Standerson nodded. “I’ll talk to Nan.”
“That would be amazing,” Imogen said softly, but Standerson was helping himself to more guacamole.
It was strange to see Imogen struck silent, but not as strange as seeing Sagan making instant friends with Standerson. The two were in their own little world now, discussing the guacamole-carrying capacity of various shapes of corn chips.
“This alarms me,” Carla said quietly as they watched. “And yet it also makes sense.”
“I know, right?” Darcy said.
“I liked how you were in no way smooth with Standerson,” Carla said. “That was reassuring, city girl.”
“Thanks.” Darcy turned to Imogen. “Since when are you touring with him?”
“Last time I heard, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. But I guess now that he’s met me, the idea’s more real, you know?”
Carla laughed. “Stuff always happens at Darcy’s parties, ever since fifth grade. Breakups, hookups, big fights, all the craziest stuff. But the weird part is, it never happens to her.”
Imogen and Darcy glanced at each other, and Darcy felt a little smile flash across her face. Her lips felt hot and dry.
“Well . . . so much for that theory,” Carla said, and began to giggle to herself. She slipped an arm around Darcy, squeezing her old friend hard, and suddenly she was laughing aloud, and people were looking at them from across the room.
“Um, Carla?” Darcy asked. “Are you okay?”
“I’m great. But this party is giving me all the feelings.”
CHAPTER 18
IT FELT JUST LIKE A river, strong and swift and brutish. carrying us with the simple mindless power of fast-moving water.
It had been roaring past me since the moment I’d sunk beneath my bedroom floor. That constant wind really was a current, and once I let myself go it took me, suddenly and completely, as if someone had given me a giant kite to hold. Only Yamaraj’s hands gripping mine made me feel as though we would ever stop moving again.
The river was full of cold, wet things like the one that had brushed against me. They always came from behind, soft and whispering, never quite forming words against my ear or the back of my neck. Yamaraj said they were harmless, unless you turned to look at them. So I learned to shudder and ignore. The trip felt endless, dizzying and wild, and it was all I could do to keep the image of my mother’s old house in mind. But once we eddied to a halt, it seemed as if hardly any time at all had passed.
We came to rest on another dark expanse, just like one we’d left behind.
I looked up into the empty black sky. “How can you even tell where we are?”
“We’re where you wanted to be, Lizzie. If you have a real connection to this place. Otherwise . . .” He shrugged. “We could be anywhere.”
“Right,” I said, wondering if the Chrysler Building might have been the safer choice.
Yamaraj knelt and placed his palm on the ground, and a moment later black oil began to bubble up. It spread quickly, and I skipped back to keep my sneakers out of it.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s okay, Lizzie.” He pulled me closer, my feet joining his in the black oil.
“Seriously?” We were already sinking.
“This is how it’s done. You’ll understand better if you keep your eyes open.”
“Um, okay.” I held Yamaraj tighter as we descended, hungry for his body heat, and not minding the feel of lean muscles through his silk shirt. The black oil wasn’t much colder than the river’s current, but shivers still fluttered through me as it climbed my spine.