Free Afterworlds by Scott Westerfeld Page A

kind of spacey,” my mother said.
    “Not enough sleep.” Then I did the math. “Make that too much sleep.”
    “Poor kiddo,” she said softly.
    We went inside and studied the place mat menus, Mom smiling at how much I ordered. My body was really waking up now, wanting food and coffee and for the world to make sense again.
    After the waitress had left us, I caught my mother staring at the stitches on my forehead. Then her eyes lingered on the place where the single tear I’d cried in the afterworld had left a tear gas burn on my left cheek.
    I doubted she knew how often she did that. Would she keep doing it for the rest of her life?
    But finally she turned from me to look out the window. “It’s so beautiful here. We should stop and see some of the sights.”
    “Um, like the sand dunes?”
    “Well, they’re kind of hard to miss. But there’s a ghost town upnorth of here. It’s called Chloride, because of a mining boom way back. There was a brochure in the room. Looked interesting.”
    For a moment I thought of Tom’s face, and a shudder went through me. “No ghost towns, okay?”
    She turned back from the window and saw my expression, then reached to take my hand.
    “Of course not.” She was talking just above a whisper, like she didn’t want anyone else to hear. “Sorry I even mentioned that.”
    “No, I’m fine, Mom. It’s just that . . .” These terrorists had tried to kill me but I’d gone to the land of the dead and now could see ghosts and apparently had acquired dangerous new powers and this boy, this boy had touched my fingertips—and they still tingled.
    Plus, I really needed some better clothes.
    “It’s okay,” my mother said. “We’ll just get you home.”

CHAPTER 9
    AN HOUR LATER SOME TWO dozen authors had arrived. YA Drinks Night had taken over several tables, though these were populated only by handbags and empty glasses, as everyone was standing now.
    Oscar had introduced Darcy around, as a writer whose debut novel featured a hot Vedic death god. Everyone smiled when they heard that phrase, or joked that they were dying to read it. Somehow reducing her book to a single phrase made talking about it less paralyzing. It gave Darcy a feeling of control, like knowing Rumpelstiltskin’s name.
    Everyone was talking about their own work as well, and about the superpowers of their agents, the bloody-mindedness of copyeditors, and the perfidies of marketing departments. Darcy was swimming in a sea of publication, and all she wanted was to drown.
    My first day in New York , she thought, a little giddy from her second Guinness.
    “Are you Darcy Patel?” asked a young woman in a bright red fifties cocktail dress. “You signed with Paradox a couple of months ago, right?”
    Darcy smiled. “That’s me. Afterworlds .”
    “Sister debs!” the woman cried, and gathered Darcy into a breath-stopping hug.
    When she let go, Darcy stumbled back a step. “Um, sorry?”
    “I’m Class of Fourteen too! We’re sister debs!”
    “Right.” Darcy wasn’t sure if “deb” was short for “debutante” or “debut author,” but they meant the same thing. “It’s nice to meet you.”
    “I’m Annie Barber. Pretty stupid, right? I should have gone with a pen name.” She looked fearful, as if Darcy were going to revoke her publishing deal on the spot.
    “I’ve always liked the name Annie,” Darcy said.
    “Yeah, but ‘Barber’ sounds like . . . a barber. But at least I’m at the beginning of the alphabet, so I’ll get shelved at eye level. I’ve heard the end is okay too, because some people sit down and start at the end. It’s just the middle letters that everyone ignores.”
    “Oh,” Darcy said, wondering if her middling last name had doomed her to shelving oblivion. “What’s your book called?”
    “ A Parliament of Secrets . Does that sound boring?”
    “No, I love collective nouns. Like a parliament of owls, right?”
    “Yes!” Annie’s face broke into a smile, and