“Wait,” I called out despite my misgivings. “I thought we had a . . . deal?”

Eli laughed loudly but didn’t stop walking. “Of course we do. And our deal just became mobile. So keep up.”

As he stepped into the trees, the riverbank instantly darkened behind him. With seemingly no command from Eli, the bank had shifted into the netherworld. But for now the flitting black shapes and whispering souls stayed away, leaving nothing but a cold, glittering landscape around me.

I tossed a wary look over my shoulder at the tarlike river dragging its way to the bridge. At first I thought the gaping black hole wasn’t visible today. However, as I watched, a tiny spot of darkness appeared under the bridge and then began to swell, its black edges clawing their way upward and outward. Eventually, it stopped growing; but even in stillness, it seemed to move and shift like some crouching beast. Giving it one last, hesitant glance, I shuddered and faced forward again.

“Amelia Elizabeth Ashley,” I whispered to myself. “You’re an idiot.”

Then I followed the creepiest thing I’d ever met into the deep, twisting forest of the netherworld.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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Chapter

Twenty

“Would you like to hear a story, Amelia?”

We’d been walking in the frost-covered woods for at least twenty minutes, weaving a crooked and seemingly directionless path through the trees. The scenery kept getting weirder and weirder—icy, clawlike shrubs clutched at my ankles; an almost purple moss covered every bare surface; and big gray flakes, like either snow or ash, had started to float down around us—but Eli had yet to tell me our destination.

In fact, Eli hadn’t said a single word during this excursion, even in response to my initial questions. As I watched his back—turned away from and always five feet ahead of me—I grew increasingly irritated. I threw around a few pointed sighs, even uttered a low “ahem” or two. My theatrics brought not so much as a peep from Eli.

So when he finally spoke, I actually jumped a little in surprise. It took me a moment to collect myself enough to answer his question, though when I was able to do so, my answer was rife with undisguised impatience.

“That depends, Eli. Is the story relevant?”

“What’s your definition of relevance?” Eli countered.

I sighed so loudly, the sound came out like a groan. Eli stopped walking and turned to face me. He placed his hands into his pockets and met my eyes for only a second. Then he lowered his own gaze to my feet and slowly raised it, scanning my body. The appraisal made me squirm uncomfortably.

“Tell me the story,” I said curtly, “to distract yourself from being so rude.”

His head snapped up, and he looked me fully in the eyes. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Was I being rude?”

Still glaring at him, I twisted one corner of my mouth in disapproval.

“Fair enough.” He appraised me again, although this time he did so with a less lewd stare. Then he nodded. “Since I’ve embarrassed you, how about I apologize by telling you something about myself?”

“Only if it has something to do with what I want to know.”

A smile twitched on his lips, and then he turned back around to march onward through the woods. I wavered, uncertain, before I began following him.

“Eli?” I prompted.

He remained silent for a moment and then called back, “Have you ever wondered why I’m dressed like this? What kind of profession I might have been in?”

I assessed the back of his fluttering black shirt. “Well, I had a feeling you weren’t an accountant.”

When Eli cast a quick, backward glance over his shoulder, he looked amused.

“You’re right about that. You know, if I’d known what was going to happen the night I died, I might have changed into more comfortable pants. Or at least have buttoned my shirt.”

Considering my own outfit, I had no room to judge. I swept an errant gray flake from my skirt—not ash but something like snow, I think—and nodded at Eli’s back.

“When you’ve just come from a concert in 1975,” he continued, “the last thing on your mind is changing clothes, I can assure you.”

“You died after attending a concert?”

“Actually, Amelia, I died before playing a concert.”

I stumbled in surprise and then stopped completely. “You did what?”

Eli stopped, too. After turning to face me, he gave me a lazy, self-assured grin. “In life I was the lead singer of a rock band. We were pretty good, too. Gaining a following . . . even negotiating with a record label.”

Only my eyes moved, running over Eli’s outfit once more: the impossibly tight pants, the wild hair, the cluster of necklaces on his bare chest.

“So . . . you were a rock star?”

“I was on my way to being a rock star. I even had my own groupies.” His grin widened. “My band actually had a pretty big gig in Oklahoma City, but our tour bus broke down in Wilburton before we could get there.”

“Wow,” I said, begrudgingly impressed. I paused and then asked, “I’m guessing you never made it to that gig, huh?”

Eli didn’t answer but instead raised one eyebrow for confirmation. Only now did his prideful expression falter. I couldn’t be sure, but I think it was the first time I’d seen Eli regretful, as if he actually mourned the loss of all that impending power and fame.

“So . . . what happened?” I asked.

Eli grimaced, remembering. “Our bus driver insisted on taking a shortcut in the dead of the night, across a rickety old bridge.” He frowned harder, as if trying to remember. “Of course, once the bus sputtered to a stop in the middle of the bridge, we decided to pile out and help the driver with the engine. We were pretty useless, though: a serious amount of drinking was involved, obviously, and maybe a few more chemicals. Soon things got . . . out of control. Eventually, someone had the brilliant idea to jump over the side of the bridge.”

“You?” I gasped. “You jumped off High Bridge?”

Eli laughed vibrantly. The sound of it contrasted strangely with his story.

“Well, Amelia,” he said, “I obviously didn’t fly. And that was my messy end, so to speak.”

We were silent for a few more moments as both of us digested his words. My distaste for Eli lessened slightly in light of his last revelation: we had died in the same awful place. And now we were both stuck between the living world and whatever else existed outside of this dark, icy limbo.

Frowning, I stared down at the icy moss beneath my feet. “You know, Eli, I don’t remember much of anything. But I’ve got to be honest with you—I really don’t remember any stories about a rock star dying on the bridge.”

Eli sniffed imperiously, and I looked up. From the twist of his mouth, I could see I’d offended him.

“Like I said, Amelia, I was on my way to becoming a rock star,” he explained in a clipped tone. “At the time I died, not many people knew me or followed me. But they were going to . . . I’m sure of it.”

For some strange reason, I felt a little guilty about wounding his pride, at least on this issue. The story of Eli’s human life was the only thing that made him seem . . . well, human. “Sorry, Eli. Really,” I said, with only the slightest smile. “I’m sure you were going to be huge. A big star.”

When he appeared somewhat mollifed, I pressed him again. “Keep going, Eli. Tell me what happened after you died.”

He sighed, and the focused look settled upon his face again.

“Believe it or not, the initial years of my afterlife were far less peaceful than yours. Those years were my punishment, no doubt. I died angry—not at the world but at myself, for giving up all that success. All that power. I wanted to lash out at the living instead of beg for their help, as you did. I suppose I became a bit of a poltergeist. I found that, through strong emotions, I could affect things in the living world. Move them, even. I managed to break windows, overturn lamps. Make myself a general nuisance.”