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 cottonwood, 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.
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.”
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