Everbound

  PROLOGUE

  Ancient Greeks called it the Underworld or Hades. Ancient Egyptians called it Aaru or the Duat. Both believed it was a place for the souls of the dead.

  Both were wrong.

  Those who know the truth call it the Everneath, and it’s not an afterlife. It’s a place for the Everliving and the Forfeits.

  The Everliving are immortals who survive by feeding on the emotions of humans.

  Forfeits are humans trapped in the Tunnels of the Everneath, being drained of all energy to supply the Everneath with power. The only escape from the Tunnels is death.

  Jack—the boy who got me through hell, the boy I Returned for, the boy I love—is in the Tunnels. He is a Forfeit.

  I know the truth. It should’ve been me.

  ONE

  AT NIGHT

  My bedroom.

  I see Jack every night. In my dreams.

  He’s lying next to me. Parallel worlds—the Surface for me, the Tunnels of the Everneath for him—that overlap at this one spot, and only for a moment. In my bedroom, while I dream.

  His hair still curls in perfect waves past his ears. Tonight, the steel post that pierces his eyebrow shines in the dull moonlight through my window. It looks as if I could raise my finger and touch it.

  But I have to remind myself that it doesn’t really shine, because the post is a faint copy of the real object. Just like Jack is.

  He is starting to forget little things. Things he never would have forgotten before.

  “What do we talk about when I’m here?” he asks.

  “All sorts of things,” I say.

  “Like what?”

  “You always say you miss me. ”

  He puts his hand over mine, and it slips right through. He has forgotten he is a ghost to me. Or maybe I am the ghost. “That’s obvious,” he says. “What else?”

  “You talk about the time Jules told you I liked you. ”

  “And?”

  My words flow out as the memories wrap around my heart like a blanket. “You talk about your uncle’s cabin. The Christmas Dance. How my hair hides my eyes. How my hand fits in yours. How you love me. How you’ll never leave. ”

  “And what do you say to me?”

  “I say I’m sorry. And I ask you how I’m supposed to do this. ” My voice wavers. “How am I supposed to do this, Jack?”

  “Do what?”

  “Live this borrowed life. Without you. Knowing that you’re there because of me. ”

  He is quiet. The first rays of sunlight stream in and morning is upon us, always too fast, and I can’t help but stir in my sleep.

  He watches me. He knows I am about to wake up. “How do we say good-bye?”

  I try not to let my face show my heartache at that word, or my anger at the Everneath for existing in the first place, or my resentment of Cole for taking me to the Feed just over a year ago. But mostly, I have to hide how angry I am with myself. Jack doesn’t like to see me angry.

  When I speak, I make sure my voice is calm. “We say ‘See you tomorrow. ’”

  “See you tomorrow, Becks. ” He squeezes his eyes shut, as if he can’t stand to watch me disappear.

  I place my hand over his, helplessly grasping at air.

  I am worried about the forgetting. Most nights he is lucid; his thoughts are clear. But then he has bad nights, like this one; and I wonder if he will eventually forget me, and then he won’t visit me in my dreams anymore.

  If that happens, will I be able to keep him alive?

  The sun rises, I open my eyes, and Jack is gone. My bed is empty, and I’m left with only my guilt for a companion. I hug my pillow tight and wonder how long I will be able to survive with the crack in my heart.

  Perhaps it will grow large enough to consume me.

  If it does, will I find Jack in the next life?

  NOW

  The Surface. My bedroom.

  The headline read THE DEADS POP UP IN AUSTIN.

  I rolled my eyes. That made it sound like the beginning of a zombie apocalypse and not what it really was, which was a surprise concert given by the Dead Elvises in Austin, Texas.

  A couple of months ago, a reporter from Rolling Stone magazine dubbed them the “next Grateful Deads. ” Ever since, the nickname the Deads had stuck. I wanted to punch that reporter.

  But lately, I kind of wanted to punch everybody.

  I printed the article, cut out the headline, and took it over to my desk. Probably most people would have kept things like this on their computer, but when it came to my search for Cole—and the rest of the Dead Elvises—I liked the tangible clues. The map I could spread out. The headlines I could fold and refold.

  If it kept my hands busy, it kept my brain busy; and if it kept my brain busy, it was almost possible to keep the memories of my latest dreams of Jack tucked away.

  Almost.

  Who was I kidding? Most mornings it felt as if I had to glue the pieces of myself back together just to start the day. Because what Jack had done for me—when he jumped into the Tunnels and took my place in hell—it had fractured my soul.

  I stole a glance at the shelf above my desk, where several pictures of Jack and me rested alongside a crumpled note with the words Ever Yours scrawled in Jack’s messy boy handwriting. The ghost of his presence was everywhere—in the deck of cards set out on the desk, the quilt on my bed, the book he’d lent me years ago—but it was especially strong on this shelf. I didn’t know how many times I’d tried to put the pictures away, in a drawer or under my bed, out of sight. But I couldn’t.

  I went to reach for one in the corner that showed half of my face and all of Jack’s. It was one of those self-taken shots. Jack had turned the camera around on us at the top of the Alpine Slide, but all you could see was our faces and the blur of evergreens in the background.

  The memory squeezed me like a vise around my heart, and just as my fingers touched the frame I yanked my hand back, sending the picture flying off the shelf. The glass in the frame shattered on the wood floor. The sound it made was more than glass shattering. It was the sound of old wounds reopening, and it echoed from deep inside of me. I put my hands over my head and squeezed. Sometimes it was the only way to keep the pieces inside from falling out.

  It was thoughts like this that made me realize no amount of visualization exercises from Dr. Hill—my Dad-mandated therapist—could help me.

  I heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and I held my breath. Maybe my father had heard the glass break. I kept waiting for a knock on the door, but it never came. Running my fingers through my hair, I tried to straighten up my desk and focus on the map. I couldn’t let my dad see how broken I was. Not just the kind of broken warranted by the sudden disappearance of the boy I loved. The kind of broken where I knew I was the only one to blame.

  My dad had been through enough.

  The top middle drawer of my desk was large and flat, perfect for the map of the United States. I uncapped my red pen and put a shaky little red dot over Austin, then added the clipping to the pile of headlines next to the map.

  DEAD ELVISES SAY “THANK YOU” TO CHICAGO FANS WITH SURPRISE CONCERT

  DEAD ELVISES GIVE IMPROMPTU FREE CONCERT IN NYC

  NEXT STOP ON THE MYSTERY TOUR: THE DEADS IN DURHAM

  LOOKING FOR THE DEADS: A VLOG

  I was looking for the Deads too, but not because I was a fan. Cole Stockton, their lead guitarist, had disappeared on me three weeks ago without a trace, taking away my only chance to get to the Everneath.

  My only chance to find Jack.

  I closed my eyes.

  Stay with me, Becks. Dream of me. I am ever yours.
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  Two months ago Jack said those words to me. They were the last words he spoke before the Tunnels of the Everneath sucked him away. The words haunted me, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to live any kind of life until he was back with me. The problem was, how to get him back.

  Not just anybody can go to the Everneath. In all the research I’d done over the past two months, I’d never come across a human who’d made it to the Everneath without the help of an Everliving. No one who’d made it there—and back—alone.

  So it all came down to Cole. He and his band were the only Everlivings I knew.

  Cole had visited me once, about a month after that horrible night. He’d stood in the yard outside my house, his swagger gone. He wanted me to become immortal like him.

  I have ninety-nine years until I have to Feed again, he’d said. What makes you think I’d ever give up?

  He’d seemed so smug. I’d placed my hand on his chest.

  If you feel anything, please leave me alone, I’d said.

  I didn’t think he would, but he did. He’d disappeared. My only connection to the Everneath was gone. Now I regretted asking him to leave me alone.

  I wrote the date next to Austin, Texas. 6/1.

  Running my finger eastward, I read the previous tour stops: Houston, 5/29; New Orleans, 5/27; Tampa, 5/24.

  The Dead Elvises were heading west. For a little while, I had tried to guess which city they’d end up in next, pack up my car, and take off. But my dad could only take the sudden disappearances of his daughter so many times, and I was already in enough therapy now.

  Besides, the spontaneous trips never helped my search, because I always guessed wrong. It was a pointless quest. As much as I thought I knew Cole, I was bad at anticipating his moves.

  I ran my finger west of Austin, toward the possible cities for their next surprise stop. Fort Worth? Albuquerque? Phoenix? I bent the path northward until my finger rested on my hometown. Could I allow myself to hope that the Dead Elvises would return to Park City? That I would finally get my chance to grab a strand of Cole’s hair and go to the Everneath?

  I leaned back in my chair and looked at all the red dots. From farther away, they formed the shape of a backward C, starting in Chicago and swinging to the east before dipping to the south and now heading west. Yes. I could hope they were coming home, to Park City.

  If there was one way I’d changed in the past few months, it was this: I always hoped.

  But the fact was, until I found Cole, or a lock of his hair, I was stuck on the Surface. I’d seen a human sacrifice swallow a strand of Everliving hair once. A woman, in clothes that didn’t fit right, with a face that had seen too much of the world, had sat in the back of the Shop-n-Go, on the spot that was the weak point between the Surface and the Everneath. Maxwell Bones, second guitarist of the Dead Elvises, had handed her a pill. She swallowed it and slipped downward beneath the floor.

  At the time, the scene had made me sick. But I would do it now if it meant I could get to Jack.

  Not that I had a plan for what I would do if I got to the Everneath. Cole once told me I wouldn’t know where to start looking for the Tunnels that held Jack captive. But maybe the arbiters of energy—the Shades—would find me first. They were in charge of maximizing the energy stolen from humans to fuel the Everneath. They were the ones who took humans to the Tunnels. Two months ago I was running away from them; but maybe now the Shades would find me and take me to the Tunnels, and maybe then I could figure out a way to get to Jack. …

  But I was getting ahead of myself, thinking of all the things I didn’t know. I had to focus on the one thing I did know, and that was the fact that I couldn’t save Jack without getting to the Everneath; and to do that I needed Cole.

  Or at least a piece of his DNA.

  Because as long as I was stuck on the Surface, Jack would be stuck in the Tunnels. Until the Tunnels drained every last drop of energy inside of him.

  Until he died.

  My hand went to my stomach, fighting against the sudden pain that always hit when I thought of Jack dying. I looked at the shards of glass on the floor. They would never be whole again.

  Wasn’t I just as irreparable?

  Shaking my head, I closed my eyes and tilted back on my chair, imagining instead seeing Cole again. His dark eyes. Cheekbones that looked as if they’d been chiseled by a sculptor thousands of years ago. His blond hair, specifically the wispy hairs that always ran wild around his face.

  If I could get close enough, I could pluck one of those hairs out of his head.

  It was all I could think about. Especially considering the task ahead of me today. I opened my eyes and reached for the knitting basket lying at the side of my desk. This was going to be one of those days when I would be able to start and finish an entire sweater rather than let my mind go to the dark places.

  As I completed the first row of stitches and looped the red yarn around the end of the needle, the knots in the pattern tightened and the knots in my stomach loosened. Knitting was survival.

  A pungent aroma made me freeze midrow.

  Bacon.

  Something was wrong. Bacon cooking? Maybe no one else would’ve been alarmed by this, but I hadn’t smelled fresh bacon in our house in almost two years.

  Since before my mom died.

  I flattened the headlines and closed the map drawer. As far as I knew, my dad didn’t know about the drawer, and he never would.

  As I opened my bedroom door, the bacon smell was joined by the clattering of pans coming from the kitchen. I didn’t know if it was because of the smell and the sounds, but a sudden memory flashed through my brain—of my mom and me sitting at breakfast on a Sunday morning. I used to love bacon. Sometimes the smell and the promise of bacon was the only effective incentive for me to do my chores. Before she died, my mom had used the tactic several times. But no one else in my family liked bacon very much, which is why I couldn’t figure out who would be cooking it.