“Oh,” she said to the less famous of the two, a man with red horn-rimmed glasses and a tweed jacket. “I follow you.”
The man smiled at this, and Darcy felt foolish. The last time she’d checked, two hundred thousand people followed Coleman Gayle. Most of them didn’t read the Sword Singer books, he always complained, and were only there for his profane political commentary and profound knowledge of vintage sock monkeys.
“Good to meet you, Darcy. You know Kiralee?”
“Um, of course.” Darcy turned to face the woman at the table, but her gaze shied away. She could hear the tremor in her own voice. “I mean, we haven’t met. But I totally loved Bunyip.”
“Oh dear, Coleman. She’s got it all wrong!” Kiralee cried. “Save her from herself!”
The others all laughed, but Darcy was perplexed and slightly terrified.
Oscar softly sat her down. “We were just discussing Coleman’s theory about the proper way to meet famous authors.”
“You check their sales on BookScan the day before,” Coleman Gayle explained. “And whichever novel of theirs has sold the least copies, you say that one’s your favorite. Because that’s the one they think is criminally underappreciated.”
“Easy for me, since all of mine sold the least.” Kiralee tipped back her glass until ice rattled. “Except bloody Bunyip, of course.”
“Dirawong’s my favorite,” Darcy said, though really it was second to Bunyip.
“Excellent choice,” Coleman said. “Given the criteria.”
“BookScanning bastard!” Kiralee said to him while toasting Darcy with her empty glass.
Darcy finally managed to meet the woman’s eye. In a gray hoodie, with twin white earbuds draped across her shoulders, Kiralee Taylor was dressed like a jogger. But she had the bearing of a dark faerie queen, her expression arch, her face framed by gray-streaked curly black hair.
“Though I’m afraid I haven’t read your books,” she said to Darcy. “So I can hardly be picky about which you like of mine.”
“No one’s read my books. Book.”
“Darcy’s a deb,” Oscar supplied. “Paradox publishes her next fall.”
“Congratulations,” Kiralee said, and all their drinks went up in salute.
Heat crept across Darcy’s face. She realized that Max had disappeared without even a good-bye, but she was allowed to stay. Here, among these writers.
She wondered how long before someone figured out she was an impostor and asked her to leave. Sitting here, she felt as though her little black dress didn’t fit anymore. It felt too big on her, as if Darcy were a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.
“Welcome to the longest year and a half of your life,” Oscar said. “Published but not printed.”
“Like when you’ve kissed a boy but haven’t shagged him yet,” Kiralee said wistfully.
“Like you would know.” Coleman turned to Darcy. “So what’s your book called?”
“Afterworlds,” Darcy said.
The three of them waited for her to go on, but a familiar paralysis crept over Darcy. It was always like this when someone asked about her novel. She knew from experience that whatever she said now would sound awkward, like listening to a recording of her own voice. How was she supposed to compress sixty thousand words into a few sentences?
“It’s quite good,” Oscar finally offered. “I’m blurbing it.”
“So it’s one of these tedious realistic novels?” Coleman asked. “All the rage now, aren’t they?”
Oscar made a pfft noise. “My tastes are wider than yours. It’s a paranormal romance.”
“Are those still being written?” Kiralee was flagging a waiter down. “I thought vampires were dead.”
Coleman grunted. “They’re exceedingly hard to kill.”
They ordered—Manhattans for Coleman and Oscar, a gin and tonic for Kiralee, and Darcy asked for a Guinness. She found herself glad for the interruption, which gave her time to marshal an argument.
Once the waiter was gone, she spoke, her voice only trembling a little. “I think paranormals will always be around. You can tell a million different stories about love. Especially when it’s love with someone who’s different.”
“You mean a monster?” Coleman said.
“Well, that’s what you think at first. But it’s like, um, Beauty and the Beast. When you find out that the monster is actually . . . nice.”
Darcy swallowed. She’d had this conversation a hundred times with Carla, and had never once resorted to the word “nice” before.
“But doesn’t real love work the other way round?” Kiralee asked. “You start by thinking someone’s fabulous, and by the end of the piece you realize he’s a monster!”
“Or that you’re the monster yourself,” Oscar said.
Darcy just stared at the pockmarked table. She had fewer opinions about real-life love than she did about the paranormal kind.
“So what’s the love interest in Afterworlds?” Coleman asked. “Not a vampire, I trust.”
“Maybe a werewolf?” Kiralee was smiling. “Or a ninja, or some sort of werewolf-ninja?”
Darcy shook her head, relieved that Yamaraj wasn’t a vampire, werewolf, or ninja of any kind. “I don’t think anyone’s done this before, exactly. He’s a—”
“Wait!” Kiralee grabbed her arm. “I’m keen to guess. Is he a golem?”
Darcy laughed, dazzled all over again that Kiralee Taylor was sitting close enough to touch her. “No. Golems are too muddy.”
“What about a selkie?” Coleman suggested. “YA hasn’t had any male selkies.”
“What the hell is a selkie?” Oscar asked. He wrote realistic fiction: coming of age and drunken mothers, no monsters at all. Moxie had wanted a blurb from him to give Afterworlds what she called “a literary sheen.”
“It’s a magicked seal you fall in love with,” Darcy explained.
“Just think of it as a portmanteau,” Coleman said. “Combining ‘seal’ and ‘sexy.’ ”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see the appeal.”
“In any case,” Darcy said, not wanting the conversation to stray too far, “my hottie’s not a selkie.”
“A basilisk, then?” Coleman asked.
Darcy shook her head.
“Best to avoid horny lizards as love interests,” Kiralee said. “And stick with something more cuddly. Is it a drop bear?”
Darcy wondered for a moment if this was a test. Perhaps if she proved her knowledge of mythical beasts, they would take her through a hidden velvet curtain to the real YA Drinks Night.
“Aren’t drop bears more your territory?” she said to Kiralee.
“Indeed.” Kiralee smiled, and Darcy knew she’d gotten a gold star on that one. Or perhaps a gold koala bear sticker. The drinks arrived, and Kiralee paid for them. “A troll? No one’s done them yet.”
“Too many on the internet,” Coleman said. “Maybe a garuda?”
Darcy frowned. A garuda was half eagle and half something else, but what?