Nevermore n-1

by Келли Криг

  Again and again she saw Varen look up at her from the crowded lunch table, those stony green eyes fixing on her, at first in mild surprise, then slowly melding into two pools of nothing

  —until he was looking at her with only vague recognition, like he might have seen her on a milk carton somewhere.

  And that girl. Lacy.

  Isobel thought back to the way she had glared at her—territorially.

  She pictured them together, hands linked, and she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of boyfriend he was.

  He could be so cynical. So dry and acidic. As blank as a page. Could he be tender, too?

  She flinched at the thought, angry at her mind for letting it venture so far beyond what she already knew to be true. He wasn’t any different from the people he pretended to be above.

  He’d proven that much at lunch.

  She sighed, keeping her eyes closed, trying to release some of the day’s stress in one long exhale.

  To top everything off, she was now doomed to be kicked off the squad, too.

  And she would be. As soon as next Friday zoomed by and left her with a big fat zero on Mr. Swanson’s English project.

  She would be a Trenton High cheerleader nevermore.

  Not showing up for today’s practice, though, would have been admitting defeat.

  If nothing else, it would have been her way of personally paving a path and rolling out the red carpet for Alyssa to take over her spot as center flyer. And despite the fact that nobody on the squad liked her anymore, Isobel still loved cheerleading. She was good at it, and in spite of everything, she was not prepared to make it easy for Alyssa, or anyone else who wanted her little slice of sky, to take her place.

  “All right there, Iz?”

  Isobel popped one eye open to see the whistle around Coach’s neck swinging back and forth on its yellow lanyard like a clock pendulum.

  “Yeah,” she said, blinking slowly, putting on a smile until Coach passed. “Headache,” she said. At least it wasn’t a lie.

  “You looked good out there today, Izzy,” Coach called over her shoulder.

  Isobel watched Coach’s back as she stepped into the hall, where she stopped to fill her water bottle at the fountain. Normally she would have welcomed the encouragement. Especially after a day like today. With the rest of the squad standing by, however, watching and listening, she wished Coach hadn’t said anything, because now they’d started to whisper.

  Isobel pretended to ignore them by searching for something in her bag but paused when she heard the squeak of approaching sneakers. She looked up enough to count eight pairs of gold-and-blue-accented tennis shoes. Raising her eyes, she saw that it was Alyssa who led the pack, Nikki only one step behind.

  “I’m surprised you decided to show up today,” said Alyssa, loosing her platinum hair from its tight ponytail.

  Isobel lifted her chin. “If only to save everyone from having to watch you try to do more than a single twist for the rest of the season.”

  A trickle of giggles ran through Alyssa’s buddy patrol. Isobel let a cool, subdued smile tease up one side of her mouth. Alyssa’s cheeks flared pink and her whole face pinched together, as though she’d just chomped down on an extra-green crabapple. The laughter at her back dissolved quickly into sniffs and coughs.

  “So what happened to your leg?” Alyssa asked.

  Feeling that this must be of some sort of trick, Isobel resisted the urge to check her legs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, looking away. She wished Coach would come back already. What was taking her so long?

  “Oh, I think you do,” said Alyssa. “I’m talking about that mark on the back of your thigh. Why don’t you stand up and show everybody?”

  Isobel kept her seat. She tried to guess what was going on, tried to remember having done anything that would have put a mark on the back of her leg.

  Had they left something for her to sit in? What?

  Then she remembered.

  “Rug burn,” she murmured, not liking that she couldn’t guess Alyssa’s game. And too late she realized it would have been better to have said nothing.

  Isobel turned away to zip up her bag as giggles erupted from the group. She stopped and slowly raised her gaze again to the faces of her squad, wondering how these people had ever been her friends.

  “Oh,” Alyssa said, her mouth on the verge of bursting into one of her radiant, blinding, too-much-whitener smiles. “That’s funny. We thought it must have been something like that, what with your new undead boyfriend and all. Bet you’re sorry now, though. Gosh. Especially after putting out. Tell me, how does it feel to realize you’re a skank and get dumped twice in one day?”

  Isobel launched up from the bleachers, the sudden action spurring the collective squeals of backtracking sneakers and cheerleaders. She shoved Alyssa hard, hard enough to send her stumbling backward through her backup party and straight to the floor. She hit with a jolt, landing on her backside, her glossed mouth fixed in a shocked O.

  “Hey!”

  The shriek of a whistle split through Isobel’s throbbing head again and in her peripheral vision, she could see Coach bustling up to them, her oval face reddening to a ripe beet color.

  Isobel trembled with fury. Her eyes remained locked on Alyssa, who stared up at her from the floor, her hands clenched. Coach seized Isobel by the arm and with a strong, yanking grip ended the hate-stare between them.

  “What the hell is wrong with you two?” shouted Coach Anne, this time focusing her attention on Alyssa. “You know I don’t tolerate fighting on my squad!” She swung around to glower at Isobel again, her face purple. “In my office! Both of you!”

  Then she spun on her heel and stormed toward her office door at the far end of the gym.

  Alyssa smiled at Isobel as she picked herself up from the floor. Revolving in a slow turn, she followed after Coach Anne.

  Scalding heat crawled up Isobel’s face. She couldn’t bring herself to take so much as a single step in the direction of that office. Not with everyone staring again. Not when she wanted so badly to put her fist through Alyssa’s flawless teeth, to crush that perfect button nose flat and permanently erase that conceited smile from her stupid face.

  The heat of rage coursed through her veins like a deadly poison.

  She had to get out of there. Now. Or she’d blow up.

  On impulse, Isobel grabbed her gym bag. She looped the strap over one shoulder and started to walk hard and fast for the gymnasium doors.

  “Lanley!” she heard Coach howl after her. Isobel, her head down, plowed forward. She had to keep moving. She had to, or she’d look back. She’d see everyone staring at her, thinking whatever they wanted about her, and she knew she would explode.

  “Lanley, stop right there!”

  Isobel cringed, covering her ears.

  “You walk out that door, you’re walking off the squad! You hear me?”

  She heard. But she was on autopilot now and couldn’t have stopped herself anyway.

  Once out of the gym, she started to move faster, nearly jogging down the deserted hallway, her sneakers making quiet claps. She rounded a corner and would have run right past her locker if she hadn’t noticed the little piece of white folded paper sticking out of the top vent. Isobel stopped, knowing all too well whose handwriting she would find on that slip of paper.

  She let the strap of her heavy gym bag slip from her shoulder, and jerking the note out of the slot, she opened it.

  Even though she’d known what to expect, there still came a blunt stab of hurt at the sight of dark purple ink.

  We need to talk.

  “No,” she said aloud, tearing the note in two. “We don’t.” She’d shredded the paper again, again, and again, finally letting the flecks flutter to the floor like ash.

  Isobel twisted her locker combination in, kicked the dented bottom corner of the door, and stood back as it popped out. She delved inside and withdrew her backpack, dragging it out by one
strap. She set the bag on the floor in front of her feet and jerked open the zippers, extracting The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Then she spun around, strode to the nearest trash can, and tipped the book in, letting it fall onto a bed of papers and plastic soda bottles.

  Something inside her winced, begged for her to pull it out again.

  But something else rejoiced.

  She ignored the urge to rescue the book and, walking to a nearby stand, picked up several school newsletters. Wadding them up, she made her way back to the trash and tossed them in, sprinkling them over the book. Like flowers on a coffin.

  Thankfully, Isobel’s dad got to school a little early to pick her up that day, so she didn’t have to worry about waiting around with anyone else from the squad, or about Brad showing up and her dad finding out she’d lied about his car being in the shop.

  The ride home was a quiet one, and for once her father didn’t try to pry, asking questions like, “Why so quiet?” or “Did something happen today?” She knew he wouldn’t realize it, but she was grateful for this. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about what had happened that day.

  When she got home, Isobel went straight to her room. She fell onto her bed, buried her face in her pillows, shut her eyes, and blessedly, mercifully fell asleep, her body seeming to agree with her mind that she had had enough. She didn’t wake up until hours later when her mom, having returned from a PTA meeting at Danny’s school, came to check on her.

  “Izzy?”

  Isobel rolled over onto one side, feeling herself pulled on opposite ends by wakefulness and sleep. She felt hot and kicked off some of the blankets. “Mm?” she murmured.

  “Do you want to come down and have some supper? Soup and grilled cheese?”

  “Rrrrrrg,” Isobel managed. Soup didn’t sound too bad, but it did if it meant she had to get up, walk downstairs, and lift a spoon to her mouth.

  She felt her mother’s soft, cool hand press against her forehead.

  “I think you’ve got a fever,” Isobel heard her say. “Daddy said you looked like you didn’t feel well.”

  Isobel thought her mom said something else after that too, maybe asking her if she wanted some ginger ale, but that hazy feeling returned, like something tugging her down into deep, dark waters. The sensation overtook her, and she slept once more.

  When Isobel opened her eyes again, it was with the feeling that something was wrong. She sat upright in bed—then froze at what she saw.

  Trinkets from her dresser, as well as other objects from around her room—her “Number One Flyer” trophy, a tube of lipstick, her stuffed bunny Max, her pom-poms, and her portable CD player—were all floating around, drifting slowly through the air, as though her entire room had somehow been transported into the farthest reaches of outer space.

  Isobel sat up wide awake, staring, unable to blink. At least not until her hair dryer came hovering right up into her face, its cord dangling behind like a tail. She lifted a hand and batted the dryer away, then watched it reel, handle over snout, in the direction of her closet.

  Swinging her legs off the side of her bed, she stood, turning in a slow circle to survey the asteroid field that her room had somehow become. When her gaze fell on her open doorway, she stopped.

  In the hallway, a blinding white light flickered in short bursts, like flashes of lightning, interspersed with moments of blue-tinted darkness.

  Standing on the stairway landing, right in front of Danny’s door, Isobel saw the outline of a tall figure.

  Terror seized her as the form began to move toward her, seeming to glide just over the carpet. Another brilliant blaze of white light flashed through the space beyond, revealing the figure’s black cloak, his tattered fedora hat.

  Isobel backed away, somehow knowing that it would do her no good to rush forward and slam the door. She felt her back meet the wall.

  As the figure crossed the threshold, she saw that he wore a white scarf over the bottom half of his face, and she recognized him instantly as the man from the bathroom—the figure from the mirror. He brought with him a scent both sweet and musty, like wilted roses, and the odor of perfumed decay permeated the air.

  Her heart pounding, she watched wide-eyed as, behind him, the door eased closed by itself, blocking out the flashes of white light. When the door clicked into place, Isobel’s floating belongings dropped to the floor with a collective, carpet-muffled thud.

  “Do not be alarmed,” the man said, his voice dry, husky, and low, like the sound of a match striking. Above the white scarf, his eyes glistened like sharp flecks of coal, and they seemed to chip right into her. “This is a dream.”

  Isobel stood still and silent for another moment, her hands pressed flat to the wall behind her, as if its tangible presence held the power to ground her.

  A dream?

  Well, Isobel thought, taking a moment to consider the situation—her floating stuff, the hall lightning, followed by the entrance of creepy mystery man. Yeah, she could probably buy that this was a dream. It was the not-feeling-alarmed part she wasn’t so sure about.

  “Who—who are you?”

  “My name,” he began, as though he’d expected the question, “is Reynolds.”

  She edged away from him, trying to put a greater distance between herself and Creepy McCreeperson. She bent down, careful not to let her eyes leave him, and plucked up a hairbrush from where it had fallen on her floor. She held it at arm’s length in front of herself, a stupid weapon feeling better than no weapon at all. At the very least, she could give him style.

  “If this is a dream,” she said, “then there’s a good chance that—that I’m imagining you. Like the way I imagined you in the mirror. And that day at practice. If that was you. You’re . . .

  a manifestation of repressed childhood . . . traumas.” Isobel crunched down hard on her brain, trying to squeeze out whatever vocabulary from her psychology class she’d managed to soak up.

  “Your friend is in grave danger,” he said, cutting her off, his words coming clipped and short. “You would be wise to be quiet and listen. I haven’t much time.”

  She stared as he made his way farther into her room. A glance toward her digital clock showed the numbers twitching and randomly changing on their own, as though her clock couldn’t make up its mind on what time it wanted to be.

  “Then it sounds like you’re in the wrong dream, because I don’t have any friends.”

  “Then it is a pity,” he said brusquely, his cold gaze narrowing on her, “that he has put you in so much danger. Because it is you she is after.”

  She blinked as he turned, his great cloak swirling after him.

  Isobel lowered the brush. She?

  Her eyes remained trained on him as he drifted toward her nightstand, dipping a long-fingered hand into the folds of his cloak. As the fabric moved aside, Isobel thought she caught sight of the decorative hilt of an old-fashioned blade. The folds of dark, heavy fabric fell again, though, and she saw that he now held a book—one she knew, with its gold-leafed pages and thick black binding.

  “Hey!” Stepping away from the wall, she dropped the brush. A thrill of something drummed up from inside her—a mix of relief and confusion. And fear. “I thought I . . .”

  He set the book gently on the nightstand and passed a gloved hand over the gold-embossed title, his fingertips lingering over the words— The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe.

  “I believe that this book has been given to you for a reason,” he said, turning his coal eyes once more onto hers. “I would not be so careless with it again.”

  Isobel stared down at the book in disbelief. The very one she’d tossed into the school trash earlier that day. She could see the beige tonguelike ribbon sticking out of the bottom, and the gentle crease etched along its spine. And yet somehow it was here, safe.

  “Mark these words,” he said, “The only way for you to gain power over what happens to you in the dreamworld is if you are able to realize that you are dreaming. If
you cannot do this, you are beyond my help.”

  Isobel shook her head, trying to fight her mounting confusion. The more this guy talked, the more he sounded like a fortune cookie. “What do I have to do with any of this? Who’s after me?”

  “That name is best left unsaid. Words, Isobel, have always held the dangerous power to conjure things into being. Remember that.”

  “Speaking of names, how do you know mine? And why is this ‘she’—whoever it is—why is she after me?”

  “Because,” he said, choosing to answer only her second question, “he dreams of you. . . .”

  “Who?”

  “Come.” With a sweep of his cloak, he turned to her bedroom window, one spidery hand drawing back the white lace.

  Isobel drew nearer to the black square of her open window. A cool breeze filtered through, stirring the curtains.

  She felt the brush of her hair against her cheek.

  How could a dream feel so real?

  When she reached the window, she glanced first at Reynolds. Standing this close to him, she could see his eyes above the white scarf—really see them. They were void of pupils. Black, coin-size holes bored into her before turning away and gazing out the window into the space beyond.

  Isobel followed his gaze.

  As she looked, the darkness cleared. A scratchy gray image, fuzzy around the edges and frayed through the middle, like an old-time movie, came into view. In the distance, she could see the outline of a dark forest. A dim violet light radiated through the arrangement of thin black trees. And there, standing just outside the forest boundaries, Isobel recognized the angular shoulders of a familiar form. A tall, slim figure clad in a dark green jacket.

  “Varen . . . ?”

  16

  Ultima Thule

  Isobel blinked up at the ceiling. An unfamiliar tingle prickled along her limbs, like the faint buzz of static electricity. Some-how she’d skipped right over her normal waking-up routine of rolling around and punching her pillows and had just opened her eyes.

  She’d been dreaming about something. Something important.