Nevermore n-1

by Келли Криг

  “Hello, cheerleader,” she heard a voice say, though she could not tear her eyes away from Nikki, transfixed by her pained struggle to keep Isobel aloft.

  Nikki’s wrist jerked back, and she uttered a clipped cry. Isobel sank fast.

  She floundered, arms wheeling as she toppled forward. The world rushed up around her. She heard the crowd gasp and then someone’s strangled cry of, “Catch her!”

  Images and silhouettes floated around her, blurred in tints of fuzzy white and muted gray, as though her eyes had gone permanently unfocused. She had the distant sensation of hands pressing against her from behind, supporting her weight, and she could decipher only the formless face of someone she thought she might know. Coach? Even though it looked as though the figure was shouting at her, Isobel could only register a small, indistinct sound, and the shape of her name being formed on those lips.

  Then, like a black shadow, another figure drifted into her focus, this one clearer, though still frayed at the edges. With a surge of terror, she realized that it was one of those creatures.

  He smiled jaggedly at her, and Isobel writhed to pull away from the hands that held her. The creature drifted closer, and she found that she could not pull away. Vaguely, she thought she heard one of the gray, muted ghost figures saying her name, instructing her to lie still.

  Isobel stared, powerless to break free as the creature’s face, a white collage of angles and serrated points, drifted close to hers. Behind him, she saw more shadowy figures collect to line the backdrop of white and gray that resembled the school gymnasium.

  She squirmed, her eyes following the creature’s movements as he lifted one clawed hand. He reached toward her, his talons—his entire hand—entering her chest, passing straight through her as though she were made of nothing but air.

  She felt a clutch in her body and then a heavy, dragging sensation, as though she was being peeled away from herself. For a moment everything went double. The gray shapes and the black outlines multiplied into a sea of forms.

  There was a scraping metal sound, followed by the creature’s shriek. The angular, disjointed shadow of his presence fell away from her, and a shattering crash sent the remaining black figures fleeing. They dispersed into swirls of black-violet fog, and instantly Isobel was back in the world of nebulous, blurry images.

  With another scrape of metal, her savior came to stoop beside her, black eyes set against the white shroud of his scarf.

  “You must realize,” he said, “that I am not a dog to be called.”

  “You.”

  “Yes, me.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Between realms.” He looked around. “This is very dangerous. You could become trapped. You must go back immediately.”

  “What’s happening? What are those things? How come only I can see them?”

  His eyes returned to her. “They are called Nocs. Ghouls. Dark creatures from the dreamworld . . .” His voice trailed off. “There is no time.”

  “Where is Varen?”

  “Lost.”

  “No!”

  “Isobel, you must go back.”

  “I won’t. Not without him.”

  “He is yet in your world.” He paused. “There is still a chance. All is lost only if you stay. Go.”

  “What about you?”

  “I may reach your world easily now. I will be near.”

  “Reynolds, wait. You . . . This all has something to do with—”

  “Isobel, this isn’t the time. They will return. Go now, while you can.”

  As he swept away, Isobel blinked, and color broke through the whiteness. She blinked again, staring up into the huddle of people around her, the shapes of her squad mates becoming clearer, sharper. The white noise of a murmuring crowd flowed into her ears, like someone turning up the volume on a TV.

  “Who’s she talking to?” someone asked.

  She closed her eyes against the brightness, then, opening them, recognized Stevie’s face first, then Nikki’s, red and blotchy, streaked with tears, then finally, closest of all, Coach’s, pale with worry.

  Together their heads made a neat sort of shape with the light, kind of like a lopsided four leafed clover. She sure could use a little bit of luck right about now.

  “I’m sorry, Isobel! I’m so sorry!” Nikki blubbered. “I dunno what happened! I—I just—”

  Coach turned. “Will someone please get her out of here? Stevie, go take Nikki out in the hall and see if you can get her to calm down. Splash some water on her face. Isobel, sweetheart,” she went on, “how many fingers?”

  Isobel groaned. Did people honestly do that test in real life?

  “Four.”

  Coach checked her open hand, then craned her neck to squint at the other squad members. “Are you all sure you didn’t see her hit her head?”

  “I thought she just passed out.” It was Jason who spoke that time.

  Isobel groaned again and used her elbows to sit up. She glanced around, looking for Reynolds.

  “Hold still, Izzy,” said Coach, holding a hand out to stay her. “I think you’d better lie back for a second. Four’s not quite right.”

  Isobel sat up anyway. This was utterly mortifying. How and when had she become such a freak show? “Yes, it is,” she said. “A thumb’s not a finger.”

  To her surprise and relief, Coach laughed, rocking back on her heels to allow Isobel some space.

  “She’s okay!” shouted someone from the squad—probably Stephanie. Clapping all around. Yes, Isobel thought, as Coach helped her up, then led her off the court and into the locker room, A-OK, thanks for asking. She raised a hand to show the masses she’d live.

  “You know she’s just doing it on purpose” came Alyssa’s sour voice from behind as she trailed them, arms folded. Isobel turned to scowl over one shoulder at her as Alyssa added,

  “She did the same thing at lunch today.”

  “That’s enough, Alyssa,” Coach said. “Go check on Nikki.”

  Alyssa smiled to herself, then spun away with a sweep of her platinum ponytail.

  “Iz, are you okay?” Coach asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I slipped.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Isobel nodded.

  “You know,” said Coach as she pushed the door open, ushering her into the locker room. She bent to retrieve a water bottle from the cooler and, twisting the top off, handed it to Isobel. Isobel took a long swig, gulping down half the bottle before lowering it again. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and Alyssa, but whatever it is, I tell you, Izzy, you both had better find a way to patch it up and fast. I’ll leave your butts here and we’ll go to Dallas without the two of you, and don’t think we won’t.”

  Isobel nodded, even though right now, Dallas and Nationals were the furthest things from her mind.

  “Certainly Nikki is upset, and I don’t think you’d do something like that on purpose—pull a stunt like that—but let me also say that if there’s any truth to what Alyssa just said—”

  Isobel looked up. “I didn’t fall on purpose,” she said, her voice rising. She looked down again, not wanting it to seem like she was trying to pick an argument.

  “Good,” Coach said. “Because I don’t have any time for drama queens, and neither does anybody else on this squad. Now listen, you’re not stunting tonight, but I still want you at the game anyway. Is that clear? You can join in for the cheers, but I don’t want you flying.”

  Isobel scowled as she was unceremoniously handed the role of benchwarmer. She knew this meant that Alyssa’s words had carried more weight with Coach than her own, and the thought of it burned her. But she nodded in spite of herself because there were bigger things to worry about now than her rivalry with Alyssa or her place on the squad.

  And far more important things at stake, too.

  35

  Tell-Tale Heart

  The stadium lights glared camera-flash bright suspended above the sea of gathered faces. Isobel sat on
a bench on the sidelines, her back facing the crowd. Somewhere behind her, her father sat in the stands, watching the game.

  To her relief, her dad hadn’t said much of anything after reading the note from Coach about her little trip to the floor. He’d only picked up drive-through fried chicken (which Isobel had devoured in the car, starved from skipping lunch) and asked her if she was sure she wanted to go to the game. When she’d said yes without hesitation, he’d seemed satisfied, and for once he’d said no more. He didn’t even mention her supposed “accident” to her mom once they got home. Instead he kept the spotlight of their dinner conversation on the success of the project. Then talk switched easily to the scary movie party Danny was going to with his Boy Scout troop later that night, after trick-or-treating. It seemed that Mom would be going too, since they’d come up short on chaperones at the last minute. Consequently, Varen’s name never came up, and it was this one omission that Isobel felt most grateful for.

  Even now, though, sitting on the cold bench, watching grass grow as the game played, she couldn’t keep him from her thoughts. For the first time in her cheer life, Isobel found that she couldn’t care less who they were playing, let alone what the scoreboards showed. Only she knew that she hadn’t insisted on attending the game out of some sense of duty or school pride that might have motivated her before, but because this had been the predetermined point of rendezvous with Gwen. She hadn’t seen any sign of her yet, though, and the closer it got to halftime, the more Isobel began to fidget.

  Every few minutes she scanned the stands behind her, keeping a watchful eye out for more of those creatures—what had Reynolds called them? Nocs? How many of those things were there, anyway? Distractedly, she wondered why she hadn’t seen any of them since she’d left school. She wanted to think that it was a good sign, but that felt like a false hope.

  On the field, the squad disbanded and let the marching band take over. Isobel turned to look toward the stands again, this time hoping to find some evidence of Reynolds’s presence. He said he’d be near, but where? Why did he always have to be so cryptic?

  “Iz?” She felt the sensation of someone taking the seat next to her. She turned.

  Nikki gazed at her, her dark blue eyes wide, her eyebrows knitted together. She cradled her wrist, which had been wrapped tightly in beige gauze.

  “Hey, Nikki,” Isobel offered. “Let me guess. Coach benched you, too?”

  “Yeah,” she said, holding up her bandaged wrist. “Sprained. Not too bad, though. Do—do you care if I sit here?”

  Isobel shook her head, and they sat for a moment in uncomfortable silence.

  “Isobel,” Nikki started, “I didn’t think I was going to come tonight. But I decided to at the last second because I knew you’d be here. And I have to tell you this. I—I know you won’t believe me, but I still have to say it. No matter what you think, I—I didn’t drop you today. At least not on purpose.”

  “I know,” said Isobel simply. She turned again to look over her shoulder. She wished the game was over. She wished she could fast-forward through time so that she and Gwen could be on their way to wherever the Grim Facade was surely starting. She wanted to find Varen, to see his face, to know that he was all right. She wanted to know the truth about what was happening. She wanted to know how to make it stop. How to just be normal again.

  “No. I mean, I didn’t. I swear. I’ll swear on anything. It was like . . . It was like something had hold of me.” She grabbed her bound wrist for emphasis. “I know it sounds crazy, but—”

  “Nikki.” Isobel turned to meet her gaze straight on. “I believe you.”

  Nikki’s tortured expression melted into worried confusion, as though she half expected Isobel to take her statement back. This reaction made Isobel realize that Nikki had been spending far too much time hanging around Alyssa.

  “Does . . . does that mean you’re—that you’re not mad at me anymore?”

  Wouldn’t go as far as to say that, Isobel thought. Wasn’t stabbing you in the back and running off with your ex the first two no-nos listed on the first page of the best friend bible? Then again, Isobel wondered—why not? What did any of it matter now if Nikki wanted to make up? She and Brad were over, the crew was over. These days it was starting to seem as though reality itself was over. If the sky was falling, wasn’t it better if Ducky Lucky and Loosey Goosey hugged and made up beforehand? Isobel opted for a noncommittal shrug but then, embarrassed by the stinginess of her gesture, added, “No. Not really.”

  “I miss you,” Nikki said. “I miss us.”

  Looking down between her shoes, Isobel nodded, not certain if she could say the same. She had too much else swirling around in her head. Too much had happened since they fought.

  Too much that she could never tell Nikki. Nikki and her, well, that all seemed like a lifetime ago. How could she explain to her that she was different? Changed. And that right now she could think of only one person she could truly say she missed.

  “I’m jealous, you know.”

  Isobel’s head popped up, eyes angled toward Nikki, who smiled at her. A sweet and sad sort of smile. Isobel was guarded. “What do you mean?”

  Nikki shook her head, her eyes glistening. She swept a manicured thumb at each, then laughed instead. “Everyone’s jealous of you, Isobel.”

  Isobel blinked several times, uncertain how to react.

  “But I’m jealous because . . . well, because I’ve never known what it feels like to be in love.”

  Isobel stiffened. All at once, she ceased to breathe.

  “Oh,” said Nikki, laughing. She swept at her eyes again, this time with the knuckle of her first finger, trying to save her mascara. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re not that clueless.”

  She laughed harder then, though, Isobel thought, more in an effort to keep from crying.

  “I guess maybe you are,” Nikki amended, taking in the stricken look on Isobel’s face. “At least for once I’m not the last one to know something.” She laughed genuinely now, and her mirth was so contagious, the weight of her words so startlingly plain, that in spite of everything, Isobel found that she had to laugh too.

  In love. In love with the stoic, the sullen, the eternally morose Varen Nethers?

  He would never allow it.

  Isobel sobered quickly. Suddenly the prospect of seeing him became terrifying, because she knew it was true and that the only way she’d hidden it from him before was because she had never allowed herself to put her feelings into words. And Nikki, the least perceptive being on this planet, had seen through it all.

  “Hey, Izzy!”

  Isobel jumped, nearly bouncing off the bench. She and Nikki both swung around.

  Isobel’s dad was there, leaning against the fence. He waved her over.

  Isobel stood, murmuring, “Be right back,” to Nikki, who remained where she was while Isobel jogged to meet her father. She was glad for an excuse to leave the bench, glad for a moment to recover.

  “What’s going on with you guys tonight? You’re choking out there. Major.”

  “What?” Was he talking about the squad? She hadn’t been paying attention.

  “You guys are losing. Big-time. Haven’t you been watching the score?” He pointed.

  Were they really losing? Isobel scanned the scoreboard. Wow. Thirty-one to zero. They were losing.

  “Hey, what’s the deal with Brad out there?”

  “Brad?”

  “Yeah.” He folded his arms over the top of the fence, trying to act nonchalant now that he’d brought up the B word. “Didn’t you see him drop the ball? Have you been sleeping out there on that bench or what? This is the worst I think I’ve ever seen him play.”

  Isobel looked around for Brad now. She saw him standing with the team on the sidelines, filling up a cup of water and pouring it down his shirt, despite the chill of the fifty-degree night.

  While the rest of the team headed for the locker rooms, Coach Logan, his face purple, stood two heads below
Brad, berating him the way a yappy dog might bark at a squirrel up a tree.

  “Sheesh. Looks like Coach is really laying it on thick,” Isobel’s dad said. “Hey, Iz, I’m not trying to get in the middle of things here, but maybe you should go talk to him. See what’s going on?”

  “Isobel! There you are!”

  Isobel turned her head, her eyes narrowing on the blue-and-gold-decked, pom-pom-pigtailed stranger who now bounced toward her along the other side of the fence. Holy cheer catastrophes—it was Gwen.

  “Isobel!” she shrieked again, and bounded to a stop beside her dad. She threw her arms over her head, the sleeves of her impossibly huge sweatshirt waggling—no, Isobel corrected as she took note of the yellow T—the sleeves of Stevie’s impossibly huge sweatshirt. Isobel stepped back from the fence to give Gwen an astonished once-over. She’d never once seen her friend in a pair of pants, let alone anything resembling school colors (did Gwen even own a pair of pants?). After closer scrutiny, Isobel couldn’t help but notice a certain familiarity about the Trenton sweats she wore. They looked a lot like the ones she herself had shed earlier in the locker room. And then there were the long pigtails, held up by a set of equally familiar blue and gold pom-pom hair-ties. Suddenly it was easy to figure out where Gwen had been all this time.

  “Omigosh, is this your dad? Hey, Mr. Lanley!” Gwen slung one wiry arm around his shoulders.

  “Um, yeah,” Isobel began, not sure where Gwen was going with this, “Dad, this is Gwen. She’s, uh . . . she’s . . .” Mentally whacked, Isobel wanted to say.

  “I’m the mascot escort,” said Gwen. She flashed her perfectly straight white teeth in a wide grin. “I babysit the mascot,” she added.

  “Ah,” Dad began. He twisted to look around as much as Gwen’s friendly grip on his shoulders would allow. “Where is the mascot, then?”

  “Oh, he’s around here somewhere . . . molting or something, I dunno. So, Iz, are you coming to my victory party or what? You never answered my Facebook invite.”