Nevermore n-1

by Келли Криг

  He spoke fast, his words heated. “Do you not see what has become of him? He is no longer part of your world.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It is true enough,” he said. His coldness cut her like a blade of jagged ice. “And if you do not follow me now, it will be too late for you, and all for whom you care.”

  “Are you Poe?” She surprised herself with the question.

  “Edgar is dead. He is the fortunate one.”

  “Then you knew him,” Isobel said with authority, sure of the truth behind that statement as soon as she spoke it aloud. There had already been too much evidence. Too much proof.

  “That’s why you’re here now, isn’t it? This all happened before, didn’t it? To him? To Edgar.”

  “The past, too, is dead.”

  Isobel stared at him in disbelief. They continued to stand opposite each other, neither of them moving while an invisible force seemed to pulse between them—an intangible sensation like the push of opposing magnets.

  “Fine,” she said at last.

  He whirled and strode into the passageway on the right again. Clearly he expected her to follow. Isobel did not move.

  “I don’t need you,” she called after him. He stopped again. She spun away from him and stooped to gather her shoes. “I don’t need your secrets.” She slipped on the once pink flats, now caked in grit. “I’ll find him myself.” She rose, smoothing back a straggling strand of hair from her eyes, and turned toward the passageway on her left.

  “Stop,” he commanded.

  She ignored him and kept walking, certain that before her lay new chambers. New nightmares.

  “He wouldn’t leave me behind,” she called.

  “You are so certain?”

  “Yes. Because just like you, he’s not everything he pretends to be,” she said. “And even though you’re saying this now . . . you still didn’t leave Edgar, did you? You helped him get back, didn’t you? So don’t tell me there’s no way!”

  “Isobel.” His voice, a whisper, came sharp now. Wounded.

  Her stab in the dark had done more than just graze the truth. It had found the very marrow . . . good enough at least to strike a deeper chord in the monotonous dirge that was Reynolds.

  She would leave him with that.

  She kept her steps steady into the darkness and the dampness. Ahead, through the webwork of shadows, she saw that the passageway turned sharply. Around that corner, she knew she would find herself utterly alone.

  “Isobel,” he hissed after her. “If you turn your back on me, you leave me with no choice but to turn my own on you. Continue and we are as good as adversaries.”

  “Then at least now I know.”

  Determined, she took the turn sharply without so much as a backward glance. Another damp stone corridor stretched before her.

  Darkness there, and nothing more.

  Her footsteps were her only company now. Even the voices behind the walls had ceased. She did not expect Reynolds to follow. She knew enough about him now to understand that he meant what he said. He had his own agenda. His own ghosts to chase.

  Just as there was no way to know what lay ahead, there was no way to know how much time she had left. It was safe to say that midnight was close, though.

  But maybe—just maybe, she thought as she rounded the next corner, where ahead she could make out a dim aura of deep purple light—she was closer.

  42

  A Vow

  Isobel came to the place where the next torch stood. Here the dank passageway smelled of kerosene and must. Orange flames cast their glow over a deep purple stained-glass window set into the stone wall, and she knew that beyond it lay the purple chamber of Poe’s story.

  There was no hidden door or secret nook leading in as with the green chamber, however. At least none that she could find in the wall or on the floor.

  Stepping around the torch, Isobel sidled up to the narrow window and pressed her hands flat against the stone wall beside it. She passed her fingers over the grooves and mortar, feeling for some clue to a way in. She leaned her shoulder to the wall and strained to hear either voice or movement. The heat from the fire, warming her face and arms, threw her shadow onto the wall beside her. She heard nothing at first, but soon she sensed a fluttering from within.

  She pulled back, lowering her gaze, and focused hard on the purple glass, as though that would cause the rustle from within to amplify. In one corner of the window, she saw a pinprick of yellow light shining through. It was a hole, a tiny dime-size notch missing from the stained glass.

  Isobel crouched, careful not to let her shadow catch in the torchlight or fall across the colored pane. At an angle, she peeked through the opening.

  She saw the source of the fluttering at once. At the opposite end of the room, a wide casement window stood open. Large purple curtains snapped and stirred in the breeze. Outside this window, a tangled outline of naked black tree limbs scratched at a churning backdrop of ominous gray-purple clouds. Inside the room itself, centered in a pool of yellow light, she could just make out the corner of a plush purple velvet chair.

  And the edge of one black boot.

  She shifted, repositioning herself. No matter what angle she tried, though, all she could make out were the curtains, the purple carpet, the yellow light, and the boot.

  She thought about calling out, but what if it was just another trick? Another illusion? And if it wasn’t Varen in that chair, then it had to be one of the Nocs . . . or something worse.

  Isobel raised a cautious hand. She wiggled a finger into the hole and waited. With the curtains’ next heavy round of flapping, she tugged at the glass. An entire fist-size, diamond-shaped chink broke free from its black-web template, leaving a much larger hole than she’d intended.

  She cringed silently and slid back an inch, hoping no one inside had witnessed the chink’s removal. Even at a distance, though, she could now see the room in much greater detail.

  Bookshelves stuffed with dust-caked tomes lined the walls, and she was reminded at once of Nobit’s Nook. On a nearby table sat an old-fashioned oil lamp. Dimly lit, it was a partial source of the overlay of yellow light. The other contributor was the bed of fading embers glowing low within the enormous fireplace in front of the purple chair.

  Isobel’s gaze returned at once to that chair, to the hand that rested on the velvet-covered armrest. A familiar silver ring glinted on a finger belonging to the even more familiar hand. Her eyes traveled up the green jacket sleeve. His head down, Varen sat staring at the purple carpet in front of him, his black hair drawn around his face. Startled at the sight of him, Isobel dropped the slice of purple glass. It tink ed against the stone floor.

  Varen’s head jerked in the direction of the sound. Isobel opened her mouth but stopped just short of calling out to him when the caw of a bird split the silence of the room. Varen’s gaze shot forward again, and in that same instant, a quick black thing raced across the room, casting its ghostlike shadow over the fluttering curtains, the floor, the walls, and the rows of bookshelves.

  The creature sailed from its high perch into view. Large wings beat against the swirling air as it landed on the back of Varen’s chair. Stepping from foot to foot, the bird tucked in its wings. Hunched, it glared through the gloom with beady, coal black eyes.

  Isobel ducked low beneath the window ledge. She held her breath in silence and waited.

  “What was that noise?” croaked a hoarse voice.

  “My imagination,” Varen replied, his own voice smooth and dry in comparison, his tone acidic.

  “You can’t play tricks on me,” returned the bird.

  To this, Varen remained silent. Isobel huddled close against the wall, both hands clamped over her mouth. She shut her eyes, listening hard.

  This time a new sound, muffled and distant, assaulted her ears. It had come from an entirely different direction. Someone shouting—screaming. It was a sound of pure terror, and it slashed through her mind like a lance
.

  “Ah,” the bird said with a coughing rasp that might have been a laugh. “Our friend again. It’s been over an hour now and he’s still at it.”

  Another tortured yell echoed through the passageway around her. It was followed by the faraway sound of banging.

  “Stop it. Let him go. Send him back,” Varen murmured.

  “Oh, really. Does it bother you that much to hear?” The voice morphed as it spoke, growing deeper, shedding its gravelly tone for a more caustic sound. “Come now,” it said, “I would have thought that after everything, you would enjoy it a little. Besides, it was your idea.”

  “You did it, not me.”

  “Yes, of course I did. But not until you thought it.”

  Easing to one side, her back pressed to the wall, Isobel peeked through the hole again. In the chair, Varen sat nearly folded over, his face buried in his hands, while Pinfeathers’s tall form paced in a wide circle around him. His thin shadow, cast from the yellow glow, fell long over Varen.

  Isobel looked up to find an added source of the light. It shone brightly from behind the orb-eyed bust of an ancient Greek warrior, which stared sightlessly down from its place above a set of ornately carved double doors.

  Isobel’s attention zoned in on those doors. From what she could tell, besides the open window, they looked to be the only way into or out of the room. They probably connected to another colored chamber, she thought. She wondered if she would be able to find some way to get to them from where she was now if she continued down the same passage. If she found her way to those doors, would they be unlocked? After all, even if she could knock out all the glass from the stained-glass window, it would still be too narrow for a person to fit through.

  “Funny as it sounds,” Pinfeathers said, “you, of all people, confuse me the most in this. I thought this was exactly what you wanted.”

  “It was.”

  “But now you’ve changed your mind.”

  Varen did not answer.

  “Or rather, I should say, she changed your mind. The cheerleader. Well, anyway, that’s why you’re in so much trouble, I’ll tell you that. Too many admirers and not enough that’s admirable.” There was a long beat of silence in which Pinfeathers strode to stand between the curtains. Arms folded, he stared out. “She is lovely, though, isn’t she?” he continued.

  “Especially when she gets angry. But you already knew that. Of course, they’re both lovely. And in such different ways. You know, though, I should probably warn you right now that you and I—seeing as what we are—well, we’re bound to have similar tastes. Then again, that’s an odd thing for me to say, because the cheerleader isn’t much in your tastes at all, is she?”

  “Shut up.”

  “And I think that’s part of it. You know—together we seem to have a real problem with wanting things we just can’t have. Only now you’ve got it all. Apparently, it’s more than you can handle.”

  “I said, shut up.”

  “Though it might cheer you up to know that she is strong. Or at least she’s got it strong for you. And I mean you. I have to admit, it makes me more than a little jealous. But you have to wonder if—are you listening to me?”

  “No.”

  Pinfeathers sighed. “Your dismal moods bore me.”

  “Then go away,” Varen said.

  “I think I might. Perhaps I’ll go check on our friend again. Tap, tap, tap on his chamber door once more before we carry him out to finish the job. Heh. Though a word to the wise for you. The Mistress returns soon, and between then and now, I think I would change my mind about doing what she asks. At least, I would if I were you. Ha-ha! If I were you—get it?”

  Isobel watched as Pinfeathers transformed again. He shrank, contorting, his wiry frame turning murky through wisps of violet until he emerged once more as a large black bird. His dry laugh morphed into a croaking cackle. Then he flapped his wings and, circling the room once, shot through the curtained window.

  When he was gone, Isobel moved the tripod torch aside and positioned herself in front of the stained glass. “Varen,” she whispered.

  His gaze turned slowly toward her. Through the diamond-shaped chink, his black eyes met with hers. His face, so white, so drawn, seemed like that of a ghost.

  “Varen?” she called again, this time louder. “Varen, it’s me. It’s Isobel.”

  “Isobel,” he said simply, his voice a monotone.

  “Yes. It’s me.”

  “Isobel is gone,” he said, turning to stare into the fireplace. The fading embers within cast a low orange glow across his face. “I told her to take the door in the woodlands.”

  “No. I didn’t leave. I wouldn’t. Not without you. Please. How do I get inside?”

  “You can’t,” he mumbled, “even if you were real.”

  “Varen. Look at me. I am real. I came to find you. It’s me—I can prove it.”

  All at once, the screams started again. Muffled, long howls of anguish grew louder, accompanied this time by a barrage of brutal banging. Her heartbeat tripling, Isobel looked in the direction of the hellish racket. It was coming from the next chamber over. For a moment, despite its rawness, she thought she recognized the voice, and it spread a sick dread through her.

  Brad.

  But that was impossible. How could he be here?

  Isobel looked back to the window and started, her heart leaping almost painfully in her chest. Varen was there, standing before the mottled stained-glass pane that separated them.

  Through the open chink, his black eyes rested on her. His bruised face, wan and void of emotion, seemed almost alien in the dim light.

  “You’re a dream,” he said, “like everything else.”

  Isobel frowned. She remembered how Reynolds had told her once that Varen dreamed of her. With that thought in mind, she lifted a fist to knock away more of the glass, not caring if she cut herself. The little pieces fell onto the carpet inside the purple chamber, sprinkling around his feet, and Isobel pushed her hand through the widened hole. “Touch me,” she said.

  “I’m real. Even if this is a dream, I’m not.”

  She felt his fingers, light as dust, trace her palm. They left in their wake a prickling sensation that made her skin seem almost to vibrate. Seconds passed.

  Another scream, louder but still muffled, poured like scalding liquid through the passageway. Isobel withdrew her hand, scanning the stone-walled corridor behind her, trying to determine from which direction the yelling had come. She was sure it had echoed to them from the right, opposite the way she had entered. Her eyes returned to Varen, tracing the split above his lip, and she dreaded having to say the words she needed to now.

  “Varen.” She kept her voice measured. “Do you hear that? I have to go help Brad.”

  He lifted his eyes to hers, and, despite their blackness, she could not mistake the hatred that burned within their centers. She swallowed, choosing her words carefully. “They—they’re hurting him,” she said. “He may deserve a lot, but he doesn’t deserve to die. I know you understand that. I’ll come back to get you, too, okay?”

  “Why?” he snapped.

  “Because,” she said with a gasp, unable to fathom the source of his question, or his tone. “Because I love you, that’s why.”

  He turned his head and looked away from her, back into the chamber.

  “Listen.” She gripped the window frame. “We’ll fix it, okay? We’ll find a way.”

  “It’s too late.” It was scarcely a whisper.

  “Don’t say that! There is a way. If it’s us together, me and you, then there’s a way. Okay? We got through the project, didn’t we? Even though everything went wrong. Even though everyone stood in our way. Varen?”

  His eyes regarded her once more, and this time she searched them for her reflection, for any evidence of light. But they returned only a blackness so pure, so frighteningly bottomless, that it took all of her willpower not to turn away.

  “Say okay. Please?” she pleaded.r />
  He stared at her.

  Another scream split the stillness. The shrill sound of it ratcheted up her spine and, reaching through her like a clawed hand, seized her heart with a clutching grip. She winced. “Varen, they’re killing him. I have to go try to stop it. But you have to say okay first. Please. Say that you know I’m coming back. Just say okay. For me?”

  He looked down.

  She shook her head. “Don’t you believe me?” Her eyes stung with the threat of tears. She could hardly stand to see him this way. It was as though the Varen she knew had been consumed, replaced by this husk of despair, his soul recessed so deeply within that no light could reach it. If there was only some way she could prove that it was the real her who stood before him, and not some phantom imposter. If she only had something to give him, some sort of proof. Or just something to leave with him. A token. A promise. Anything, as long as it was something as real and solid as her.

  Isobel ran her hands over her dress, fingers fumbling, grasping for something to give him.

  Then her hands stopped on the ribbon tied around her waist. She let her fingers follow the smooth satin fabric to the bow at her back. With nimble fingers, she unlaced the knot and it slipped free from her waist with a soft whisper.

  “Here,” she said. Reaching through the jagged hole in the window, she offered him the ribbon. “Take this,” she said. “It’s mine, and I’m coming back for it, so don’t lose it. You have to hold onto it. You have to keep it safe. For me. Do you understand?”

  At first he only stared at the ribbon, but then he lifted one of those elegant hands to touch the fabric. Then their fingers brushed as he slowly pulled the satin free, winding it around his own hand. As she drew back, she saw his fingers curl around it in a fist. Clutching it, something within him seemed to stir. His brow furrowed in confusion, as if there were something about the pink ribbon now encircling his hand that he couldn’t quite understand.

  “Listen,” she said. Around them, Brad’s screams continued, building in volume, curdling into a crescendo of utter terror. Isobel struggled to concentrate on her words with the sound of Brad’s anguished shrieks echoing in her ears. “Try—try to open the doors. Reynolds—My friend says that if . . . that if you know you’re dreaming, then you can control things. So try to open the doors, okay? Try. If you can’t, then just wait here for me.”