by Kelly Creagh
Isobel blinked dry and stinging eyes. She dropped her arm, her bicep screaming as if she’d been standing that way for hours, and swung around to face the person who had nearly touched her shoulder.
23
Conscience Grim
“Oh!” The woman jumped, pulling back her hand the moment Isobel whirled to face her.
Young and blond with pretty gray eyes and a complexion too tan for this late in winter, the woman, who had to be somewhere in her early thirties, wore a fashionable heather-gray coat along with matching gloves. Her hair, straw colored and straight, lay neatly arranged on either of her shoulders, making her look like a model from a Macy’s clothing ad.
The woman regarded Isobel with caution, as though she couldn’t be certain if she’d stumbled on an insane asylum escapee.
“Did you not hear me?” she asked. “I said, is this your bike sitting here in the middle of the street?”
The woman pointed behind her to Danny’s blue bike, which still lay on its side next to the curb. Isobel’s gaze darted from the bike back to the woman and then beyond her willowy form to the chrome-colored Lexus idling in the road. The driver’s-side door hung wide open, as if the woman had jumped out quickly, hoping to jump back in just as quickly.
“I—” Isobel stammered, and then looked toward the fountain again, her momentary confusion lifting at the sight of it.
She’d been gone, she realized. Not physically. Her body had remained here while her astral self, her spirit, had been transported elsewhere—to a memory from the past.
She was back now, though, and she knew in her bones that what Pinfeathers had shown her had been the truth.
Reynolds had killed Poe. He’d told Isobel that Lilith was responsible for his death, but that had been another lie. But why had he done it? Why, when Poe had been crying out to him, pleading with him for help? Why, when Reynolds had told her they’d been friends? Had that, too, been just another falsehood?
“Are—are you lost?” the woman asked.
Yes, Isobel wanted to say. More than ever before.
Glancing skyward, she could see that it had begun to get lighter, though just scarcely so. Enough for her to wonder how much time had elapsed since she’d first arrived at the fountain.
“What—what time is it?” Isobel asked the woman.
“Early,” she replied. “High school doesn’t start for at least another hour. Is that where you were headed before you stopped here? Where do you go?”
Isobel didn’t answer. She was too busy making time calculations. If she had an hour before school, then that left her with thirty minutes to get home before her alarm went off. Less if her mom decided to pop her head in and check on her. If she hadn’t already.
God, what would her mother think if she looked in and found her bed empty?
She’d freak for sure. She’d call Isobel’s dad and then . . .
“Are you . . . is everything all right?” the woman asked. “You look a little . . . ” She stopped, her glossed lips still parted as if her next words had simply flown out before she’d had a chance to utter them. Squinting at Isobel, the woman tilted her head to one side. “I’m sorry. Do—do I know you?” she asked abruptly.
Immediately, Isobel realized who she was talking to.
This was Varen’s stepmother.
They’d seen each other only once before, on that night Varen had argued with his father. After his parents had left his room, Isobel had come out from hiding in his closet and, together, she and Varen took the fire escape outside his window. Just as they’d climbed into his car, this woman had run out onto the porch and down the sidewalk, calling out to them. She and Isobel had locked eyes for only a split second before Varen pressed his foot to the gas pedal and took off, but apparently, that had been long enough.
Isobel shook her head, even though she could already tell it was too late for denial.
“No,” the woman said, and pointed at Isobel with one gloved finger. “I do know you. You were with Varen that night he—What are you doing here? Who are you? Tell me your name. ”
“I—” Isobel broke off.
Turning, she lunged for Danny’s bike. Plucking it from the road, she began to run alongside it.
“Wait!” the woman cried. “Stop!”
Isobel swung herself onto the bike seat and began to pedal hard.
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She could hear the scamper of footsteps coming after her, and then moving away again. Isobel stood up on the bike and drove the pedals harder as the clap of a car door echoed through the neighborhood.
Reaching the end of St. Francis Court, Isobel swung the bike onto the connecting street. The thin, cold wind whistled high in her ears as she headed pell-mell for the main road. Behind her, she could hear the approach of the Lexus and stole one quick glance back. Varen’s stepmom leaned out of the driver’s-side window. She honked the horn as she drove and shouted for Isobel to “please stop. ”
The note of desperate pleading in the woman’s voice grabbed Isobel’s heart hard, and for an instant, her feet stopped pedaling. She coasted, her hands poised to clamp down on the handle brakes. The Lexus was right behind her now. She could hear its quiet purr growing louder.
“I’m just trying to find him!” the woman called. “If you know something, then please—”
Her words caused Isobel’s fear to spike again. Her arms acted for her and she cut the handlebars sharply to her right, swerving down an alleyway lined with city trash cans and carriage house garages.
Behind her, the tires of the Lexus squealed as it missed the turn. Isobel swerved again—this time up a short incline and into the parking lot of an old stone church.
She zoomed past and, making a quick scan for traffic, raced across the connecting street, her tires bumping on the curb as she maneuvered the bike onto the sidewalk.
She rounded the corner. Then, just before she shot beyond a row of tall brick buildings, the Lexus appeared, turning onto the street she’d just left, and Isobel knew she’d been spotted. She also knew she was out of room to run.
Isobel jerked the bike to the left and rattled into a dead-end gravel lot behind a coffee shop. Squeezing the brakes, she slid to a halt, her tires kicking up a cloud of white dust. She hopped off the bike and, giving it a push, let it roll behind an enormous Dumpster, where it crashed against the wall and clattered to the ground.
Isobel hesitated only a heartbeat before lifting up the Dumpster’s flimsy lid, hoisting herself over the lip of the metal bin, and dropping inside.
She landed with a whoosh, her fall broken by a cushion of foul-smelling trash bags.
The flap banged closed behind her, plunging her into darkness.
The stench of spoiled milk and rotten food filled her nostrils, making her gag. She coughed and clamped a hand over her nose and mouth. She grew still and waited, listening even though her ears could pick up only the sound of her own ragged breathing and the shift of plastic bags and compacting trash. She hoped those noises were a result of her own body weight and not the scampering of rats.
Closing her eyes, she held her breath and waited.
When she finally popped her head out of the Dumpster, she sucked in gasps of oxygen, hoping Varen’s stepmother had moved on from the area.
After climbing out of the Dumpster, she retrieved the bike and began to pedal homeward, as fast as her legs could carry her, praying the whole way that her mother had not yet opened the door to her bedroom.
HIDING DANNY’S BIKE IN THE backyard bushes, Isobel hurried up the lattice on the side of her house. She made her way across the slanted roof ledge, her legs weak from having pedaled so hard and so far. She slid her window open and climbed back in the way she’d left.
The alarm clock sitting on top of her cubbyhole headboard had already gone off, blasting a continuous and shrill tone, the numbers blinking 6:33.
“—sobel!” her mother’s voice
boomed from somewhere downstairs.
Isobel slammed her window shut and turned her head to look toward the door when she heard footsteps on the stairs.
Shedding her coat, she scrambled into her bed, tossing the covers over her head. She heard her doorknob wiggle and yanked off the black ski cap, stuffing it under her pillow the instant before her door swung open.
“Izzy!” her mother called into the room. “Glad to finally see you getting some sleep, but can we please shut this thing off?”
Isobel peeked over her comforter. She did her best to slow her breathing, careful to keep her body concealed so her mother wouldn’t see that she was fully dressed.
Stopping at her bedside, her mother reached over Isobel’s head to hit the alarm’s snooze button.
“There,” she said with a sigh, and ran a hand through her hair, which had been combed and curled. In place of her usual nightgown and slippers, her mother wore a wool skirt and her moss-green cashmere sweater. “C’mon,” she said, giving Isobel’s leg a double tap. “Let’s go. Danny’s got a teacher conference this morning, so I’m giving you both a ride to school. Up and at ’em. We need to leave early. ”
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Isobel nodded. “I’m awake,” she said.
Her mother walked away but stopped at the door and turned to look back, her nose crinkled. “What’s that smell?” she asked. “Have you been leaving food up here?”
Isobel rolled over onto her side, feigning grogginess. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll get it in a sec. ”
“You do that,” her mom said. “I don’t know how you can stand it. And no more snacks in the bedroom, please. You know better. ”
With that, her mom bustled out. Isobel waited half a beat and then sat up, kicking back the covers. She was about to make a beeline for the bathroom when her brother’s voice broke from the hall.
“Shower dibs!” he shouted, his words punctuated by the slamming of the bathroom door.
GWEN SET HER TRAY ON the table in front of Isobel’s. Hiking her skirts, she threaded legs, clad in black spandex and gray legwarmers, through the picnic-table-style bench and sat with a sigh that seemed to say at last. Her hands fluttered over her tray, fingers twiddling as she searched for her fork and knife, as though she were a magician about to perform her first trick.
Locating her fork, Gwen prepared to stab her salad. She paused, though, and glanced up slowly.
“You know,” she said, “if you wanted to sit by yourself today, all you had to do was ask. ”
Isobel leaned an elbow against the table. She put a hand to her forehead, her shoulders sagging. Her eyelids fell closed as though weighted by sandbags, and it felt good to block out the stinging glare of the fluorescents, even if only for a moment.
“Is it that bad?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“It’s bad,” Gwen said. “What happened? Been spending quality time with your brother?”
Isobel kneaded the bridge of her nose between her finger and thumb. “Long story. ”
“Mm,” Gwen said. “Would have been better, I think, if you hadn’t spritzed the body spray over it. You know when somebody tries to cover up a fart by lighting a candle?”
“Gwen?”
“Eh?” she said, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth.
“Not today, please. ”
“You don’t look so good. Didn’t sleep much, I’m guessing,” Gwen said. “Can I ask why, or is that another thing stuffed in the ever-thickening ‘no share’ file?”
Isobel frowned. Opening one eye, she uttered the question her brain had been drawing circles around all morning long.
“Why do you think he does it, Gwen?” Isobel asked. “Every year he comes back, and every year he leaves the roses. It’s been going on for decades now, and why? What’s the point?”
“You know,” Gwen said as she unfolded her paper napkin and laid it in her lap, “corpses are notorious for playing hard to get. ”
Isobel dropped her hand, letting her arm flop against the table. She shot Gwen a scathing glare. “I’m being serious,” she said.
“Well,” Gwen started, thinking. “Obviously, he gets the flowers from the rose garden. The one I saw in my dream. ”
“But why?” Isobel pressed, her frustration growing even though she knew full well that Gwen would be unable to answer her questions, especially since she did not know half of what Isobel did. Ever since Pinfeathers had shown her the scene from the hospital, Isobel couldn’t stop turning the events over and over in her mind. It had become like a sore she couldn’t stop worrying and picking at. Or more like a nightmare she couldn’t forget.
Gwen shrugged and bit into her roll. She chewed thoughtfully, her foot tapping against the checkered linoleum floor beneath their table, a clear sign that Isobel had once again said something to ramp up her nerves. “I dunno,” she said. “Paying respects? That’s a given. I don’t think anyone really knows just why he does it. From what I understand, that’s part of the mystery. Call me clueless—which, remember, I pretty much am—but I would have thought that if anyone knew why, you might. ”
“I . . . I thought I did,” Isobel said. “But . . . I don’t. Not anymore. ”
Isobel looked down at her chicken patty. A moment of silence passed between them while the surrounding sounds of talking and laughing swelled louder. Then Gwen reached her fork across the table and stabbed one of Isobel’s Tater Tots. “FYI,” she said. “Dunno about you, but I’m all set for the trip. Even got a gas card the other day so my parents can’t track my debit when I refill. ”
“Gwen. I’m . . . I’m really scared. ”
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“Finally,” Gwen said without missing a beat, even though her fingers trembled while she tried to tear open the plastic packet of salad dressing. “Your first healthy reaction. ”
“Things are different,” Isobel said. “They’re changing. I mean . . . they’ve changed,” she corrected.
“How about your mind?” Gwen glanced up, feigning hopefulness. “Tell me that’s changed. ”
“No,” Isobel said. “I . . . I know what I have to do. I just . . . Gwen? I . . . I need you to do me a favor. ”
“Should I just put that on your tab?”
Isobel ignored the joke. “If . . . if I don’t come back from this—”
Gwen dropped her fork onto her tray, her hands snapping into a referee’s time-out gesture. “This conversation is not going to happen. ”
“Please,” Isobel said. “It’s important. ”
“Listen. ” Gwen propped her elbow on the table and aimed a finger in Isobel’s face. “Say what you gotta say, get it out of your system, and then keep it zipped about the not-coming-back crap,” she said. “This is the first and the last ‘if I should die before I wake’ spiel you get. Got it?”
“It’s not a spiel,” Isobel said, “it’s just, I need to know if you’ll do something for me. ”
“What?”
Isobel took in a breath and let it out. “Varen’s stepmom,” she said. “I . . . sort of ran into her this morning. She . . . doesn’t know who I am, but she saw me with Varen on the night before he disappeared. I think she knows I was involved. So, if . . . if I don’t come back, will you give her this?” Isobel pushed a hand into her pocket. Taking out a folded slip of well-worn paper, she pressed it to the table and slid it toward Gwen.
“What is it?” Gwen asked. She plucked the paper from the table and began to unfold it.
“Don’t,” Isobel said. “Please. It—it’s a note from Varen. The last one he gave me. I found it in the pocket of his jacket after . . . I just thought that—if—if I can’t—I mean, if neither of us ever—it might help her . . . not understand, but . . . ” Giving up on trying to find the right words to explain her reasoning, she said, “I just thought that maybe the one thing that gave me hope . . . can be the one thing that will give her closure
. If it comes to that. ” She shrugged. “That’s all. ”
Gwen refolded the note. Without asking any more questions, she tucked it away in her purse.
“I’ll keep it,” she said. “Then, when you get back, after you and the dark one are done making out and planning a future filled with little blond-haired, green-eyed, pigment-challenged rug rats, I’ll bring it over and you can add it to your scrapbook, right before you start cooking me dinner. I like vegetarian lasagna with cottage cheese instead of ricotta. ”
“Gwen?”
“And don’t forget the mushrooms. Garlic bread, too, please. That is, as long as your vampire lover doesn’t object. ”
“I want to say thank you,” Isobel said. “For . . . everything. ”
“No,” Gwen said, “thank you for the delicious dinner. I can almost taste the baklava you and Darth Vader will be making for dessert. Something tells me you’re gonna have to look that one up, though. ” Snatching her napkin out of her lap, Gwen pulled a pen from her purse. Scribbling the dessert name onto the flimsy paper, she slid it across the table to Isobel. After a slight pause, she twiddled the pen and then snatched the napkin back. “Oh, hell,” she said. “I’ll just write the whole damn recipe down. In the meantime, you can stop looking at me like I’ve just pulled you out of quicksand or something. ”
“But it feels like you have,” Isobel said.
Gwen’s eyes flicked up to meet with Isobel’s.
“Well, I haven’t,” she said.
24
Charmed
Isobel did not dream during the next week and a half. At least not as far as she knew. She did not see Varen in passing reflective surfaces. Pinfeathers did not return to explain the vision he had shared with her or how he’d known she would go to the fountain. The pictures in her books remained motionless, and her radio played only pop songs and commercials.
In the place of upheaval, normalcy, or something that felt close to it, settled in. It laid over life like a fresh coat of paint, and for once Isobel fell habitually, if not easily, into the routine of playing all her various parts: student, daughter, sister, cheerleader.
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On the night before she and her father would depart for Baltimore, Isobel stared into her empty suitcase.
She had put off pretending to pack for nearly the entire day. Now that the sun had sunk into the horizon, it remained the last task left to perform.
