Immediately after the attack, he’d fallen unconscious on the turf. Isobel had been there with him, calling out to him. But she didn’t find out until later that his spirit, his “astral form” as Reynolds had called it, had been dragged from his body by the Nocs and taken by force into the dreamworld. It was there that Isobel later discovered him, alerted to his presence by desperate screams only moments after she’d found Varen locked inside another room.
Promising Varen she’d come back for him, Isobel had gone to try and save Brad from being tortured by the Nocs. But she’d arrived too late.
She’d watched Brad, against his will, become the blood-drenched figure of the Red Death, his soul sucked into a cemetery statue that burst into life, its gray stone robes transforming into sodden sheets of tattered crimson.
She could still picture the way the phantasm had moved, floating over the ground with its cloak billowing behind. Helpless, Isobel had watched from within the pit of an open grave as the hooded figure descended from its plinth. With one wave of its skeletal hand, the creature had sent the dirt walls of her prison caving in, burying her alive.
Reality and the realm of dreams had already begun to merge by that time, and under the Red Death’s control, Brad entered the real world again, ready to carry out the final events of Poe’s gruesome story.
Only Reynolds had prevented him from killing everyone at the Grim Facade.
After rescuing her, he had fought to keep the Red Death at bay while she returned to the woodlands to destroy Varen’s journal, severing the link between worlds. Though doing so had been enough to free Brad and allow him to return to his body and to reality, it had not been enough to ensure Varen’s return. In fact, it had done just the opposite.
“Brad,” Isobel began, “listen. I’m sorry about . . . what happened on the field. And . . . I’m sorry that you can’t—”
He laughed, a bitter, cold sound. “You know I’m not talking about what happened on the field,” he said. “And keep your pity for yourself. I hated football.” She watched him shove the blue-and-gold jersey into the trash bag.
Isobel gaped at him, stunned. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said. “I hated the games. I hated the practices. I hated the tailgating and the stupid pep rallies. The only reason I did it was because everyone told me I should. Because it made my old man happy. Because I thought it made you happy.”
He shook his head, yanking the yellow ties so the neck of the bag drew tight. He tied them off in a knot. “Now,” he said, and stuffed the nearby stack of T-shirts and locker photos into the duffel. Isobel thought she even recognized Nikki’s smiling face in one of them before he zipped the bag shut. “Now I can just forget about it. Right? Start over. Be something else. So thanks for that, Izo. But please . . .”
He looped the strap of the duffel over his head and positioned the bag on his back. Anchoring himself with one of the crutches, he pulled himself onto his feet again. “Don’t do me any more favors.”
He picked up the black garbage bag with his free hand and limped toward her. Isobel stepped aside to allow him access to the enormous trash can behind her. He hoisted the bag over its edge and let it fall in with a whoosh.
Then he turned to her and pointed to the remaining crutch.
Wordlessly, she handed it to him.
He slid it under his arm.
Isobel expected him to walk right past her after that, to leave without saying anything else. But he lingered, edging in closer, his crutches creaking.
“You know . . . ,” he began, his voice dropping to a whisper, “I still hear the screaming. If my head ever gets too quiet, that’s when it starts up. It’s like when you hit the snooze button and then, just as soon as you begin to doze, the alarm goes off again. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and there’s blood all over my hands. And all down my arms.” Adjusting his weight, Brad extended one of his arms out in front of him, staring at it as he flipped it from front to back. “And I have to blink several times before it’ll go away.” His gaze shifted back to her. “What about you, Izo? What do you see?”
Isobel didn’t move. Her eyes remained trapped by his. She told herself not to speak, not wanting to let on how much he was scaring her.
“Can I tell you something?” He tilted his head, moving in closer still, so close that she could feel his breath against her cheek. “Do you want to know what my grandma used to say about kisses on the forehead?”
He pressed his lips to her brow, holding the silk soft kiss for a long moment while Isobel stood in place, unable to bring herself to shove him away.
“She told me it’s the kind of kiss we save for the dead.”
Isobel’s eyes snapped open wide. She took an immediate step back from him, her hands forming into fists.
But he wasn’t looking at her anymore. Instead he seemed transfixed by something behind her. “A word to the wise,” he added in a murmur. “Cover your mirrors. That’s how they find you.”
With that, he turned away from her, his crutches clanking as he moved toward the door. He pushed through without looking back, leaving her there alone.
She stared after him, suddenly hyperaware of the mirror at her back.
A nagging feeling settled over her. It was that same sensation she’d felt that night in the park behind her house before being chased by the Nocs. Like there were a thousand invisible eyes aimed at her back, waiting for her to notice them so they could descend and devour.
Her body told her to start moving, to walk away as fast as she could, to leave right that second and not look back. But her mind, her instinct, told her there was something she needed to see.
She pivoted slowly in place, like a music-box ballerina winding down on its pedestal.