Isobel charged him, the poker whistling as it arced through the air. Again the monster slithered back, his face dissolving, lost once more amid the thickening murk.
“It’s true she won’t be able to touch you,” hissed his disembodied voice, the violet mist now drifting toward the ceiling and out of Isobel’s batting range. “But at this rate, she won’t have to.”
Isobel eyed him as he took solid shape again, his back pressed into one high corner, his arms outspread to brace himself, heels planted against the wall behind him, making him look like an enormous spider.
With that thought, Isobel stooped and grabbed her trophy where it lay on its side next to the couch. She launched it at him.
Pinfeathers caught the trophy with one clawed hand. His face screwing up with rage, he flung it back at her. Isobel yelped, clutching tighter to the fireplace poker as the trophy smashed the fat-bellied lamp that sat on the end table just beside her.
“Listen to me!” he railed. “Why won’t you ever listen to me?”
“Give me one good reason why I should!” Isobel screamed back at him.
Fury overcame him. With a deafening howl, he dove for her, claws outstretched.
Isobel swung the poker again, but he dispersed at the last second, splitting into multiple wisps, each separate strand whisking off in its own direction until she wasn’t sure which way to turn.
“Because,” his voice seethed, seeming to come from everywhere at once.
Isobel went suddenly still as she felt the tendrils return, wrapping their way around her waist from behind before transforming into arms.
She felt him pull her to him. His voice, acidic and sharp, buzzed in her ear. “Soon . . . I’ll be all that’s left.”
“I told you”—Isobel raised the poker and jabbed it backward—“not to touch me!”
The iron rod sailed through nothing, the momentum of the action serving only to knock her off balance.
She teetered, catching herself on the armrest of the love seat before wheeling around, swiping blindly and wildly in all directions until a sharp click brought a burst of bright light into the room.
Isobel spun to find her father standing in the living room archway, one hand still fixed on the light switch, bleary eyes aimed directly at her.
He watched her with a hard, confused look, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief.
There was fear there too, she thought.
Fear for her. Fear of her.
He raised one palm toward her, as though she were a careening car that needed to slow down.
“Isobel?” he said, his voice husky with sleep. “What . . . what are you doing?”
She heaved in sharp, quick breaths, and her gaze darted all around the room.
But Pinfeathers was gone.
The TV was off too, its screen black.
At her feet, the end table lamp lay in shards, and her Number One Flyer trophy was facedown amid the mixture of broken slivers.
“Isobel?”
She heard her father draw nearer, saw his shadow stretch wider as he made his way toward her. Yet she still flinched when he wrapped a hand around the fireplace poker clutched between her own hands.
Finally glancing up at him, Isobel watched his red-rimmed eyes scour her face as though in search of some evidence that she was still, in fact, his daughter.
“Isobel, honey,” he began again, using one hand to brush back a lock of her hair while at the same time attempting to extract the poker from her grasp with the other. “Are you even awake right now?”
All at once, she felt her focus return. Her eyes met directly with her father’s.