In its place stood another on the road.
Even with his lean figure enswathed by shadow, she could still make out the insignia of the upside-down bird on the white patch of cloth pinned to the back of his jacket.
Turning his head, he glanced at her from over one shoulder, revealing the open pit in his porcelain cheek.
“Some say memories are merely another form of dreaming,” the Noc said. “We, of course, would argue that they are, rather, another form of torture. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Pinfeathers.”
He angled toward her, lifting a clawed finger. “Half right,” he said. “Or, pardon, do I mean right half?”
She took one cautious step in his direction; then, automatically, she took another.
“No, I don’t think so,” he continued. “You had your chance. Made your choice. Besides, we broke up. Remember?”
“H-how?” she said. “How did you—”
Now he aimed the claw at her, and the slight smile he wore dropped away. “The question you should be asking is why.”
Isobel quickened her steps.
“Stop,” he said.
Her heart, already pounding, thrummed louder in her ears. A fresh surge of adrenaline coursed into her bloodstream. But she didn’t heed his warning; loosed inside of her, apprehension and relief merged to create a hybrid emotion. Fear mixed with longing. Tenderness laced with trepidation. It drew her toward him.
“I said stop,” the Noc commanded, leveling a look of hate at her, the shadow of which she’d seen before on another face. Varen’s.
She broke forward in a run, and even though it seemed as if he wanted to dissipate, to become smoke and slide out of reach, the Noc stayed rooted.
Colliding with him, Isobel wrapped her arms around his middle. She pressed her cheek—the same cheek he had scarred—flat against his chest, right over that place he’d once hollowed out in order to store her stolen ribbon.
“The rose garden,” she murmured into him. “You . . . I thought you were gone for good.”
“We’re at least as gone as we are good,” he muttered, trying, it seemed, to resist touching her. “And equally annoyed to see that, still, you don’t ever listen.”
“I’m glad you’re not,” she rushed on, ignoring his admonishments. “So glad. I—I need a friend.”
“Ah.” She heard his form creak and felt his claws stroke her hair. “I get your game. You would deliver cruelty for cruelty. Torment for torment. It won’t turn out the way you think. We’ll get our revenge. We always do. Even if only in our mind. Don’t you forget that, cheerleader. Don’t you ever forget it.”
His voice, pained and bitter, as rueful as it was distorted, reverberated through his hollow frame, causing her cheek to buzz.
“I never meant to hurt you,” she whispered, aware that in some sense, Pinfeathers was Varen. Part of his psyche, if not his soul. “Either of you.”
“We are hurt.”
“I know,” Isobel murmured, tears stinging her eyes, slipping free to sear her skin and seep into his jacket. “And I’m sorry . . . so sorry.”
He laughed.
The sound, acidic and humorless, unsettled her enough to make her loosen her grip on him. She started to pull away, but his hands clamped down on her shoulders. Claws digging in, he held her in place, keeping her close.
“What I mean,” he said, “is that’s all that’s left. All we are. All we have to give.”
“That’s not true.” Shaking her head, she clutched the lapels of his jacket, Varen’s old green mechanic’s jacket, which, like the pink ribbon, she had lost in the dreamworld—to the dreamworld. Pinfeathers must have found it. Did he want to hold on to it like he had the ribbon? To keep it because of what it represented?
Lost things found . . .
“You aren’t like that.”