His brow knitted in confusion. “Home,” he repeated, as if the word was foreign to him. “You mean . . . heaven?”
The question, as startling as it was sobering, stole her already faltering smile.
She let her arms slip away from him.
Though it was clear that Varen now believed she was real, that he understood she’d come here to get him, it suddenly became equally clear that somehow, he still thought she was dead.
And if he was asking about heaven, did that mean he assumed they both were?
The memory flashes. The writing on the wall. Varen’s horrified reaction after her words about conquering death—now it all made sense.
He still believed that he’d killed her. It was the only way he’d been able to reconcile Isobel’s presence in the dreamworld.
“Varen, I’m . . . ,” she started, but as a look of dark concern clouded his features, her voice stalled in her throat and she thought better of trying to explain.
If keeping the truth to herself meant he would follow her more readily, if it gave her a better chance of luring him out of this realm—of convincing him that, with her, he could leave its boundaries—would it not be better to go on letting him think she was . . . what? A spirit sent to collect him?
An angel, she corrected herself, remembering the pair of statues standing watch at the altar, the stone seraphs populating the courtyard. The bust of the helmeted warrior girl stationed above the purple chamber’s doors. A guardian angel.
“Tell me you trust me,” Isobel said, peering into his eyes again. “Do you?”
His gaze narrowed on her, and he gave no answer. She could tell he knew there was something she wasn’t divulging. Something he was missing.
Another wave bowled into them, hard enough to knock Isobel off balance. Varen reached for her and held her steady. They watched the wave as it tumbled to the shore, crashing there with a low boom, hissing as it spread its way up the long bank of sand.
The tide had begun its nocturnal conquest of the beach, giving the illusion that, though she and Varen hadn’t moved, they’d drifted farther out.
“Are you doing this?” Isobel asked.
“No,” he said, jaw flexing, his focus still on the shore.
A beat passed before he spoke again. “It’s not over . . . is it?” he asked, looking down at her.
essed his forehead to hers, and Isobel relished the sensation of his hair catching in her lashes. She saw that he held his own eyes shut, clenched tight, and she knew his fear had returned.
That had to be why the water had turned cold so quickly. Why, in the passing seconds, the darkness surrounding them had grown more absolute.
Already the tide had risen to mid-thigh. But . . . he couldn’t still be doubting her, could he?
“Open your eyes,” Isobel urged, tucking silken bits of hair behind his ear, though the strands wouldn’t stay. “Please?”
“You’ll leave,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with the emotion he was trying hard to keep bottled.
“Never,” she said. “Nevermore,” she corrected in a whisper.
She stayed silent for the next few seconds, watching him, giving him time to trust.
When Varen finally did open his eyes, he kept them fixed on her hamsa charm. She could feel him holding his breath as he grabbed her shoulders and squeezed.
Isobel ignored the pain of his fingers digging into her flesh, because she knew what he was trying to assure himself of. That when he looked up, he would not find a dead girl staring back at him.
Then his clear green gaze flicked to Isobel’s, igniting a smile that sprang, involuntarily, to her lips.
“There you are,” she said, taking in the sight of those twin emeralds, whose color she could detect even in the dark. “I knew I’d find you.”
Varen scowled in pain as though her words had cut him. But she could feel relief, too, in the breath he exhaled as he pulled her against him.
With fierce strength, Varen’s arms wound around her, and he clutched her tightly. Isobel surrendered to his hold and, laying her head to his shoulder, yielded to the rush of bliss that she could not have fought off if she tried.