By astral projecting from the dreamworld into reality, Varen had overheard Isobel say horrible things on more than one occasion. That she wished she’d never met him, that she’d never had feelings for him, that she was the last person who would know anything about what had happened to him. That she was the last person who would care.
All lies. Part of the front Isobel had donned to convince everyone that she’d moved on.
But Lilith had been one step ahead of her, using Isobel’s own words against her in order to distort Varen’s perception—just as she had his heart and mind. And now the demon would use him to gain access to this world, to carry out her plans to destroy reality.
Unless Isobel could convince Varen to listen, to hear her.
“Of course, Alex Trimble has another girlfriend anyway.” Gwen laughed. “One of the St. Bernadette girls. So I want to tell Lesley good riddance, but then again, the truth usually never cheers anyone up. Does it?”
“Mm,” Isobel said, thinking back to how she’d sat waiting for something to happen during first period. How her stomach had churned with nauseating anticipation. Any second she had expected Mrs. Tanager to call for her over the intercom. Or for someone to echo the horrible static warning of “code red.”
Over and over again, she’d imagined Varen appearing as he had in Mr. Swanson’s room that day of the project. Like in last night’s dream, he would stalk down the hall in full view, a damning specter in that awful black coat. Everyone would pull away in shock and fear, but he wouldn’t care. This time he’d do more than just shatter the lights in their fixtures. He’d bring the school down, flooding it with nightmares, loosing the demons of Poe’s stories—and of his own mind—into this reality that no longer held a place for him.
And he wouldn’t stop. Not until he found her. And maybe not even then . . .
That’s why Isobel had to head him off at the pass. To intercept him at the only opportunity she would have to reach him. The funeral of his best friend.
“In other news,” Gwen prattled on, “Marcus Tomes asked Candice Weiss to tomorrow’s dance. She said no. Felicia Rowen is out with the chicken pox, aaaand there’s a ceiling leak in Mrs. Lory’s classroom. Also, huge mess in the first-floor north hall this morning. Busted lights. Weird dust all over the walls. But . . . you knew about that already.”
Isobel’s eyelids fluttered. “What?”
“I said you knew about that.” Gwen’s hands tightened on the wheel, her shoulders going rigid. “’Cause everybody knows about that. Per your usual way of dealing with things these days, however, you just weren’t going to say anything.”
Isobel locked her jaw. Swallowing, she forced her focus forward.
Given that Gwen never missed even the tiniest blip on the radar of Trenton’s day-to-day grind, Isobel figured she would have known about the ash. But it surprised Isobel that Gwen had linked her to the incident, especially when Gwen knew so little about the dreamworld itself. But since she had made the connection, why hadn’t she brought it up first thing, before they’d left?
Isobel frowned, realizing now that if she’d been thinking, she’d have guessed Gwen’s plan to corner her in a moving car—where walking away wasn’t an option—ahead of time.
“Of course, the admins think someone broke in last night,” Gwen explained, her voice adopting a mock-casual tone. “Did it all as a bad prank. That’s why they called the police. Did I forget to mention they called the police?”
Isobel grasped the cuffs of her coat, fidgeting with the fabric.
Straight ahead, an enormous clock tower loomed into view. It stood like a sentry over Cave Hill Cemetery’s main entrance, casting its slanted shadow over them. An angel, her wings unfurled, stood at the pinnacle of the tower, an arm raised in proclamation of some unnamed triumph.
The clock’s golden hour hand pointed at the roman numeral nine, the minute hand slightly beyond twelve, making them officially late. But at least the clock’s hands weren’t spinning. At least she knew for sure that she was awake.
“Everybody else seems to think it was the work of a ghost,” Gwen scoffed. “But oh, those sad, silly, superstitious schnooks.”
Refusing to look away from the clock, Isobel watched its hands until the Cadillac crossed the last street, bumping up the short drive that led through the cemetery’s iron gates.
“You and I,” Gwen said, flashing her a tight smile, “weeeee know better.”
To their left, a white-haired cemetery guard sat on an iron bench. Gwen offered him a wave as they drove past. Rising to his feet, he nodded in response, though his expression remained stern; Isobel had no doubt he could tell they were too young to be college kids on a photography excursion.
Gwen stiffened her arms as she maneuvered the car down the long, tree-lined lane, the crooked shadows of twisted limbs skimming the interior of the car, sliding over Isobel’s lap, up her arms and behind her. She envisioned them gathering there, transforming into creatures with clawed hands and jagged-toothed grins.
Impulsively, she grasped the rearview mirror and, tilting it toward her, eyed the backseat.
Empty . . .
“He went inside,” Gwen said.
Isobel froze for an instant, then pushed back the mirror.
“Or wait. Let me guess.” Gwen slapped the dashboard, as if pressing a game-show buzzer. “You weren’t checking for the guard, were you? Please, if we’re about to get pelted with mutilated pigeons, I’d appreciate a warning this time. Given that I forgot to pack my inhaler and that defibrillator stations would be totally beside the point in a place like this—not to mention vaguely insulting to the residents.”
“It’s nothing,” Isobel mumbled. “There’s nothing.”