Veined with the shadows cast by branches overhead, the road skimmed by beneath her. Her own shadow rotated this way and that, orbiting underfoot while she followed each curve.
When the lane straightened, however, her shadow, which had situated itself in front of her, grew suddenly longer with each stride.
Isobel slowed, watching her silhouette stretch then fade into a sudden darkness that, like a consuming presence, seeped in from every corner.
The nagging sensation she’d tried to brush off at the entrance returned, too intense now to dismiss. This time the foreboding brought company—that old feeling of being watched, a ghost in and of itself.
Isobel drew to a stop and tilted her head back. Gone was the white-gold sun. In its place, ragged patches of clouds blotted brightening stars from view. The darkness thickened. Night was falling—in the middle of the day.
Glancing one way and then the other, she no longer saw the pedestrians, snug in their winter wear. She didn’t hear talking or footsteps or the whirring tick of coasting bikes.
Aside from the forestlike patches of trees, though, there wasn’t anywhere any of them could have gone.
Straining her ears, she tried to detect the sound of voices, the chattering of birds. Anything at all.
She was rewarded only with the hush of the wind and the rustle of dry foliage as it scampered across her path.
Scowling at the collage of papery hand-shaped leaves, she wondered how, in the dead of winter, they had managed to retain their vibrant autumnal colors.
Whirling, she found the answer waiting at her back.
Fall trees, their boughs garbed in ember orange and flame yellow, now bordered the narrow lane. Their fiery colors drained away fast, though, siphoned off by the deepening dusk that should not have arrived for several more hours.
Isobel turned again, looking ahead.
Darkness waited on the stretch of road before her, where the canopy of limbs and leaves became an all-too-familiar tunnel.
Slap slap slap slap.
The sound of someone running up behind her, panting hard, had Isobel pivoting yet again.
A girl barreled up the road toward her, and Isobel knew her instantly—as well as she recognized the scene unfolding before her.
Fear, primal and gut-wrenching, owned the girl’s expression. Clutching tight to the straps of her backpack, she kept glancing behind her, blond hair whipping this way and that as she tried to see what was chasing her through the line of trees.
Isobel had no time to dart aside before the past version of herself rushed into her—through her.
The world flickered black, and Isobel swung in the direction of her running self, aware that somehow she’d become caught in another memory. Like when Pinfeathers had shown her what had happened to Poe. But how?
Squinting through the gloom, she no longer saw her past self on the path. That specter had vanished.
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?”
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“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. ”
“Recent history would suggest the contrary,” the Noc said.
Her eyes traced over his collar, where the top two buckles of his underlying jacket lay undone. Within, an impossible network of cracks netted his chest and throat. With the exception of the large piece plating the place where his heart would have been—its jagged edges poking just above the black fabric—the jigsaw collection contained no shard bigger than a small coin.
Aware that neither Scrimshaw nor Pinfeathers could have been responsible for their own reconstruction, Isobel found herself again wondering who had performed the task.
“What happened on the cliff wasn’t really you,” Isobel insisted. “You’re different than that. You’re both different. That’s why she wanted you. That’s why she—”
Snatching her by the wrist, Pinfeathers swung her around fast. The trees, his broken face, the sky and the road swam by in a colorless blur.
“She wants you,” he hissed.
One of his arms looped her waist, and the Noc pulled her snug against him. “But then,” he added, pressing cold lips to her ear, “don’t we all?”
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Isobel held her breath. She fought against a shudder, but unlike during her initial encounters with the Noc, she had no urge to pull away from him or to try to jerk free.
He wouldn’t harm her. She knew that. And though she wasn’t sure how she could be so certain, it didn’t change the fact that on some intrinsic level, she was.
“So she knows now,” Isobel said, more to herself than to the Noc, “that I’m alive. ”
“As well as she knows you were never dead. ”
Isobel blinked. Frowning, she clutched the arm that encircled her waist.
“Wait,” Pinfeathers said, speaking in a monotone, feigning disbelief, “don’t tell us you bought oil from that old snake again. Really, cheerleader, you have no discernment. No ability to see things the way they really are. Otherwise, you might have seen me coming. All of this. Everyone else did. ”
So Reynolds had lied to her. About Lilith thinking she was dead. But why? Even if she hadn’t fully believed him, that he was on her side, she’d wanted to. Desperately.
“What’s happening?” Isobel asked. “Tell me. ”
“But you know what’s happening. ”
She wanted to spin in his grip and face him. When she tried, though, he only squeezed her more tightly, forbidding the movement.
“Then tell me how to stop it,” she pleaded. “Tell me you know how. ”
“First, you’d have to stop us. ”
“I keep trying. But he—you won’t believe me. ”
“Oh, we want to,” he said. “We do. But then, it would destroy what’s left of us to find out we were wrong. And with the pain already too much to bear, why not just go ahead and eliminate the guesswork? And everything else along with it. ”
“It’s not going to help, is it?” she asked, her shoulders sagging. “That’s what you’re saying. I can’t prove anything to him, can I?”
“No,” he said, laughing again, “but trying sure stirred the hornet’s nest, now, didn’t it?”
She jerked her head toward him and, in her mind, something clicked with those words.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “Reynolds. She sent him to find me. She wanted me to go into the veil. She knew I would try to make him believe. They both did. She knew how Varen would react. What he would do. She knew. She—”
“Doesn’t need you anymore, FYI,” Pinfeathers whispered in her ear, the drop in his voice causing her blood to freeze. “But how to get rid of you. How? How to lure you in close? How to hurt you inside and out? And keep you from fighting back?”
He nuzzled her neck, lips trailing to her shoulder.
“You . . . ,” Isobel said, her throat constricting.
“Us. ”
And now she had her answer as to why Pinfeathers had returned. Lilith had brought him back to use as a weapon against her. Isobel had fulfilled her purpose, igniting the fuse that would send Varen on the rampage to destroy the veil and blend the two worlds. So the demon had deployed the Noc—Isobel’s lone would-be ally—as a final trap.
Hadn’t the Noc himself once confessed that he had to do whatever Lilith commanded?
“But . . . ,” Isobel murmured, her voice quavering, suddenly weak, “you wouldn’t. I know you wouldn’t. I know you. ”
“For your sake, my dear Isobel, I very much hope you do. Because we certainly no longer recognize ourselves. ”
“You’re not going to hurt me,” she said, her voice channeling a resolve she didn’t feel. “Even if you tried, you wouldn’t be able to. ”
“It’s good to know you harbor so much faith in us,” he replied. “Because it’s all too far gone now, including us—especially us. And unfortunately for you, I’m very sorry to say, aside from this”—slowly his hand trailed up her body, claws snagging the fabric of her T-shirt, grazing her skin through the thin material, stopping only when his crackled palm pressed over the hamsa—“believing in the best of us—that we have a best to believe in—is the only weapon you have left. ”
Isobel placed a hand on his. “You don’t have to do what she says. You’ve already proven that once. You protected me. You would do it again. ”
She felt his hand twitch. “What do you suppose I’m trying to do right now?” he asked, his voice trembling. He seemed just as afraid as she did.
“You can’t hurt me,” Isobel said, the conviction in her voice failing. “No matter what, you won’t be able to. ”
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“I’m going to let you go,” he said. “And then . . . I want you to run. ”
“No. ”
“Run away. Like you did before. Like you should have done from the start. ”
“I won’t,” Isobel said, tightening her grip on him. “I told you. I’m not afraid of you anymore. Either of you. ” She shut her eyes, blocking out the trees and the road and the night, hoping that would help to make her words feel true.
“Oh, don’t you worry,” Pinfeathers said, loosening his arm from her waist. “Whether that’s really the case or not, there’s still plenty left to fear. ”
Isobel spun before he could release her. She pressed her forehead to his chest.
“Don’t do this,” she breathed against him, gripping his jacket.
“Issssobel,” he hissed, drawing her name out as though to savor its sound.
Sharpened claws threaded into her hair. Her stomach clenched at the sensation, and when he leaned down, pressing his broken cheek to hers, she went rigid.
“You won’t. ” She repeated it like a mantra, as if to reassure them both.
“Again . . . ,” he said, stepping back from her, the movement causing the open collar of his jacket to shift. Enough to allow her a glimpse of an etching, chiseled onto the shard positioned over the center of his hollow torso, over his nonexistent heart.
Slowly he withdrew his hand, and in her periphery, Isobel saw blue claws—not red—unthread from her hair.
“Half right. ”
20
Twixt and Twain
Frozen in place, Isobel stood aghast as Pinfeathers continued to retreat from her, revealing more of himself the farther away he drew.
Horrible and heartrending, the truth left her wondering how she hadn’t guessed it all along.
A zigzagging crack split the Noc’s face in two. On the right half, the side that bore Pinfeathers’s trademark crater—the side that mirrored her scar—a single black eye watched her.
On the other, a hollow socket appeared to do the same.
Her gut feeling about Pinfeathers, she now knew, had been right. He wouldn’t harm her.
Of course, her gut had been right about another thing too. That she should never have entered the park. That something horrible awaited her within.
The very same something that had stalked her through its boundaries the last time.
Isobel’s hands sprang to her lips. “What—what did she do to you?”
“Ah well,” Pinfeathers said, shrugging. “Apparently, it was either this or scrapbooking. You know what they say. Everyone needs a hobby. You should take up jogging. Now would be optimal timing, I think. ” He tugged at his collar with one claw, as if loosening a necktie. “I’m starting to feel a little crowded . . . if you catch my drift. ”
Though the two Nocs apparently occupied a single shell, it was becoming more and more evident with every passing second that only one Noc could hold dominion over the shared body at any given time. What had Pinfeathers said when she’d heard his voice in the purple chamber? We’re here, and that means he’s gone.
The struggle—it must be constant. But . . .
“You can fight him,” Isobel said, inferring through his words and by the way he flinched, his head jerking suddenly to one side, that Scrimshaw was attempting to surface. To push through and take over. “Like . . . like you did in the garden,” Isobel added more weakly, and now she sounded desperate even to her own ears.
Wrapping his arms a
round himself, Pinfeathers lowered his head. Claws digging into his biceps, he quivered with restrained energy.
“Yes, the garden,” Pinfeathers said. “While that little scrap was so easily won—no contest, really—we’ll have to tag-team it this time, I think. Me plus he against me and you. Two against two. What do you say, cheerleader? That way the odds are more even. Can’t beat that now, can we? Ha. Well, I guess we’ll soon see. ”
Without her telling them to, her feet began to take her in reverse.
“Don’t let him through,” Isobel urged. “You’re strong enough. You are. Please. You—you’re all I have. ”
“Touching. ” Wincing, he held up a palm. “Really. Romantic even. But save it. I think we both know that’s not how you would have it. Otherwise, you might have stayed in the dream. The one I made for you. For us. ”
She knew he was referring to the last time the dreamworld and reality had come this close. On Halloween night. Almost as soon as Isobel had crossed from the warehouse of the Grim Facade into the masquerade ball of Poe’s story, she had encountered Pinfeathers. After throwing her into a mad waltz amid the masked revelers, guiding her through steps she shouldn’t have known how to execute, he’d swept them both into an alternate version of reality. Appearing to her there as Varen—blond, like in the childhood picture Isobel had glimpsed in Varen’s house, normal-looking right down to his blue button-up shirt and jeans—Pinfeathers had entrapped her, lulling her senses with the promise of an ideal existence.
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At first Isobel’s mind had accepted the lie as easily as it would have the beginnings of any pleasant dream.
But then, there’d been something off about the other people populating the classroom setting. Most of all, everything had been off about Varen.
One at a time, the inconsistencies and contradictions had pushed her further and further toward the truth, until she’d had no choice but to blast through the deception. And there, on the other side of the Noc’s carefully constructed mirage, Pinfeathers had been waiting for her in Varen’s chair. Angry. Disappointed. And, Isobel recalled, hurt.
“Think about it,” Pinfeathers said. “We’d still be there if you hadn’t spoiled it all. If you hadn’t insisted on waking up. There, in that world where your parents loved me. Where your friends accepted us. We could have graduated and gone to college together. Anywhere you wanted to go. Everywhere you wanted to go. Everything would have been the best. I would have been the best. The version of us that you keep hoping exists. Everything you’d ever want and more. Anything you’d want. And it might have all worked out, Isobel. It might have all been okay, if only I was what you wanted. But . . . we both know I’m not. ”