But as she forced herself to look into the face of the skull, a new thought hit her, ignited by the changing inscription on the tomb. Lilith had once admitted to having many names.
“Bess,” Isobel hissed between haggard breaths, remembering the name the demon had hidden behind when seeking Varen—when dipping into his dreams and luring him deeper and deeper into this world. Her world. “That’s short for Elizabeth, isn’t it?”
Lilith appeared on Isobel’s other side, where she offered a grin—and a glimpse of razor teeth.
“‘I don’t know what to write,’ scribbled the boy, his thoughts winding around and around, always circling back to the cheerleader who had stolen his heart and replaced the lure of his darkest dreams. ” As Lilith spoke, her voice dropped, phasing from a woman’s to that of a beast’s. “‘I can’t think. I can’t think. Isobel. Isobel. Isobel. . . . ’”
Isobel winced at hearing the final desperate lines Varen had scrawled into his sketchbook.
He had written those words in place of an ending to the story he’d been crafting at Lilith’s bidding—the story meant to bridge the worlds, to allow Lilith into their reality.
Except now it was Varen himself who had taken on that role. And by choice, no less—even if he didn’t see it that way. Even if he didn’t fully realize what it was he was doing.
What—Isobel was beginning to dread—might have been done already . . .
In targeting Varen, Isobel realized with a gut-wrenching pang of failure, Lilith had indeed found the perfect tool to work through. A gifted yet bent spirit. A cracked soul ready to break and spill forth the poison it had absorbed, the darkness it had learned to survive on for so long.
But, in following Reynolds’s orders to enter the veil, in taking the bait that had led her to incite Varen to destruction, hadn’t she allowed the demon to use her own pain and longing against her, too?
So, Isobel supposed, both she and Varen had been guilty of walking into the demon’s well-laid snares. But maybe, she thought, just maybe, the two of them had inadvertently laid one of their own. . . .
“That story,” Isobel said, turning her head to stare into Lilith’s hungry eyes. “It isn’t over. Elizabeth never got her ending, did she? Her fate was never decided. ”
“And you think you would like to finish it?” Lilith asked with a laugh, stepping in close. “Brave. Smart, too. But you can’t. ” The demon’s smile grew into a wide grin, one of triumph and bloodlust. “You burned that book, silly. Or don’t you remember?”
“Burned or not,” came a voice from behind the demon, “I’m still here. ”
Sliding out from between a pair of statues, Varen stepped into view.
“That means the story still exists,” he said, his black glare driving into Lilith. “And this isn’t how it ends. ”
46
In a Mad Rushing Descent as of the Soul into Hades
“There you are,” Lilith said, her attention shifting from Isobel to Varen. “I was curious how far you would allow things to progress. How long it would take you to scrape together the remnants of a piteous courage that, until now, had yet to show itself. ”
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“Varen,” Isobel called, straining in the skeleton’s grip to twist toward him. “Listen to me. The link, it can be broken. It is already. Our bond—it’s stronger. Do you hear me? The ribbon. Look. ” Isobel swiveled her wrist, waving the sash. “It’s here in my hand. Please. All you have to do is take it. ”
“Tell me,” Lilith said as she strode toward Varen, her long white train dragging after her. “How do you like my new sculpture? My own version of Death and the Maiden. I made it for you, you know. Thought it would appeal to your tastes. Those grim sensibilities that first drew you to me. ”
Varen neither blinked nor flinched as the demon approached him. And despite Isobel’s instructions, her pleas, he didn’t look her way, either.
“You’re speechless, I see,” Lilith went on, “but I assume you must approve, since you’ve yet to make a single alteration. ”
Isobel frowned, eyes falling to the skeletal hand that wrapped around her wrist, and that no thought of her own could loosen.
Was Lilith just goading them again, or could it be true that Varen was allowing this?
If he held the power to set Isobel free with a thought, why wasn’t he using it?
For that matter, if he was capable of setting them both free with one simple action, as Reynolds had told her, then what was stopping him?
“Varen?” she called to him again, but when he once more failed to meet her gaze, she had no choice but to consider what Lilith had said. How she knew he’d been there the whole time.
Suddenly Isobel wondered if Varen had given her the slip on purpose. Could he have been using her as bait? As a means to lure Lilith into this confrontation?
With new wounds so fresh and deep, and a spirit consumed once more by hatred, would he now trade everything—including her—for a chance to exact revenge?
Though Isobel didn’t want to believe the doubts casting thick shadows over her sinking heart, the fact that Varen had yet to acknowledge her in any way only served to stoke the embers of her growing uncertainty.
“Varen, please,” Isobel pleaded. “Just . . . come take the ribbon and it’ll be over. She won’t be able to touch us ever again. ”
“Hear how she entreats you,” cooed Lilith as she wound her way around Varen to stand at his back. “How gratifying that must be. ”
The skeleton statue moved again, and twirling Isobel to face the open grave, it wrenched her arm in its socket. She cried out in pain, her knees buckling. But the statue’s sinewy stone arm caught her before she could tip forward into the grave. Pulling her snug once more, the Red Death refroze, holding Isobel’s ribbon hand aloft as though they had simply entered a new step in their waltz.
“Come now,” Lilith said, speaking into Varen’s ear, eyeing Isobel over his shoulder, “she simply must know what this means to you before I send her off to bed. Think back to how much you craved the merest of glances from her in the beginning, how badly you longed for one touch, let alone an outright petition for your love. And you hid it so well from her. From everyone but me, that is. You do remember why, don’t you?”
As Lilith spoke, Isobel could see the rigidness in Varen’s shoulders increase, the dullness in his eyes deepen.
“Would that she could see all those dreams of her you could not help,” Lilith continued. “But then again, in a way I suppose she already has, hasn’t she? I dare say Pinfeathers saw to that. Funny, though, how that creature—your own dreams run rampant—so quickly became her nightmare. ”
“He scared me, Varen, yes, but I loved him too, okay?” Isobel called to him. “She’ll trick you again if you let her. She’ll trick us both into doing what she wants. Don’t you see that she must have known the whole time about Bruce?”
“Don’t you see that she must have known the whole time about Bruce?” repeated the demon, her onyx eyes flicking to Isobel as she spoke into Varen’s ear.
Isobel shook her head. “I would have told you,” she said. “I wanted to. But I had to get you home first. I had to get you out of here. Varen, please!”
“Well, go on,” Lilith said, waving a delicate hand toward Isobel. “You have my blessing. Collect your token. Declare your fidelity to another. Send me away, if that’s what you want. Be warned, though, that should you accept her terms, unlike mine, they last only as long as her love for you. And when that expires, as it inevitably will, I will return for you. Lay waste to whatever remains of your craven soul. ”
Varen shifted from foot to foot, his gaze at last trailing to Isobel.
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“Then again,” whispered Lilith, “you could take your stand against me now. Vanquish me however you choose. Finish my story, send me to hell if you wish. ”
“You belong there,” Varen said.
“So
say it,” Lilith hissed. “You must already know how it ends. ” Looping an arm around him, the demon pressed a palm over his heart and grasped a fistful of his shirt. “In here. ”
Seconds passed and nothing happened. Varen seemed to deliberate, his eyes on Isobel. But Isobel had already decided she would not beg him again. It had become clear that Varen would now believe—and do—whatever he wanted.
Finally he slipped free of Lilith’s grasp, his steps carrying him toward Isobel. He stopped at the foot of the open grave, the toes of his boots poking over the edge.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m not who you think I am. ”
Isobel gaped at him, the hand that held the ribbon slackening with her shock.
“But don’t feel bad,” he added, his expression cold. “No matter what, you could never have stopped this. ”
With that, he turned to face Lilith again. He raised an arm and extended his hand toward the demon, palm open.
A surge of winds swept out from behind Isobel, flying in from nowhere to course through the courtyard.
The gales rushed strong past Varen, causing his hair and coat to flutter. As they surged between the statues, the currents of air rose in a chorus of whistles. They clashed with Lilith and lifted her veils and hair into a frenzy.
All around, the shrouds of the other statues began to unravel, peeling away as they turned to fabric. Curling under and over, fluttering like white flags, the loosed veils then vaporized, dissipating into smoke.
Beneath Isobel, the stone floor began to erode into pressed dirt mottled with dead grass.
She watched Varen shut his fist and curl his arm in. Suddenly the howling bluster switched courses. Lilith’s veils redirected themselves, flowing now toward Varen instead of away.
The shift in the harsh air current scrambled Isobel’s hair, blocking her view.
Then the statue’s hold on her faltered. Slipping free of its grip, she fell—not into the awaiting pit, but onto a hard patch of frozen turf.
Isobel’s ribbon flew out of her hand, up and up. Craning her neck skyward, she watched the once-pink sash sail toward the ceiling of gray that, with a crack of thunder, tore suddenly open.
Through the atmosphere’s ripped seam burned a host of faraway stars.
Her ribbon danced toward the rift and then beyond it, disappearing behind the clouds.
Isobel’s breath left her in a rush as she looked to Lilith, whose shroud had begun to funnel and twist, cocooning the demon’s form as it bound her arms together.
The glowing veils merged and lengthened and, like wool being spun into thread, wound into a single strand.
The long, oscillating tendril slithered through the air, inching its way closer to Varen, whose focus was zeroed in on the thread as if pulling it toward him with his eyes.
A silver cord, Isobel realized the moment the luminous string connected with Varen’s chest, its glow intensifying as it shot straight into him.
Throwing her head back, Lilith began to laugh once more.
“Foolish boy!” she bellowed as Varen drew her nearer and nearer. “Have you forgotten that you and I are already one? Destined for the same inexorable fate?”
Isobel clutched the grass beneath her, staring on in horror and grim fascination as Varen took the demon’s awful face in his hands and drew her to him.
“No,” she heard him say as he leaned down slowly, closing the distance between them. “But I think you have. ”
He kissed Lilith through her veil then, and as he did, the winds ceased their raging.
Isobel felt a coldness steal over her even as she watched Lilith fold in on herself, her brilliance dying as the last of her light and essence caved into Varen, leaving his hands empty.
Silence screamed.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, staggering in place, Varen lifted a trembling hand to his chest.
He glanced back toward Isobel as a long streak of thick black liquid spilled over his bottom lip.
“Oh,” Isobel uttered, climbing quickly to her feet.
She stopped, though, when she realized that Varen wasn’t looking at her.
A sharp scrape of metal sent a warning chill up Isobel’s spine. Turning her head fast, she saw Reynolds duck out from behind Lilith’s disintegrating tomb, the walls of which had begun to collapse into ash.
Reynolds held a single blade at the ready, those black coined-size holes fixed on Varen.
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As I am, so now are you.
Lilith’s words from the hall of mirrors clanged through Isobel’s head, and suddenly she knew Reynolds’s and Varen’s ultimate intent—the plan the two of them had apparently made without her.
To end the demon by ending Varen.
Isobel gave herself no time to think. No time to process what was happening as her surroundings began to peel away faster and faster, allowing patches of another world to show through. Her world, she realized, as flashes of blue and red light sparked in her periphery.
Sirens wailed, warped and distant—but getting closer.
Reynolds moved toward her with a purposeful, even stride.
“No,” she said as she ran to meet him. To stop him.
Somewhere behind her, tires screeched and car doors slammed. Men shouted, their voices muffled and indiscernible.
“Please!” she gasped as she crashed into Reynolds, hands latching onto his arm and pushing it down. “There has to be another way. ”
To her surprise, Reynolds lowered the sword at her behest.
“I am sorry, my sweet friend,” he said, his gaze shifting to meet hers.
Isobel stopped, arrested by the deadness in Reynolds’s eyes, how it now seemed more absolute than ever before.
Why, if he had decided against making his attack, would he still apologize?
“You! Drop your weapon!” a man shouted, his voice now clear and sharp in Isobel’s ears.
“Varen, you do what he says!” screamed another, and this time, the voice was one Isobel knew.
But . . . what was Mr. Nethers doing here? How had Varen’s father found them? And why was he yelling for Varen to—?
Isobel’s eyes grew wide as she realized, with a sudden gut punch of horror, that Reynolds hadn’t intended to harm anyone.
He’d only been distracting her.
Whirling, she saw Varen turn to face the dark street now lined with police vehicles, leaving her, again, with only the view of that horrible, white, spread-winged raven.
In one hand, Varen held a black object. Lifting an arm, he aimed it toward the spinning lights and the silhouettes who, huddled behind their car doors, raised their own in response.
Isobel broke forward, terror shredding her insides.
Reynolds caught her, though. Pulling her back, he wrapped her tightly in his strong arms.
But his hold on Isobel lasted for only a second.
Because, when the sharp bang of a gun rang clear and loud through the street, Reynolds’s arms—like Lilith’s tomb, Varen’s palace, and the rest of the wreckage left in the wake of the departing dreamworld—transformed into dust.
Varen’s imagined handgun followed suit, his black coat as well. Both dreamworld remnants crumbled to ash.
Then Isobel’s ribbon fell from the sky, tumbling to the dirt only half an instant ahead of Varen.
47
Nepenthe
The grave still looked fresh a week and a half after the funeral.
Hands clasped in front of her, Isobel’s eyes traced the welt of earth. Over the next few months, the mound would sink and heal over with grass, blending in with the surrounding turf until the only evidence left that anything lay beneath would be the smooth black granite marker.
The stone shouldn’t have looked so new, she thought, with its clean-cut edges and glossy surface, its numbers and letters cut so rigidly deep.
Actually, everything about the monument struck her as too utilitarian, too unfeeling for the grave’s tenant. Except for the epitaph, which appeared below the standard information of name and dates, its lines written in looping, scrolling cursive.
SOUL OF STORMS AND FRIEND OF FEW,
O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN,
FOREVER SHALL I MISS YOU.
Though touching and beautiful in their own right, the words—which she had not allowed herself to read until now—affected her less than the knowledge of who had penned them.
Isobel drew in a long breath and released it with a shuddering sigh. But that couldn’t stop the heat that rushed to her cheeks, the tears that stung her eyes and fell despite her efforts to hold them in.
Before leaving the house to come here, she’d promised herself she would not cry. But she hadn’t accounted for how real everything would feel after seeing the stone. So real that for the first time since all this began, she didn’t have to fight the impulse to check a watch or clock to see if it really was.
The crisscrossed flowers piled atop the hill of brown earth helped attest to the grave’s authenticity too, the carnations and roses drooping their heads as if sharing in the sorrow.
When fresh, the flowers had been colored cream and yellow, pristine and bright. Isobel found it both ironic and fitting that their petals now resembled aged parchment. And while February’s dying breaths had apparently held enough chill to preserve the half-wilted flowers for this long, they hadn’t been able to prevent the heavy odor that overcame all blooms at the onset of rot.
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Of course, the scent was one Isobel knew well, and so it was possible, she mused, that she was simply more attuned to it.
Now, the moldering smell carried her mind backward through time, transporting her to the moments she’d spent locked in the arms of a friend she both loved and hated. Moments that had proved to be Reynolds’s last.
Had he planned it that way?
Oh, who knew. . . .
Wherever Reynolds was, though—and she had to believe he was somewhere—Isobel knew he would be glad about being there. Freed, along with the other Lost Souls. For dying, she knew—dying for good—had been part of the plan.
His and Varen’s.
Maybe she would see Reynolds again one day. Then again, maybe not, she thought, squinting when a spark of sunlight lit the gravestone’s polished surface, causing the name chiseled there to blend out of sight.