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“What is it?” she asked, feeling oddly on guard.
“It’s got a few stipulations that go along with it,” her dad said. Standing, he walked over to the tree, bent down, and pulled a dark green folder from beneath the tree skirt. Stepping around Danny, he made his way to where Isobel sat on the couch. He had an odd, pinched look on his face as he held the folder out to her, like an FBI agent handing over some sort of top secret document.
“You can thank your brother. He talked me into it early this morning after you . . . ” He paused. “Well, after your mother went back to bed. She . . . uh . . . doesn’t know yet, by the way. Your mother. So . . . you’re going to have to help me with that, too. ”
Isobel took the folder in both hands. As she flipped it open, her father sank onto the couch beside her. Because of her pile of presents, though, he had to perch on the very edge of the cushion.
Isobel stared at the sheet of crisp white printer paper tucked into one side of the folder.
An image of a blue jet soared across the header. Below, she saw her father’s first and last name paired with her own in blocky bold black letters.
It took a full five seconds for it to sink in that what she held was a flight itinerary.
Her jaw slackened as she read the words “Baltimore-Washington International Airport. ”
Isobel rocketed to her feet. “This . . . ,” she said, breathless, “this is . . . is this . . . ?”
Quickly, she scanned for dates. Their departure was listed for five forty-five a. m. on Sunday, January 18. That meant they’d be in Baltimore later the same morning. He’d scheduled the trip for Martin Luther King weekend, just like she’d asked.
Isobel knew that the Poe Toaster visited the graveyard after midnight on the eighteenth, during the early morning hours of the nineteenth. The thought that she would actually be there, that facing Reynolds had now become a near certainty, made her start to quiver all over.
She turned to face her father. “Is this for real?” she asked him. “Are you really taking me?”
Her father rose. Pressing a finger to his lips, he gave a furtive glance toward the dining room. “Don’t get too excited yet,” he said, lowering his voice. “I still have to make the appointment with the university. I doubt they’ll be open that Monday because of the holiday. That’s why we’re staying an extra day. So that means you need to—”
Isobel let go of the folder. She catapulted herself at her father, swinging her arms around his neck and pulling him down into a tight embrace. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you. ” Over and over she repeated it. “Thank you, Dad. Thank you. You don’t know what this means. ”
And the truth was that he didn’t. He didn’t know what it meant at all.
But when it got down to it, Isobel supposed, neither did she. Not really.
Only that she’d somehow managed to establish that first step back into a world of terror, confusion, and chaos.
All the same, it was one that took her closer to finding Varen. And for the moment, that was enough to make her happy.
Tears burned at the edges of her eyes again. She pressed her face against her father’s sleeve and breathed in. He smelled so wonderful to her. Like Old Spice aftershave, fireplace cinders, and dark coffee, a smell tied to a million different memories.
Pulling herself free, Isobel turned on Danny, who remained oblivious to the moment. She stepped toward him, her bare feet crunching over wrapping paper, and dropped to kneel on the floor next to him.
“Don’t. Even. Think about—”
Isobel wrapped her arms around him, causing his DS to tumble out of his hands and onto the floor with a thump.
“Watch out!” he shouted. He yanked off his headphones. “Why are you touching me?”
He tried shoving her off, but Isobel remained attached long enough to plant a kiss on the side of his head.
“Sick!” he yelled, and pushed her away. “Get off!”
Unable to keep herself from laughing, Isobel rolled backward onto the discarded shreds of wrapping paper while Danny scrambled for his DS.
“Augh!” he growled. “That was a freaking boss level! Now I’ve got to do the whole board over again. ”
“Isobel?”
All three of them looked up at once.
Their mom stood in the doorway, a bag of mini-marshmallows clasped in her hands. She wore a startled look on her face.
“What’s . . . going on in here?” she asked, aiming the question at Isobel’s father. “What’s so funny?”
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“Dad got Isobel and him plane tickets to go see that stupid school in Maryland,” Danny blurted.
Their dad shot him a glare, but Danny only spread his arms. “What?” he snapped. “She shouldn’t have messed with my game. ” With that, he gathered his DS and headphones, trudged through the living room archway, and pounded up the stairs.
Her mother’s gaze settled on her father. The livid, half-freaked look in her eye caused Isobel’s momentary elation to deflate.
“Mom,” she said, standing, serious again. “Don’t be mad. ”
Ignoring Isobel, her mother walked to where the green folder lay and plucked it from the floor. She dropped the bag of marshmallows onto the couch, flipped the folder open, and scowled down at the itinerary, her expression growing harder with each passing second.
“It’s not like I wasn’t going to tell you,” Isobel’s dad said.
Her mom closed the folder, her chin lifting in that way that said no excuses permitted beyond this point. “I thought you and I talked about this just last night. ”
“Please don’t fight,” Isobel said. She stepped between them, taking on the full heat of her mother’s glare. “Not because of me. Not today. ”
“We’re not fighting,” her mom said. “We’re talking. Right now, in fact. Sam, can I see you in the kitchen?” She didn’t wait for an answer but turned and strode back through the dining room. Isobel watched her slip into the kitchen and stop next to the counter, where she slammed the folder down. She didn’t look back at either of them. Instead she glowered at the cabinets, hands on her hips, her jaw set.
Isobel’s dad sighed. He rubbed a hand down his face, scratching at the stubble on his chin. Then he stuffed his fists into the pockets of his robe. Giving Isobel a weak smile, he said, “Go on upstairs for a while. Let me see if I can work it out, okay?”
What if she says no? Isobel mouthed the words, too afraid her mom would hear otherwise.
“Why do you think I went ahead and ordered the tickets this morning?” he whispered, giving her a wink. “Better to beg forgiveness, right?”
He edged toward the dining room but didn’t go in yet. He turned toward Isobel halfway, waiting for her to move. She took her cue and pivoted.
She made her way toward the stairs and started up them but stopped midway. Glancing back, she watched her father disappear through the archway.
Wasting no time, Isobel hurried down from the stairs and slipped into the living room once more, doing her best to stay out of sight as she crept up to stand just outside the doorway. Pressing her back to the wall, she turned her head to listen.
“—not comfortable with her leaving home. Not with the way she’s been acting,” she heard her mom say. “I thought you and I agreed on that. ”
“We do. I mean, we did. But Jeannine, you saw her this morning. Whatever this is, it’s getting worse. Maybe she needs this. Maybe she needs to get away for a day or two. Maybe that’s all she’s been asking for. ”
“How can that be it when she just came back from Nationals?”
“That wasn’t getting away,” he said. “That was competing. And I’m starting to think that that was exactly what she didn’t need. ”
“Are you saying you don’t think she wants to cheer anymore?” her mom asked.
“What I’m saying is that I think she needs a
break. A real break. ”
“I don’t like it, Sam,” she said. “What if this isn’t about looking at a school or a squad like she says it is?”
“So what if it’s not?”
Isobel’s eyes widened with shock. Was this her father speaking? Her father the sports guru and drill sergeant? Her father the warden?
“So what?” her mom hissed. “Sam, what if this has something to do with that boy? Did you stop to think about that? You saw her wearing his jacket this morning. I didn’t even know she had that thing. ”
At these words, Isobel paled. Her thoughts freewheeled back to the night before, to the sight of the jacket hanging on her closet door.
If her mother hadn’t known it was there, then how had it found its way out of hiding?
The shadow, Isobel thought, her memory latching onto that puddle of darkness that had appeared on the floor outside the bathroom door.
Pinfeathers. The nightmare . . . it had been real. She’d been awake.
It was the only explanation.
A numbing dread prickled in her gut.
If that were true, then that meant Pinfeathers could be somewhere nearby. He might even be watching her right now.
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Isobel looked out the living room windows. She searched the snow-laden trees for crows, wondering how it could be possible when she had severed the link.
Nothing from the dream realm was supposed to be able to enter reality. In burning Varen’s journal, she herself had ensured that. The very fact that Varen remained imprisoned there proved that.
Yet hadn’t Reynolds, with his yearly visit to Poe’s grave, already shown that there were other ways to pass between worlds? If he had lied about Varen, what would have stopped him from lying about other things too?
“Did you ever think maybe that’s what she needs to get away from?” Isobel heard her dad say. “Clearly that kid had issues, Jeannine. And the fact remains that neither of us knows what happened between the two of them, let alone what happened that night. The only thing we do know is that our daughter hasn’t been the same since. ”
“What if she’s trying to find him?” her mom asked, the anger in her voice giving way to quiet panic.
Isobel drew a quick breath and held it.
“Why would she come to us?” her dad asked. “It’s clear she doesn’t trust us right now. And why should she, when she’s been asking us for help and we’ve just been pushing that aside, hoping things will eventually smooth over on their own? Maybe if we listen to her, maybe if we let her do something that will take her mind off everything, she’ll actually start opening up. You saw her just now, didn’t you? When was the last time you heard her laugh? And when was the last time you saw her smile like that? I mean, really smile. ”
For a long moment, Isobel heard only the hum of the refrigerator.
“You could have at least told me before you told her,” her mom snapped, her anger renewed. “Why would you leave me out of something like this?”
“Because I knew that if I told you first, then I would’ve had to wait to tell her. And after whatever that was she went through this morning, I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to do something. ”
A quiet knock at the front door caused Isobel’s head to jerk up.
“I hate feeling helpless like this,” her dad continued. “I don’t have a better idea, and honestly, I don’t think you do either. It’s Christmas, Jeannine. All I wanted this year was to see my little girl happy again. ”
“You don’t think I’ve wanted the same thing?”
Her parents continued to argue, their voices rising over each other’s.
They had not heard the knock.
It came again, louder this time.
Isobel pushed away from the wall. Doing her best to move quietly, she crept around the couch and made her way into the foyer, where she moved close to the door.
Peering through the peephole, she found the porch outside empty.
Fear tugged at her gut when she noticed the set of fresh footprints in the snow, which led all the way up the curved sidewalk and concrete steps.
Isobel stepped back from the door. Spotting the brass umbrella stand, she grabbed the handle of her father’s large blue-and-white golf umbrella. She pulled it forth slowly, as though drawing a sword from its sheath.
Fastening her free hand to the doorknob, she pressed her ear to the smooth, cool surface to listen.
At first she heard only the faint hiss of the wind. Then the knock came a third time, loud enough to send a painful buzz reverberating through her skull.
Isobel reared back. She flung open the door, then pushed through the storm door and out onto the porch. She held the umbrella in both hands, like a baseball bat, ready to swing.
Outside, the winter air clung to the bare skin of her legs while a few stray flakes drifted from an otherwise tranquil sky.
Layers of white capped the flat tops of evergreen shrubs, which glistened like frosted cupcakes. Across the street, a pair of fluffy-tailed squirrels skittered and chased each other around the trunk of Mrs. Finley’s oak.
The sunlight bouncing off the snow seared Isobel’s eyes.
She squinted through the glare, scanning the quiet scene of her neighborhood.
Until she heard the storm door creak open behind her.
Isobel froze. Turning her head, she caught sight of a dark blur as it slid away from the brick siding and darted inside her house.
8
Gifted
Heart hammering, Isobel spun. She threw open the storm door and charged back inside, rushing the black-clad figure.
Arms raised, the intruder stumbled backward, sprawling on the stairs with a heavy clump.
Isobel lifted the umbrella high over her head, preparing to bring it down like a sledgehammer.
“Don’t shoot!”
Page 27
Isobel stopped short of striking, halted by the familiar voice as well as the wide brown eyes that now peered up at her from behind glinting oval lenses.
Stunned, Isobel lowered the umbrella.
“Yeesh,” Gwen said, a nervous tremor in her voice. “You expecting out-of-town relatives or something?”
Isobel took a step back, unsure of what to say or think.
Or how to feel . . .
Gwen sat up, lowering her arms slowly as though she feared Isobel might change her mind and clock her anyway.
Isobel saw that Gwen wore the scarf she had given her last night. She also had on the owl gloves. Slung over one shoulder, the strap of a heavy-looking messenger bag blended in with Gwen’s charcoal knee-length woolen coat.
Inside the bag, Isobel glimpsed the green binding of a thick hardback book. Her eyes caught the last word of the gold-embossed title. Mysticism?
Quickly Gwen fumbled to cover the book. She looked up, and their gazes met once more.
Despite what had happened between them the previous night, there was an undeniable current of secret joy that surged within Isobel at Gwen’s return.
But there was another part of her, a stronger part, that held her back and kept her from betraying any emotion. It brought with it a wave of cold detachment that sent a slow freeze over the initial impulse to start spilling out everything that had transpired since Gwen’s all-too-sudden departure the night before.
“What are you doing here?” Isobel snapped.
Gwen sobered. Her eyes shifted to the wall. “I came to talk. ”
“Yeah?” Isobel said. “I thought you couldn’t talk to me. Ever again. ”
This time, Isobel didn’t hold out for a response. Instead she deposited the umbrella back into the brass stand with a harsh clang. Folding her arms, she faced Gwen again, watching her as she grabbed ahold of the banister and drew herself to a standing position. Her thin frame wobbled under the weight of the messenger bag as she opened her mouth to speak, but Isobel cut
her off.
“So remember that time you told me I was a terrible friend?” she asked.
Gwen’s jaw clamped shut. A look of wilted misery flittered across her features. At first the reaction gave Isobel the jolt of satisfaction she’d been looking for. A moment later, though, she wished she hadn’t said it.
“Look,” Gwen mumbled, “I’m gonna say I’m sorry, but I’m not there yet, okay?”
Digging a gloved hand into one coat pocket, she drew out a small mahogany box.
“First things first,” she said, and thrust the box toward Isobel. “I’m supposed to give this to you, so take it already. Merry Christmas or whatever. Just open it. After that, if you still want me to go away, then fine, I will. ”
Isobel frowned at the small, flat, postcard-size box, uncertain whether she should accept it. Did Gwen seriously think she needed to bring Isobel a gift in order for her to accept her apology?
Gwen continued to hold the box steady.
At last Isobel’s curiosity outmuscled her indecision. She took it.
Gwen retracted her arm immediately and shoved her hand back into her pocket.
That reaction made Isobel pause.
“What?” Gwen said. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not a freaking tarantula. Would you just open it already?”
Isobel clasped the box between both hands and carefully opened the hinged lid. Inside, the thin chain of a silver necklace glimmered. A tiny charm in the shape of an open hand rested in the middle of a black velvet cushion, its fingers decorated with delicate filigree. In the center of the palm, a tiny iridescent opal lay nestled in the dish of a circular setting.
The necklace sparkled like moonlight on water.
Isobel let out a small sound of surprise. The pendant was so beautiful and so intricate that she had no doubt the stone it held was genuine.
It struck her as an extravagant token. At the same time, the well-worn state of the box gave her the impression that the charm was old—an antique, if she had to guess.
Though the pendant had five fingers, it looked different from any representation of a hand she’d seen. It had two thumbs, the tips of which curved outward on either side. It hung from the chain so the fingers would aim downward, toward the wearer’s feet.
Gwen sniffed. She rubbed at her nose with her sleeve.
“It’s called a hamsa,” she said. “Belonged to my grandmother. ”