Nevermore

Because it is you she is after.”

She blinked as he turned, his great cloak swirling after him.

Isobel lowered the brush. She?

Her eyes remained trained on him as he drifted toward her nightstand, dipping a long-fingered hand into the folds of his cloak. As the fabric moved aside, Isobel thought she caught sight of the decorative hilt of an old- fashioned blade. The folds of dark, heavy fabric fell again, though, and she saw that he now held a book—one she knew, with its gold-leafed pages and thick black binding.

“Hey!” Stepping away from the wall, she dropped the brush. A thrill of something drummed up from inside her—a mix of relief and confusion. And fear. “I thought I . . .”

He set the book gently on the nightstand and passed a gloved hand over the gold-embossed title, his fingertips lingering over the words— The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe.

“I believe that this book has been given to you for a reason,” he said, turning his coal eyes once more onto hers. “I would not be so careless with it again.”

Isobel stared down at the book in disbelief. The very one she’d tossed into the school trash earlier that day. She could see the beige tonguelike ribbon sticking out of the bottom, and the gentle crease etched along its spine. And yet somehow it was here, safe.

“Mark these words,” he said, “The only way for you to gain power over what happens to you in the dreamworld is if you are able to realize that you are dreaming. If you cannot do this, you are beyond my help.”

Isobel shook her head, trying to fight her mounting confusion. The more this guy talked, the more he sounded like a fortune cookie. “What do I have to do with any of this? Who’s after me?”

“That name is best left unsaid. Words, Isobel, have always held the dangerous power to conjure things into being. Remember that.”

“Speaking of names, how do you know mine? And why is this ‘she’—whoever it is—why is she after me?”

“Because,” he said, choosing to answer only her second question, “he dreams of you. . . .”

“Who?”

“Come.” With a sweep of his cloak, he turned to her bedroom window, one spidery hand drawing back the white lace.

Isobel drew nearer to the black square of her open window. A cool breeze filtered through, stirring the curtains.

She felt the brush of her hair against her cheek.

How could a dream feel so real?

When she reached the window, she glanced first at Reynolds. Standing this close to him, she could see his eyes above the white scarf—really see them. They were void of pupils. Black, coin-size holes bored into her before turning away and gazing out the window into the space beyond.

Isobel followed his gaze.

As she looked, the darkness cleared. A scratchy gray image, fuzzy around the edges and frayed through the middle, like an old-time movie, came into view. In the distance, she could see the outline of a dark forest. A dim violet light radiated through the arrangement of thin black trees. And there, standing just outside the forest boundaries, Isobel recognized the angular shoulders of a familiar form. A tall, slim figure clad in a dark green jacket.

“Varen . . . ?”

16 Ultima Thule

Isobel blinked up at the ceiling. An unfamiliar tingle prickled along her limbs, like the faint buzz of static electricity. Some-how she’d skipped right over her normal waking-up routine of rolling around and punching her pillows and had just opened her eyes.

She’d been dreaming about something. Something important.

Him. She’d seen him.

Oh no, him.

She groaned, a dull ache creeping up from her spine to settle in her chest. Ugh. She didn’t even want to think of his name. She rolled over, squeezing her eyes shut, stuffing her face into her pillow. She wasn’t ready to remember what had happened, to recall the nightmare that had been the day before.

The faint pins-and-needles sensation, still there, buzzed through her like a soft vibration, though the closer she drifted to full consciousness, the faster it seemed to fade.

Isobel’s gaze slipped dazedly to her window, where she watched the half-naked tree limbs quiver and sway, waving in and out of her view, like clawed hands snatching at the sun.

The sun.

“Oh, crap!” she croaked.

Isobel sat up and pulled her alarm clock from the top of her headboard.

“Eleven thirty-five, oh my God!”

She’d slept through the rest of yesterday and into the next morning. She hadn’t set her alarm! She was supposed to be in Mr. Swanson’s class right this very second! Why hadn’t anyone woken her up? Why hadn’t . . . ?

Isobel stared at the clock, clutching it between her hands. Her eyes went slowly unfocused as the memory of last night’s dream struggled to resurface. Why did remembering feel so crucial? The blue numbers of her clock blurred against their black backdrop, burning into her eyes. She thought about the way they had gone haywire when—

“Reynolds,” she whispered.

She dropped the clock. It cracked against the wood of her bed frame, then thudded onto the carpet. Like a jolt of electricity to her brain, the image of her floating things seized her. She sat frozen, clutching the comforter beneath her. Her eyes scanned her room.

She saw her hairbrush, not on the floor but on her dresser, and behind it, her “Number One Flyer” trophy.

“Mom?” Her voice grated in her throat.

She swallowed against the pain and pulled herself out of bed, then padded to her door and opened it.

Isobel went very still, her hand tightening on her door handle. She stared down the length of the empty, silent hall, afraid to turn around. The book. Would it be there if she looked?

Slowly, her grip easing, she turned, her eyes trailing to her nightstand. She saw her dusty photo album of last year’s cheer events. Next to it sat her lamp, the shade trimmed in a skirt of pink and white beaded fringe, and a couple of hair ties.

No book. No Poe.

Realizing she’d been holding her breath, Isobel exhaled in one long rush that turned into a laugh at the tail end.

She stepped out into the hallway and down the stairs, past the collage of family photos. It made her feel silly, the idea that she’d taken something from her subconscious so seriously.

Cold white daylight streamed in through the front-door windows and through the lace curtains in the living room, but around her, the house seemed dim and dead. “Mom?” Isobel called out again, her throat now feeling slightly less like a cat’s scratching post.

One by one, she flicked on light switches as she reached them even though it wasn’t that dark inside. The false light afforded her little comfort. The silence was too thick. Her fingertips brushed the walls as she passed through the hall, moving toward the kitchen, where she knew she could find a cold ginger ale and maybe something to eat. She opened the fridge, opted for a Sprite, and drank half before closing the door again.

Isobel figured her fever last night had probably caused her mother to call the school for her that morning. So