where was her mother now?
No school today. She couldn’t say that she wasn’t grateful. There was no way she’d have survived a repeat of the day before.
Isobel shut her eyes, trying to block Varen’s smooth, pale features from forming in her mind, but that only caused him to materialize more vividly. Grasping the handle of the fridge, Isobel rested her forehead against the cool surface. The cold felt so good against her skin. She turned to press her cheek there too.
Why did he have to be so . . . so . . .
Isobel let out a growl of frustration, pushing off from the fridge. She took a noisy slurp from her Sprite and made a beeline straight for the pantry. She was going to pull a major Danny and find some Chips Ahoy to scarf down for breakfast.
She reached for the cabinet door and stopped.
A glint of gold on black caught her eye.
She looked, and the Sprite slid out of her grasp. It thumped onto the floor, and soda spread across the tiles with a quiet hiss.
There, on the kitchen table, sat the large, familiar black book, autumn sunlight gleaming off the gold-lined pages and the embossed title that read
“No!”
She grabbed the book and swept it from the table. It hit the floor, falling open on the kitchen tile.
Isobel drew back, her arms huddled against her body, her fists balled into tight knots beneath her chin. She could feel herself shaking. This couldn’t be for real, she thought. This couldn’t be happening. She’d thrown it away. She’d gotten rid of it. Last night had been a
She stared down at the book. She watched a trickle of soda crawl across the floor toward it, and despite everything in her being telling her not to, she inched forward. Her shadow settled over a picture in the open book, a large black-and-white image of a pale-faced, sunken-eyed man.
A neatly tied cravat laced his neck like a fancy noose. A rumpled jacket, so black it nearly blended into the portrait’s background, was fastened in the middle by a solitary button. The man’s wide forehead gave way to sorrowful, downward-slanted brows. And then there were the eyes themselves. Dark wells.
Crouching, Isobel lifted the book out of the soda, which had begun to pool at its edge. She found herself at once entrapped by those eyes, transfixed because they seemed to stare right back at her, pleading with her in earnest for . . . for what?
Her gaze trailed down to the caption:
Ultima Thule. Why did that sound familiar?
Isobel stared once again into his eyes. There was something about them, the way they pulled her in, the way they only dimly reflected the light, the way they resembled two black, coin-size holes.
She slammed the book shut.
17
Dead Air
Isobel sat staring vacantly at the video game images that flashed in front of her eyes. She hadn’t the slightest idea what she was watching—some overdramatic vampire slayer game Danny had switched on when he’d gotten home from school. Blades swiped, blood splashed, and zombies screamed.
She’d spent the better part of the day right there on the couch. She’d turned on the TV initially for the noise, for some kind of normal sound to surround her until her mom returned from the grocery store. That, and she’d needed something to ground her, to let her know she was really awake and not still asleep—that she wasn’t locked in some perpetual dream within a dream.
But she hadn’t found much comfort in knowing that she was, indeed, awake and in the real world. Not given what had happened, what she’d seen in her dream—what she’d found in the kitchen.
“Isobel!”
She jolted, looking up to see her mother standing behind the couch, holding a hand over the mouthpiece of their portable phone. “Isobel,” she said, lowering her voice, her brows knitting. “Did you really not hear me calling you?”
Isobel stared up at her mother.
“I said, ‘Telephone.’ Isobel, are you sure you don’t need to go to the doctor? Ever since yesterday you’ve been acting like you’re on some other planet.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” she muttered, reaching out for the handset. “Just tired is all.”
Isobel held the phone to her ear, staring blankly at her mother’s back as she disappeared once more into the kitchen. “’Lo?”
“Don’t hang up.”
Her insides flared.
Maybe it was because he’d told her not to, or maybe it was because she couldn’t bear the sound of his voice so close in her ear. She hung up.
For a moment she stared at the phone in her hand, impressed with herself yet shocked at her own gall. It was like hanging up on Dracula. At the same time, an intense regret coursed through her.
Maybe because Reynolds said he was involved. Or maybe because that freaky book had been his to begin with.
The phone rang again, its little red light flickering in urgency. Isobel stared down at the caller ID screen until a name popped up on the display. DESSERT ISLAND it read, with the phone number listed below.
Her thumb twitched toward the talk button.
Why was he even calling her? Surely he hadn’t expected her to show up for their planned meeting at the ice cream shop. He was arrogant and callous, but he wasn’t dense.
“Danny,” she said, rising, the phone ringing for the third time now. She tossed the handset to the floor beside where her brother lay on his stomach. “Five bucks says this is the wrong number.”
“Eez-oh-bel?” he said in a corny fake Spanish accent. “I don know no Eez-oh-bel.”
She turned and moved quickly into the kitchen, where her mother stood in front of the stove fixing dinner. She ignored, as best she could, Danny’s leisurely
One look at the Poe book sitting where she’d left it on the kitchen table, however, had her turning straight back around.
“Isobel,” her mother said, stopping her. “You’re not mad at me, are you?” Her tone was curious, probing.
“No, why?”
“Oh, well.” Stirring what Isobel thought smelled like mushroom rice (one of her favorites), her mom shrugged. “I thought you might be upset that I cleaned your room this morning while you were still sleeping.”
“What?”
“I just picked up the floor a little. I didn’t think you’d mind, since you were still asleep. You must have been tired. You didn’t even wake up when I took your shoes off. But I was just making sure,” she chattered on. “I didn’t know if I’d put something back the wrong way. Oh, and I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed the book from your nightstand. Where did you get it? I didn’t see a library bar code. Dad said you were reading Poe for school.”
Isobel couldn’t register the question. Her gaze drifted again to the Poe book. Rushing forward, she snatched it off the table, then marched out of the kitchen and back into the hall, fixing her sights on the stairs. It had to be the book, she thought. Nothing freaky had happened until after she’d set eyes on it, and now she had to get rid of it. She couldn’t throw it away again, of course. Maybe if she dug a hole and buried it? Or would she have to burn it?
