Nevermore

From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.”

“It’s so sad,” she said, looking up.

“Most of them are.”

She frowned, turning pages. “But not all of them, right?”

To this he offered no answer.

From somewhere downstairs, she became aware of the distant ticking of a clock.

“Read me something?” She heard herself say, as though someone else was speaking through her.

He hesitated. Then, after a moment, she felt him slide nearer, causing every one of her senses to become amplified. His shoulder brushed against hers, igniting a tremble that ran through the length of her, and she tried to hide her shaking hands by gripping the sides of the book. He began turning pages once more. She could feel the movement of each sheet with her entire frame, first as it lifted, then as it settled on the other side.

At last he stopped, and she stared down at the printed column of words, unable to comprehend a single one. His hand, warm and steady, wound its way around hers, wrapping it like a spider would its prey. She surrendered it to him, unable to watch even as his thumb traced the place, just above her knuckles, where he had once written his number in deep violet. Isobel ceased to breathe. Her heart pounded in her chest, her thoughts shattering into senseless fragments. All the while, her eyes remained trained and unblinking on the open page. Lines without meaning stared up at her, little more than black sticks in an otherwise white world.

“Ulalume,” he began, and the word itself, which he’d pronounced “You-la-loom,” flowed from him like a string of soft notes.

“The skies they were ashen and sober;

The leaves they were crisped and sere—

The leaves they were withering and sere;”

He enfolded her hand between both of his, and she felt the silver bands of his rings press into her skin. She turned her head slowly in his direction, though she dared not meet those eyes.

She breathed in, rewarded with that mixed scent that she’d found impossible to pinpoint before. Now that he was so close, she thought she could almost decipher it. Crushed leaves.

Incense that had had time to soak into cloth. Worn leather. There was a spice essence there too, sharp and crisp, like dried orange peels.

“It was night in the lonesome October

Of my most immemorial year:”

His voice flowed low and smooth, and she concentrated on its tone more than on the words themselves as it buzzed through her like music. With her hand pressed between both of his, her whole body seemed to hum, and she began to feel fuzzy from the inside out, like a radio stuck between channels. Her eyes fluttered shut.

“It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

In the misty mid region of Weir—”

Isobel’s brow creased, her momentary paradise interrupted. Her hand, as though by reflex, tightened around his. Something in that phrase stirred her from deep within, breaking up the settled debris of her subconscious. Had she heard him right? She opened her eyes, listening hard for the first time.

“It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of We—”

A loud crack, like a gunshot, resounded through the house. Isobel started violently, dropping Varen’s hand and jumping so that the book toppled out of her lap. It thudded against the floor and snapped shut, just missing Slipper as she launched herself beneath the bed.

Isobel looked up to find Varen already on his feet, though she hadn’t felt him rise.

Footsteps on the stairs.

“No,” he muttered under his breath.

Her heart quickened. “What?”

She rose to her knees and then stood, pulling the book after her—heavy as an anchor. She gripped it to her chest. “What? Who’s that?”

“They’re back early,” he said. “Get in the closet.”

Fear shot through her. “Varen—?”

Heavy footsteps on wood. Lead feet pounding steps.

He grabbed her by the arm just above the elbow and pulled her across the room. Isobel went, not knowing what else to do, startled by his suddenly iron grip. The pounding grew nearer.

She heard a woman’s voice now. “Joe,” she was saying over and over, like someone trying to calm an angry dog.

Isobel was plunged into darkness, wrapped into a tiny space by the embrace of countless black sleeves. The closet door slid shut, casting a jailbird pattern of light across her trembling form.

She could see Varen’s boots through the slats as he backed away.

The door to his bedroom flew open with another bang, causing Isobel to jump and squeak. She pressed a hand over her mouth.

“Did you hear me calling you?” the man yelled. “I said, did you hear me?”

Isobel’s shaking hand left her mouth, springing up to shield one ear, her other arm still tightly clutching the Poe book. She only lowered it again when she became aware of a guttural, feline growl coming from beneath Varen’s bed. Slipper’s wide eyes glowed silver from within the dark space.

She could see another pair of legs now, a man’s, clad in black dress pants, his shoes polished to a glossy shine.

“Why do you just stand there and never say anything?” the man said, quietly now, his tone oozing danger. “What’s this? What’s that mess on the floor? You know you’re not supposed to have food up here. Did you have someone over while I was gone?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Joe,” the woman’s voice pleaded from the stairway. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”

“I want this cleaned up now.” A pause. Isobel saw Varen hesitate. “Now!” He snapped his fingers. “Stop standing there and get down on the floor and clean it up!” He snapped his fingers again, then again, and again. He pointed toward the cartons of food.

Varen stooped, gathering the boxes. His face came into view, though it was unreadable beneath his hair. He did not look in her direction.

“What did you do to your car?”

Silence.

“I said, what did you do to your car? Answer me.”

“I didn’t do—”

“You think it’s cute? You think it’s funny?”

“Dad, I didn’t—”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear a goddamn word of it. In fact, that’s what you’re going to do next. After you finish cleaning up this mess, you’re going to come downstairs and clean that up too. I’m tired of this act of yours. I’m tired of this black parade you throw yourself—”

“It won’t come off, Dad.”

“I didn’t tell you to talk yet. And you better damn well hope it comes off, because I’m not paying for it to be fixed, and you’re not driving that piece of crap around like that. I told you he couldn’t keep a car, Darcy. I told you he—”

Varen stood, leaving the cartons. “It’s my car. I bought it myself. Bruce cosigned, not you. Or have you been