Nevermore

her untouched taco salad, bedecked in cheerful dangling earrings yet still managing to look mopey, was Nikki.

For a moment their eyes met. Isobel resisted the urge to look away, to steal a glance toward where she knew the crew would be sitting. Or, she corrected herself, where what was left of the crew would be sitting. With Nikki attempting to cross over and merge with the light side (if that indeed was what she was trying to do), Isobel figured the crew should be neatly split somewhere down the middle.

At this newest complication, Isobel found herself more annoyed than anything, wishing Nikki had picked another day. Yesterday, for instance. She didn’t have time for drama right now.

She switched her gaze to Stevie, who waved, no doubt on Nikki’s side for her attempt at a smooth convergence.

“Hey, Iz,” he called, “where’ve you been?”

Isobel came to a stop beside the table, letting her bag drop to the floor. “Long story.”

“You know,” said Gwen, after swallowing a mouthful of what looked to Isobel like a peanut butter and banana sandwich, “I’ve seen that look before. Not on you”—she shook her head—“on somebody else. I think his name was Rambo.”

“Gwen.”

“Isobel,” Gwen said, echoing her tone of seriousness.

Isobel swiveled where she stood, then sat so her knees faced out instead of in. This put her back to Stevie and Nikki. “Listen,” she said in a low voice, “can you still get me to that thing tonight?”

Gwen took another bite of the goopy sandwich and smiled. “I thought you said you didn’t want to go.” The words were barely decipherable.

Isobel frowned. She’d never said she didn’t want to go. She had wanted to go, only more so now because she had a gut feeling that if she was going to catch up to Varen at all, she would need to find him there, tonight, at the Grim Facade.

“Hey,” said Gwen, jabbing a bony elbow in Isobel’s ribs, “what’s with you? You’re doing that creepy stare-off thing again. What made you change your mind, anyway? Not that I was really going to give you a choice in the first place since I got Mikey to tag me. How come you’re not eating? Where’s your lunch? Talk to me here. Did you guys get the project done or what? And where is the Dark One, anyway? I haven’t seen him all day.”

He should be here at this table, Isobel thought, clenching a fist.

A new thought dawning on her, she lifted her gaze to scan the room. She looked toward the goths’ table. The congregation there was sparse, probably in aversion to the pep rally and the chaos of rival game day. And it was Halloween. No doubt they were all somewhere getting ready for their own celebration, for the Grim Facade. Among those missing from the table, Isobel couldn’t help but notice, was Lacy.

“Are you just going to sit there and ignore me?” came a quavering voice. Nikki.

Isobel pulled her feet up, turned around, and slid her legs underneath the table. She wished that she didn’t have to deal with this, of all things, right now.

“Just tell me if you hate me,” Nikki went on. She propped her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands—a condemned prisoner begging the executioner to hurry up with the ax already. “Tell me off or something.” Her chin trembled. “But don’t just sit there and ignore me.”

Isobel averted her eyes with an actual pang of guilt. “Nikki.” She sighed.

All at once, she sucked her breath back in.

“Omigod, Gwen.” She reached out, fixing a clawlike grip on Gwen’s arm. Her banana sandwich missing her mouth, it tumbled to the side and onto the floor.

“Omigod what? I was so gonna eat that.”

“Who’s that guy?”

“What guy?”

“That guy,” Isobel said, her hand tightening on Gwen’s arm. “Sitting with Brad.”

Both Stevie and Nikki swung around to look.

Sitting right next to Brad was a boy with porcelain white skin, his dark bloodred hair slicked back, sleek yet somehow spiky. His clothes were black leather and chains. Beneath the table, she could see he wore boots, and his pants were covered with buckles and dull silver chains. He had on a thin strap-covered black coat that almost looked like a straitjacket. It fitted snugly against the boy’s spindly frame.

“Where?” asked Gwen. “I don’t see anybody.”

“He’s sitting right there. Right next to Brad. Nikki, you see him, right?” Isobel glanced at her former best friend, only to be met with an expression of hurt and doubt.

“Are you making fun of me or something?”

“What? No! I—”

“Iz,” Stevie interjected, “Nikki has been trying to say she’s sorry.”

“No, I know!”

“Tch!” Scooting her tray aside, Nikki pulled her ostrich legs out from the table and rose. “I knew you wouldn’t listen.” Leaving her tray behind, she stalked off, hurrying toward the courtyard doors. With a heavy sigh, Stevie drew himself up. Before turning to follow, he eyed Isobel with baleful disapproval.

She shook her head. “No, this isn’t about that! Look!” She pointed. “He’s right there! He’s sitting right there. He’s got . . .” Ignoring her, Stevie turned to head Nikki off at the door.

Isobel let her gaze trail after them for a moment until, looking back, she saw that the boy sitting next to Brad had turned to stare at her. She quickly lowered her arm, something in her gut telling her she shouldn’t have pointed.

“Isobel,” Gwen started, “no offense, but I’m gonna have to go with the cheeries on this one. Not funny.”

Transfixed, Isobel watched as the blood-haired boy raised a thin, abnormally long hand, the tips of which ended in long, red, talonlike claws. He waved at her, and she felt her stomach plummet to the floor. Her mouth went as dry as paper.

They couldn’t see him. No one could see him. No one but her. Even Brad, who was sitting closest to the boy, hadn’t been paying any attention. He’d been bent low over the table, conferring with Mark, who hadn’t seemed to take any notice either. And Alyssa, indifferently listening in, sat coating her nails in polish, oblivious.

“I’ll . . . I’ll be right back,” Isobel mumbled, gripping the table for support as she rose.

“What? Wait a sec, where are you going? Isobel. You’re not seriously going over there. Hey! Are you crazy? Sit down!”

She felt Gwen swipe at and catch the hem of her pleated skirt. She pulled free, however, her heart drumming a steady rhythm in her ears as she headed toward the wide windows paneling the wall, walking in a straight line toward the crew’s table. She was surrounded by the low murmur of talking, the clank and clatter of silverware and trays. Somewhere behind her, a table erupted into laughter. It all felt so real, so normal.

The muttering between Brad and Mark ceased when Alyssa, with one yet-to-be-slathered nail, tapped the space between them. “Hey,” she said, “look who’s coming over to chat.”

But she wasn’t there to talk. Not to them, at least.

Sitting one seat over from Brad, closest to the window, the blood-haired boy leaned forward, turning his head toward her, revealing the other side of his face. Isobel froze, her eyes locking on the jagged black hole that marked his cheek, as though an entire chunk of his face had been knocked out, like a chink in a porcelain vase. She could see straight through, to his hollow jaw and the two rows of red daggerlike teeth within.

Fear pulsed through her, and yet she stood hypnotized. He was horrible and fascinating all at once, like a scorpion prepared to strike, all angles and sharp lines and menace.

Running now on pure nerve, Isobel took up her steps again, determined to prove to herself that this wasn’t a hallucination—that she was awake, and this was real. The boy’s eyes followed her, eyes that she now saw held no irises, whole only in their blackness.

“Well hey, Isobel,” Brad said, greeting her with mock enthusiasm, “what a surprise.”

“So you can see me,” said the boy. The sound of actual words coming out of his mouth startled her. His voice was quiet, smooth, and acidic, somehow corroded in essence, as though he was speaking through a thin layer of radio static.

It was eerily familiar.