Nevermore

Isobel to the passenger’s. They stayed low as Gwen stuck the key in and unlocked the car. She slid inside and, hunching down in the driver’s seat, reached across to raise the lock on the passenger side. Isobel grasped the handle and pressed the silver button until she felt the latch give. She shuffled back to open the door but stopped, catching sight of something in the rearview mirror. There was someone else in the parking lot. She turned her head to see.

He sat no more than ten feet away, perched on the hood of a black BMW, another blood-haired boy, dressed in black like Pinfeathers, only it wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been, because unlike Pinfeathers, this boy wasn’t missing his cheek. He was missing an entire eye. Even from a distance, Isobel could see the gaping space where one eye and half his nose should have been.

The boy hadn’t seemed to notice either herself or Gwen. He was occupied with eating something, his mouth scarlet with blood. He held the thing, whatever it was, a bloody gray lump, between both hands, his sharp red teeth biting into it, ripping flesh, tearing feathers.

A bird, Isobel realized with dull horror, almost retching. He was eating a bird—one of the fat pigeons that liked to waddle around in the courtyard looking for morsels, never suspecting that it would one day become a morsel itself.

Isobel swung the door open and climbed in. Shutting it fast, she pressed down the lock.

“Go,” Isobel said, “drive.”

Gwen stuck the key in the ignition and turned. The car complained with a high, grating whine but then rumbled to life. Isobel checked the side-view mirror again, panic stopping her heart when she saw the creature lower the torn, bloody bird and look up.

“Gwen, we need to go. That would be a now.”

Gwen fumbled to shift the car into reverse. “Why? Is it a teacher?”

Isobel shifted her gaze to the side-view mirror, watching the thing as he sneered and lowered himself onto the pavement, slowly, one boot at a time. She twisted in her seat to look out the back window, but froze when she saw only the rows of parked cars. He was gone.

To Isobel’s relief, Gwen pulled fast out of the parking space and, gripping the wheel with both hands, spun them in the direction of the exit.

The bird hit the windshield with a dull splat.

Gwen screamed. Her foot slammed the brakes. They sat for a moment in shock. Then something moved to block out the sunlight on Isobel’s side. There came a quiet tap, tap, tap on her window.

“What was that?” Gwen whispered.

Isobel turned her head to look.

There were two of them now. The first one—the one missing an eye—leaned down to bring his existing eye, black and soulless, close to the glass. It blinked at her, watching her like a shark through a tank. The other one stood close behind, grinning, his face whole but split by a diagonal hairline crack. He had only one arm.

Isobel felt every muscle in her body tense as she stared into that eye, a predator’s eye, she thought. Slowly he raised one fist and stuck his thumb out. He aimed it, like a hitchhiker, in the direction they were pointed.

Isobel pawed at Gwen, who watched the mutilated pigeon slide down the windshield, leaving behind a gooey streak.

“Gwen,” she said. It was a plea.

The creature without the eye grabbed at the door now, looping his fingers through the handle. Had she locked it? Yes, she thought, as he pulled and the latch stuck. Thank God, she had.

Without warning, Gwen’s foot hit the gas pedal and they accelerated. Thrown backward in her seat, Isobel heard the creature hiss as it wrenched its hand away in a movement too quick for her eyes to follow. Gwen’s tires squealed as they sped out of the parking lot and onto the main road, being caught by school authorities having been bumped down to the bottom of their list of concerns.

Out of habit, Isobel reached behind her and yanked down on her seat belt. She clicked it into place, turning again to look over her shoulder through the rear window. Dead leaves swirled in the wind tunnel they made with their escape, the trees lining the streets receding into the distance. As far as she could see, they weren’t being followed. She turned to face forward and caught a glimpse of Gwen’s face, pale and frightened.

“I still get the impression there’s something you’re not telling me,” Gwen said, her eyes pinched as she strained to see past the dead pigeon and its belly, open against the glass to display the stark white of its rib cage. Isobel looked away, suddenly glad she hadn’t had time to eat anything at lunch. She leaned forward in her seat to try and find the switch for the windshield wipers. The bird looked heavy, but hopefully that would work.

“Turn right at the next light,” Isobel said, by accident flipping the windshield wiper fluid release. Sudsy blue liquid squirted across the glass, soaking the pigeon.

“Oh, gross,” Gwen muttered, and batted Isobel’s hand away. She slowed the car and switched on the wipers, her fingers easily finding the right knob. It took four swipes to get the bird to one side, and then a fifth and final one to scoot it off the windshield completely. It hit the roadside with a wet smack. “Should have stayed home today,” said Gwen, taking the turn Isobel had indicated. “Rented a movie. One of those bad romances that make you want to puke. ’Course I already want to puke.”

She glanced from the road to Isobel, then back again, her brow furrowing. The silence that followed gave Isobel time to think. At this point she couldn’t keep Gwen out, but at the same time, she couldn’t justify involving her any further. She thought about Pinfeathers sitting next to Brad in the lunchroom, then pictured him sitting here in her place, next to Gwen, who would just keep driving, never knowing any better. She thought about Gwen driving home. She thought about the Cadillac on the highway, about how it wouldn’t take much more than a gentle tug on the steering wheel to send the car careening into oncoming traffic.

“Left here.” Isobel pointed.

Gwen put on her signal. She pulled into the left turning lane. The arrow flicked green.

“Isobel, did you really see something in the lunchroom today,” she asked, “or were you just playing around?”

Isobel swallowed, not sure if she should answer. How could she answer? As far as she knew, the line “I see dead people” had already been taken.

“Did that bird hit my window on purpose? ’Cause you know, I don’t think I can take much of that. Not without the promise of sending you my therapy bills later. Are you listening to me, Isobel?”

“Just a bird,” Isobel murmured. She turned away from the lie to look out her window.

They passed a group of college students on the right, huddled on the sidewalk, waiting for the crosswalk light to change. Isobel envied them. They all looked so normal in their jackets and blue jeans, scarves lacing their necks, hands stuffed in their pockets, probably talking about their next class or Halloween plans, totally unaware.

“Turn here,” said Isobel automatically when they reached the intersection to Bardstown Road. Gwen swerved to make the turn. Either she still had the jitters or she was mad.

“There,” she said, pointing for Gwen to pull over. Gwen followed the order. She put the Cadillac in park, turned off the engine, and pulled the keys into her lap.

Isobel grabbed the door handle, and Gwen, apparently not willing to wait in the car, got out too. Together they stepped up to the front of the tiny used bookstore.

Varen had to be here, Isobel thought. There was nowhere else for him to go. If he left school, this was where he would come. He would be here, and she could tell him everything. With that thought stoking her courage, Isobel opened the door and stepped inside. Gwen followed.

She caught that familiar, heavy scent of stale air, and the rusty belt of bells clanked as the door shut behind them.

“What is this place?” Gwen whispered. “What are we doing here? Whoa, is that a first edition?”

Isobel raised a finger to her lips. She led the way, and they wove through the shelves toward the vacant counter, stepping over stacks of books, finding neither Bruce nor Varen.

Then she heard that familiar rattling cough. It came from somewhere at the rear of the shop. Isobel followed the sound across the rickety floor and into the back room, stacked with all the newer-looking nonfiction. Bruce was there between the rows, taking books one at a time out of a cardboard box marked NON-FIC WILDLIFE in Varen’s careful, antique scrawl. He brought each book he drew out of the box up close to his face and examined it with a sweep of his good eye before finding a place for it on the shelf.