Nevermore

Isobel stood in the doorway, waiting to be noticed, not wanting to startle him. A distracted Gwen bumped into her from behind, unleashing a muffled “Oof” that made Isobel sure then that they were being ignored.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bruce? I’m looking for Var—”

“Not here,” he grunted, continuing to shelve. Isobel was taken aback. This was not the kind-if-loopy man she remembered from her last visit.

“Do you know where he is?” she tried, moving closer to him. Gwen remained in place, watching, her car keys clinking between nervous fingers.

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Isobel frowned, unsure where his sudden dislike had come from. Didn’t he remember her? “I—I think he could be trouble.”

“Could be!” he scoffed. He lowered the book in his hand, finally looking at her. He scrutinized her with his good eye, frowning at her cheer uniform. Then the coughing ensued once more, harsher, mucus rattling in his chest. “I think a bloody nose . . . and a busted lip says . . . that the trouble’s already found him. Guess the thing you’ll tell me next is that you hadn’t anything to do with that.”

Brad. He’d been telling the truth. But how could that be when she’d seen Varen only an hour ago? His face— he had been fine.

Bruce scowled at her, apparently taking her silence for confirmation of whatever suspicions he’d been harboring. His mouth tightened into a line, quivering with anger. “I told you now, I don’t know where he’s got to. Hasn’t said a word to me since he came in like that this morning. Went upstairs and slept till noon. Missed school. Left a half hour ago. Go upstairs and look for yourself.”

Isobel, her mind dulling as it tried to compute the barrage of conflicting information, actually turned to the attic door. She was stopped from making any progress toward it, though, by a soft hand on her arm. “Isobel,” said Gwen. “C’mon. He’s not here. We would have seen his car outside. We gotta go.”

Isobel turned to stare at Bruce again, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth. If Varen had left only a half hour ago, how could he have been at school to do the project? How could anyone be in two places at once? Maybe Bruce had it wrong, she thought. He was old. Old people got mixed up, right?

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” He waved them toward the door as though shooing flies. “I’ll call the police, if that’s what you want.”

“Isobel . . .” Gwen’s hand on her arm tightened, and Isobel took an involuntary step in the direction her friend pulled. “C’mon,” she said, “we’ll see him tonight, remember?”

For a moment Bruce’s good eye seemed to lighten in surprise. It flashed a glimmer of hope, but like a dying ember, the spark faded, dissolving into bitterness and then defeat. He shook his head. “I’m too old to worry about him like this. You tell him I said that. You tell him . . .”

The coughing again. He was sick. Really sick.

Isobel stood in place and watched him, unable to do much else. The coughing continued, unrelenting in its attack, and without saying a word, he brushed past them into the main room.

He hobbled toward the counter and reached for a box of tissues. Isobel trailed after him, torn. She wanted to reach out, to help him to his chair behind the counter, just as she could envision Varen doing. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry and that it wasn’t her fault and that she’d find Varen. She bit her tongue, though, knowing that it was her fault. She’d seen all of this coming, or at least part of it. Pinfeathers had said as much before he tried to slice her to ribbons. And, in truth, deep down, how could she be certain she would find him?

Isobel pushed that thought quickly aside. She would find him. She would see him tonight.

She felt it.

Bruce found his chair on his own. He rocked backward into it, as if the joints of his knees no longer worked. Clouds of dust plumed around him, worsening his cough. He glowered at Isobel, as if the sudden fit were somehow her fault. “You . . . don’t deserve him.”

Isobel’s breath lodged in her throat, the truth she feared most let out of its cage in an instant.

“Isobel,” Gwen said, pulling at her arm again. “C’mon, we’ve got to get back.”

Isobel shoved away from the counter. She yanked her arm out of Gwen’s grasp and hurried through the front door. A burst of cold air hit her in the face, like a splash of fresh water.

She took in a huge gulp, sucking as much oxygen into her belly as she brought into her lungs.

Behind her, Gwen emerged from the shop. “Don’t listen to him, Isobel,” she said, “he’s just worried, is all.”

“Gwen, I have to find him. I have to be there tonight.”

Her face solemn, Gwen nodded, as if she’d come to understand this on her own. “Don’t worry,” she said, “we’ll find him.”

34 Caught

They made it back inside the school by sneaking in through the art wing. The sound of banging lockers thrummed, echoed by the approaching drumbeats of the marching band and color guard preparing for their Pied Piper pilgrimage through the gold-and-blue-streaked halls. Kids flooded out of open classroom doors, boys jumping to tap the doorways for luck, girls screaming.

Together Gwen and Isobel melded into the masses, then split courses—Isobel heading to the locker rooms, Gwen joining a group heading down from the eastern stairwell. On the drive back, they’d agreed to meet up again at the game that night. And as Isobel watched her friend go, she offered a small wave, wondering if Gwen would be glad to be rid of her for a while.

She slipped into the locker room unnoticed except by Nikki, who watched her curiously while they went through warm-ups. She sent a tentative smile, which Isobel did her best to return, though she had long since lost her appetite for a pep rally. The whole thing suddenly seemed stupid to her as it never had before, the idea of everyone getting together to scream and act crazy.

Out in the gym, she heard the marching band arrive. The rat-a-tat thumping of the drums traveled into her bones, sounding in her ears more like a funeral march than a rallying call. The squad ran out together as one, the rhythm pulsing through her body and the lights blaring. Everyone shouted as they piled in, feet stomping until the bleachers rattled and squeaked on their steel supports. Balloons waved, banners shook, painted faces laughed. It was like a mad carnival where everyone was oblivious, lost in the bliss of chaos, a throng unaware of a bomb planted beneath the floorboards.

Two hours ago Isobel would have happily been one of them.

She stood in front of the crowd, mechanically clapping and shouting with the squad. She scanned the risers for any signs of a cloaked figure or yet another porcelain-faced demon.

“When I say Trenton, you say Hawks! Trenton!”

“Hawks!”

“Trenton!”

“Hawks!”

The crowd thundered, their voices booming, calling for blood.

As the squad began their stunts, Varen’s image continued to haunt Isobel, and more than once, she struggled to keep the count. Stevie, standing as third base, whispered to her almost every time. “All right, Iz?” he asked just before the load.

“Yeah,” she said, even though she had never been less right.

Dip. Toss. Isobel popped into the air, propelled high. She opened her legs, hitting a toe touch. The cradle caught her and her sneakers found the floor. The crowd cheered. The squad clapped, shouting a steady rhythm of, “Let’s go Tren-ton, let’s go!” Clap! Clap!

Someone announced the football team. Clad in their blue and gold numbered jerseys, they sprang through the