gym doors like a herd of oxen and pounded across the gym floor, spreading out like a conquering army, like they’d already won. The stands exploded with riotous shouts of favorite numbers—Brad’s number, number twenty-one, prominent among the calls. Isobel saw him then, the last one out of the double doors. Following behind the rest of the team, Brad half jogged, half walked.
Isobel watched him as the team took their place on the bleachers, piling up the rows, but then Henry the Hawk ran by her, flapping his wings, and Isobel jumped, letting out a small yelp.
Coach Anne’s whistle blew, and it was time for the squad’s routine.
The drums rumbled for action. Isobel walked to her place in the formation. Alyssa bumped her as they passed and leaned in to whisper, “Try not to screw us up, spaz.”
The squad gathered. They all brought their arms up, crisscrossed in front of their faces, their hands made into fists. Coach Anne’s proud microphone announcement echoed around them, telling everyone how this would be Trenton’s routine for the cheer Nationals, the one they’d started over the summer, the one the squad would perform again tonight at the game, and then for real in Dallas in less than two months, the one that would bring Trenton the first-place trophy for the third time in three consecutive years. The crowd filled each of Coach’s pauses with screams of enthusiasm. Trenton liked to win.
The music started with a reverberating synthesizer blast that morphed into a fixed beat, electronic and fast. Isobel let her body go to the memory of routine and she was in the air, whirling before she could recall how. Caught, dipped down, then shooting up again, like a stalk through a tangle of weeds. Her body stiff, she raised her arms in a high V; then, extending her leg out, twisted it behind her head, grabbing the toe of her tennis shoe. She went into a Scorpion, her back arching, her rib cage extending out. The stretch felt good.
She felt the dip, and instinctively, on the pop, she went into the tight, spiraling twist of a double-down. Her bases caught her, and Stevie set her back on her feet. Everyone was on the floor now, and the squad wound around one another, in and out like a deck of self-shuffling cards, a montage of blue and gold, their footsteps matching the beat, their arms fanning out and snapping in. They reorganized, the base of the pyramid preparing for the load. Isobel climbed up, one foot sliding into Alyssa’s awaiting grasp, the other into Nikki’s. Then, extended high, she raised her arms in another V. She felt her foot wobble, and she stiffened. They completed the pyramid within three seconds, almost as tight as Coach had drilled it.
The music ended with the sound effect of a dynamite explosion. The squad held their pose to the eruption of deafening cheers.
Isobel felt her foot wobble again, enough this time for her to glance down. Her eyes locked with Nikki’s—two spheres of utter panic, her face flushed pink with effort. Isobel felt a strange pang from somewhere within her gut. Not at the sight of Nikki’s distress, but at the white porcelain hand wrapped tight around Nikki’s left wrist.
“Hello, cheerleader,” she heard a voice say, though she could not tear her eyes away from Nikki, transfixed by her pained struggle to keep Isobel aloft.
Nikki’s wrist jerked back, and she uttered a clipped cry. Isobel sank fast.
She floundered, arms wheeling as she toppled forward. The world rushed up around her. She heard the crowd gasp and then someone’s strangled cry of, “Catch her!”
Images and silhouettes floated around her, blurred in tints of fuzzy white and muted gray, as though her eyes had gone permanently unfocused. She had the distant sensation of hands pressing against her from behind, supporting her weight, and she could decipher only the formless face of someone she thought she might know. Coach? Even though it looked as though the figure was shouting at her, Isobel could only register a small, indistinct sound, and the shape of her name being formed on those lips.
Then, like a black shadow, another figure drifted into her focus, this one clearer, though still frayed at the edges. With a surge of terror, she realized that it was one of those creatures.
He smiled jaggedly at her, and Isobel writhed to pull away from the hands that held her. The creature drifted closer, and she found that she could not pull away. Vaguely, she thought she heard one of the gray, muted ghost figures saying her name, instructing her to lie still.
Isobel stared, powerless to break free as the creature’s face, a white collage of angles and serrated points, drifted close to hers. Behind him, she saw more shadowy figures collect to line the backdrop of white and gray that resembled the school gymnasium.
She squirmed, her eyes following the creature’s movements as he lifted one clawed hand. He reached toward her, his talons—his entire hand—entering her chest, passing straight through her as though she were made of nothing but air.
She felt a clutch in her body and then a heavy, dragging sensation, as though she was being peeled away from herself. For a moment everything went double. The gray shapes and the black outlines multiplied into a sea of forms.
There was a scraping metal sound, followed by the creature’s shriek. The angular, disjointed shadow of his presence fell away from her, and a shattering crash sent the remaining black figures fleeing. They dispersed into swirls of black-violet fog, and instantly Isobel was back in the world of nebulous, blurry images.
With another scrape of metal, her savior came to stoop beside her, black eyes set against the white shroud of his scarf.
“You must realize,” he said, “that I am not a dog to be called.”
“You.”
“Yes, me.”
“Where am I?”
“Between realms.” He looked around. “This is very dangerous. You could become trapped. You must go back immediately.”
“What’s happening? What are those things? How come only I can see them?”
His eyes returned to her. “They are called Nocs. Ghouls. Dark creatures from the dreamworld . . .” His voice trailed off. “There is no time.”
“Where is Varen?”
“Lost.”
“No!”
“Isobel, you must go back.”
“I won’t. Not without him.”
“He is yet in your world.” He paused. “There is still a chance. All is lost only if you stay. Go.”
“What about you?”
“I may reach your world easily now. I will be near.”
“Reynolds, wait. You . . . This all has something to do with—”
“Isobel, this isn’t the time. They will return. Go now, while you can.”
As he swept away, Isobel blinked, and color broke through the whiteness. She blinked again, staring up into the huddle of people around her, the shapes of her squad mates becoming clearer, sharper. The white noise of a murmuring crowd flowed into her ears, like someone turning up the volume on a TV.
“Who’s she talking to?” someone asked.
She closed her eyes against the brightness, then, opening them, recognized Stevie’s face first, then Nikki’s, red and blotchy, streaked with tears, then finally, closest of all, Coach’s, pale with worry.
Together their heads made a neat sort of shape with the light, kind of like a lopsided four leafed clover. She sure could use a little bit of luck right about now.
“I’m sorry, Isobel! I’m so sorry!” Nikki blubbered. “I dunno what happened! I—I just—”
Coach turned. “Will someone please get her out of here? Stevie, go take Nikki out in the hall and see if you can get her to calm down. Splash some water on her face. Isobel, sweetheart,” she went on, “how many fingers?”
Isobel groaned. Did people honestly do that test in real life?
“Four.”
Coach checked her open hand, then craned her neck to squint at the other squad members. “Are you all sure you didn’t see her hit her head?”
“I thought she just passed out.” It was Jason who spoke that time.
Isobel groaned again and used her elbows to sit up. She glanced around, looking for Reynolds.
“Hold still, Izzy,” said Coach, holding a hand out to stay her. “I think you’d better lie back for a second. Four’s
