Kelly Creagh - Nevermore

“Why?” He looked up at her sharply, anger etched on his features. “Why did you do that?”

“I—,” she stammered, entrapped once again within the force of those eyes. “What do you mean? I couldn’t just—”

“Those were your friends, right?”

“Yeah, but—” Her gaze dropped to the frosted metal floor. She shook her head furiously, though more to combat his questions than to answer them.

“What do you think you proved, cheerleader?” He rose suddenly, and Isobel felt herself shrink back with an involuntary step.

“N-nothing,” she stammered. “It just . . . it wasn’t right.”

“Why do you care?” he demanded, drawing close enough to stand over her, close enough for her to feel the anger rolling off of him, washing over her.

She paused to swallow, to think. She stared up at him, quivering from the cold and from nerves.

She’d expected his anger, yes, but this blatant challenge? When she opened her mouth to respond, no words came. Why did she care?

She thought about it, then cleared her throat, all too conscious of his looming over her like a thundercloud. “Why—why do you care?”

“Who said I did?”

She flinched. There it was again. That blockade of his.

“You did,” she whispered, her breath leaving her in a plume of white. Teeth chattering, she unfolded her arms and held out, between shaking fingers, the slip of paper Brad had left on the wicker table.

“When you slipped me this note.” She glanced up at him.

His face changed, uncertainty taking the place of resentment. He looked quickly at the note, then just as quickly away. He stepped back from her.

“Because,” he started, but stopped himself. “I don’t know,” he amended, and turned to face the wall, shoulders stiff.

“How did you know, anyway?” she pressed. She watched his back, hoping the question would defuse his anger. And she wanted to know. “How did you know that they knew I lied about Saturday?”

“Someone—” Again, he checked himself. “I heard it through the grapevine, I guess. What does it matter?”

It mattered, Isobel thought, watching him, because that would mean he’d been listening in the first place.

“Never mind,” she said, her teeth chattering. “Forget it. Can we just . . . ?” Her shivering worsened, and she waggled her knees to keep her blood flowing. How could he stand it in here? She shut her eyes for one elongated second. Opening them again, she said, “Look, can we please just get out of the freezer?”

He whirled and motioned in an offhanded after you gesture toward the door.

Hesitating only a moment, unsure if he would follow, Isobel slipped out.

Blessed warmth rushed over her as she re-entered the stockroom. As her nose thawed, she blew warm air into her fists, curling and flexing her fingers in an effort to regain feeling.

He came out behind her, kicking away the makeshift doorstop, letting the enormous freezer door ease shut and click into place.

She didn’t wait for him to tell her to leave, and she didn’t ask him where to find the cleaning supplies. Instead she went straight to the double-tub sink against the opposite wall and crouched to peer underneath. There she found an empty janitor’s bucket and a stack of folded rags. She wrestled the bucket free, straightened, and turned on the hot water.

She glanced back at him. “Do you have a mop?”

“Who did you say this was again?” she asked, using a napkin to peel a wad of gum she could only assume had belonged to Alyssa off the display glass. She sprayed Windex in its place and wiped the case down with a rag.

“Cemetery Sighs,” he replied, nodding his head to the grim beat of the churning, haunting music.

Before they’d set to cleaning up the mess the crew had left, Varen had replaced the steel drum CD with one from his own collection, which he’d dug out of his car. He’d brought it in along with her gym bag, which Brad, gentleman that he was, had dumped in the parking lot before speeding off.

She was actually grateful, though, seeing as the bag held both her phone and her house keys.

“This song is ‘Emily Not, Not Gone,’” he said. “It’s about a woman who dies and then rises from the grave to be with her true love.”

“How romantic,” Isobel scoffed.

“It is,” he said, and dragged the mop through the last of the malt goo that had gone runny on the floor while they’d been in the freezer.

“It just sounds gruesome to me.”

“Gruesome can be romantic.”

“Sorry.” She shook her head and made a face. “But that’s just a strange thing to say.”

He stopped mopping and turned to regard her. “Don’t you think it’s at all romantic—the idea that love could conquer death?”

“I guess.” Isobel shrugged, but really she didn’t want to think about it. The only thing that came to mind was the phrase “death breath.” She grimaced at the thought of kissing a dead guy and walked to the sink behind the counter to rinse out her rag. Over the rush of cold water, the churning music broke to silence, and the female vocals crooned a cappella, beautiful and sad.

Let this death shroud be a wedding veil, Though this skin is clay, my lips so pale.

My eyes, for you, ever more shine bright Blacker than the raven wings of night.

’Tis I . . .

’Tis I . . .

Your lost love, your Lady Ligeia. . . .

Isobel paused in thought as the haunting melody began again and then dissipated, the woman’s voice trailing off, reverberating in a mesmerizing throb. She shut off the sink and swiveled around.

“I thought you said her name was Emily,” she said, her words seeming to pull him out of a trance.

He looked at her, lifted the mop from the floor, and dunked it into the dingy water. “It is. Lady Ligeia . . .” But he stopped and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as though considering whether or not to explain.

“What?” Isobel asked. Was she missing something? Did he think she was too stupid to get it?

“Lady Ligeia,” he began again, “is a woman in literature who returns from the dead, taking over another woman’s body to be with her true love.”

“Oh, yes. Lovely.” Isobel blanched. “I guess the other chick didn’t mind at all?”

He smirked and, grasping the mop handle, wheeled the janitor’s bucket behind the counter, guiding it toward the back room. “It’s actually one of Poe’s most famous stories.”

Oh, she thought. So that’s why he hadn’t wanted to elaborate. She stood for a moment, arms crossed, thinking, one hip leaning against the display glass. Then, rounding the counter, she dropped her rag into the sink before going to stand in the doorway of the staff room. Hands braced on either side of the door frame, she leaned in.

“Hey,” she called. “Speaking of, did you do the project yet?”

“No.”

She watched him hoist the bucket and pour the filthy water into the tub sink.

“It’s due week after next.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. He set the bucket down and kept his back to her while he washed his hands. “Shouldn’t you be the one worried about that?”

“I guess so,” she mumbled, and cast her eyes to the polished floor. They’d scrubbed the place till it sparkled and she was convinced that it was actually cleaner now than it had been before Brad and the crew trashed it. If she had learned one thing for certain about Varen now, it was that he was thorough.

She looked up again and watched in silence as he opened the locker cabinet in the corner and brought out his wallet, strung with three different lengths of chain. He scooped something else out with his other hand, and when he made for the door, she stepped out of his way.

He brushed past her into the main room and deposited his wallet, coils of chains, and a handful of rings onto one of the wicker tables. Next he grabbed the plastic trash bag they’d filled during the cleanup and, pulling the plastic drawstring closed, tied it off.