Kelly Creagh - Nevermore

For her.

Reynolds’s words rushed back to her. He is . . . home now, as well.

She covered her mouth with her hand. She heard those damning words again and again, his voice ringing clear in her mind, like the reverberating drone of a funeral bell.

She sank down onto one step, feeling herself disconnect from reality.

He had called her a friend. He’d saved her, and because of that, she had wanted to believe that he had saved Varen too. And so she had drunk down every word as truth. She had swallowed his poison so easily. How could she have been so stupid? She should have known that he would have said whatever he had to, whatever it would take to get her to destroy the link. To part the worlds.

He had meant it when he’d called her his enemy.

Isobel felt her body hitch as she drew in an involuntary gasp of air. She hadn’t even realized that she’d stopped breathing.

Lilith had been right, she thought with a sudden pang of bitterness. Reynolds had kept the truth to himself the whole time. He had tricked her and sent her in on her own, with false hope, fully expecting her to die.

A barrage of emotions coursed through her all at once. Hurt, anger, betrayal.

Loss.

So this was what his speech on the porch had meant. His last soliloquy before his grand vanishing act. I won’t be found, he’d said.

“Miss Lanley,” the tall detective pressed, “do you know anything about the whereabouts of Varen Nethers?”

Distantly, she registered this question.

Yes, she thought. Yes, I do. He’s in a horrible place where no one can reach him. He’s in a world of ash and black trees and broken people, held hostage to a demoness who will possess him for eternity.

She shook her head slowly. No. No. No. This couldn’t be happening.

“Isobel.” It was her father who tried this time. “I thought Varen brought you home.”

Isobel shook her head. No more words. No more words, please.

“Are you saying he didn’t give you a ride home? Isobel?”

“No,” she whispered.

She wanted everything to stop. She wanted the police to go away. The walls and the foyer, the too-bright morning light and the realization—everything—to just go away.

“His father reported him missing early this morning. He didn’t come home from school yesterday, and apparently he went to a party last night and was seen there with your daughter. You’re aware, I assume, that there was a bust?”

“I made the call,” said her father.

“Ah, well, that makes sense. Anyway, after everything cleared up, they found the boy’s car, still in the parking lot, but there’s been no sign of him.”

“Isobel?” her dad asked. “Do you know anything about this?”

She said nothing. She didn’t want to talk, she couldn’t. It would do no good. Slowly, methodically, she shook her head no.

“I’m sorry,” she heard her dad say. “We . . . Well, we had a long night. All of us.”

“I understand,” the taller detective said. “In that case, I’ll leave you with my card, and maybe we can try you again another time. If you think of anything in the meantime, though, please don’t hesitate to give us a call. But, you know,” he continued, his tone changing, as though he were aiming these next words at Isobel. “I wouldn’t worry too much. We’re always on cases like these, and ninety percent of the time, the kid shows up. Besides, we get the impression this isn’t the first time. Like your daughter, he probably got spooked by the sirens and just hitched a ride with someone else.”

Isobel heard her father say good-bye to the detectives. Then he shut the door, blocking out the cold air and the stinging light, casting them both into shadow. For a long moment, he stood with his back to her, his hand still on the doorknob, as though he were trying to think of what to say. Or to decide how he felt.

Isobel rose to her feet. She wavered, waiting until her father, at last, turned to face her. Then she did what she thought would be easiest for the both of them. She took one look at him, and turned away.

“Isobel,” he called.

She paused, but only for a moment. Drifting up the stairs like a ghost, she vanished into her room.

Isobel returned to school on Monday, walking the halls with her body, but not with her mind. It was like her whole awareness of the universe had somehow become inverted. Words became indecipherable. People morphed into objects, moving automatons that floated through the space around her as meaningless, formless shadows. Hours elapsed without her being aware of their passage. All the while, her thoughts never changed, never deviated from that place where she had last seen Varen, locked in the purple chamber where she had asked him to wait for her. Where she had promised to come back for him.

The image of his despair consumed her.

In Mr. Swanson’s class, his vacant chair haunted her. Even though she knew it was empty, she kept stealing glances toward it, as though he might somehow materialize.

She did not return to the cafeteria to sit with Gwen, Stevie, or Nikki at their hodgepodge table.

Instead she spent lunch in the gym. There she turned flip after flip. She drilled herself on her layout, on her back handspring and round-off. She went through the motions over and over until the repetitive action and the necessity of focus caused the world to condense. Until she didn’t have to think, until it was just her and the floor.

Still, there was no reprieve from the ghost of his memory. He followed her everywhere. She felt him on her skin, sensed him in everything, in the books she carried, in the paper she was forced to write on.

She skipped practice that week so she wouldn’t have to face Nikki or Stevie, and she did her best to evade Gwen at every turn, going to her locker at odd times and taking longer routes to class, not caring if she was late. While Stevie and Nikki seemed to take the hint, Isobel’s allusive behavior only goaded Gwen into taking more extreme measures. She called Isobel’s house every night, even though her father had repeatedly made it clear to her that Isobel wasn’t allowed to take calls. After that, Gwen resorted to disguising her voice, though she knew Isobel’s parents had caller ID. Almost every one of these calls had ended with a direct hang-up from her dad, who had since taken to calling Gwen “that Northern girl.”

For once in her life, Isobel was grateful for the excuse of being grounded. She couldn’t stand the thought of being barraged by questions she didn’t have answers for. Or to be reminded again of how she had failed Varen. Of how she had left him there, waiting in vain for her to return because she had promised to come back for him. She had promised.

At Trenton, rumors connected to Varen’s disappearance began to build and circulate through the hallways in hisses and whispers. While most people thought that he had simply run away, others buzzed about how he’d been murdered by his weird one-eyed boss, his body boarded up beneath the floor of Nobit’s Nook or buried somewhere in the park. There had, after all, been neighborhood reports of strange lights and sounds coming from the attic of the bookstore the night he disappeared, as well as one account of a cloaked figure seen exiting through the rear entrance, a limp body held in his arms.

At the end of the week, Swanson handed back their project papers. He went through the aisles, dropping them off at every other desk. When he placed her and Varen’s paper in front of her, Isobel thought that he might have lingered for an extra moment or two before moving on. She stared through the clear glossy report cover at the B- they had managed to pull off.

“Good job,” he’d written on the title page in red. “Next time, though, ask about parent participation instead of stereos, okay? Also, I’ve attached an Internet article from the Baltimore Sun that the two of you might find interesting. By the way, nice bird.”