Oblivion (39 page)

“Would that she could see all those dreams of her you could not help,” Lilith continued. “But then again, in a way I suppose she already has, hasn't she? I dare say Pinfeathers saw to that. Funny, though, how that creature—your own dreams run rampant—so quickly became her nightmare.”

“He scared me, Varen, yes, but I loved him too, okay?” Isobel called to him. “She'll trick you again if you let her. She'll trick us both into doing what she wants. Don't you see that she must have known the whole time about Bruce?”

“Don't you see that she must have known the whole time about Bruce?” repeated the demon, her onyx eyes flicking to Isobel as she spoke into Varen's ear.

Isobel shook her head. “I would have
told
you,” she said. “I wanted to. But I had to get you home first. I had to get you
out
of here. Varen, please!”

“Well, go on,” Lilith said, waving a delicate hand toward Isobel. “You have my blessing. Collect your token. Declare your fidelity to another. Send me away, if that's what you want. Be warned, though, that should you accept her terms, unlike mine, they last only as long as her love for you. And when that expires, as it inevitably will, I will return for you. Lay waste to whatever remains of your craven soul.”

Varen shifted from foot to foot, his gaze at last trailing to Isobel.

“Then again,” whispered Lilith, “you
could
take your stand against me now. Vanquish me however you choose. Finish my story, send me to
hell
if you wish.”

“You belong there,” Varen said.

“So
say
it,” Lilith hissed. “You must already know how it ends.” Looping an arm around him, the demon pressed a palm over his heart and grasped a fistful of his shirt. “In here.”

Seconds passed and nothing happened. Varen seemed to deliberate, his eyes on Isobel. But Isobel had already decided she would not beg him again. It had become clear that Varen would now believe—and do—whatever he wanted.

Finally he slipped free of Lilith's grasp, his steps carrying him toward Isobel. He stopped at the foot of the open grave, the toes of his boots poking over the edge.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “but I'm not who you think I am.”

Isobel gaped at him, the hand that held the ribbon slackening with her shock.

“But don't feel bad,” he added, his expression cold. “No matter what, you could never have stopped this.”

With that, he turned to face Lilith again. He raised an arm and extended his hand toward the demon, palm open.

A surge of winds swept out from behind Isobel, flying in from nowhere to course through the courtyard.

The gales rushed strong past Varen, causing his hair and coat to flutter. As they surged between the statues, the currents of air rose in a chorus of whistles. They clashed with Lilith and lifted her veils and hair into a frenzy.

All around, the shrouds of the other statues began to unravel, peeling away as they turned to fabric. Curling under and over, fluttering like white flags, the loosed veils then vaporized, dissipating into smoke.

Beneath Isobel, the stone floor began to erode into pressed dirt mottled with dead grass.

She watched Varen shut his fist and curl his arm in. Suddenly the howling bluster switched courses. Lilith's veils redirected themselves, flowing now toward Varen instead of away.

The shift in the harsh air current scrambled Isobel's hair, blocking her view.

Then the statue's hold on her faltered. Slipping free of its grip, she fell—not into the awaiting pit, but onto a hard patch of frozen turf.

Isobel's ribbon flew out of her hand, up and up. Craning her neck skyward, she watched the once-pink sash sail toward the ceiling of gray that, with a crack of thunder, tore suddenly open.

Through the atmosphere's ripped seam burned a host of faraway stars.

Her ribbon danced toward the rift and then beyond it, disappearing behind the clouds.

Isobel's breath left her in a rush as she looked to Lilith, whose shroud had begun to funnel and twist, cocooning the demon's form as it bound her arms together.

The glowing veils merged and lengthened and, like wool being spun into thread, wound into a single strand.

The long, oscillating tendril slithered through the air, inching its way closer to Varen, whose focus was zeroed in on the thread as if pulling it toward him with his eyes.

A silver cord,
Isobel realized the moment the luminous string connected with Varen's chest, its glow intensifying as it shot straight into him.

Throwing her head back, Lilith began to laugh once more.

“Foolish boy!” she bellowed as Varen drew her nearer and nearer. “Have you forgotten that you and I are
already
one? Destined for the same inexorable fate?”

Isobel clutched the grass beneath her, staring on in horror and grim fascination as Varen took the demon's awful face in his hands and drew her to him.

“No,” she heard him say as he leaned down slowly, closing the distance between them. “But I think you have.”

He kissed Lilith through her veil then, and as he did, the winds ceased their raging.

Isobel felt a coldness steal over her even as she watched Lilith fold in on herself, her brilliance dying as the last of her light and essence caved into Varen, leaving his hands empty.

Silence screamed.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, staggering in place, Varen lifted a trembling hand to his chest.

He glanced back toward Isobel as a long streak of thick black liquid spilled over his bottom lip.

“Oh,”
Isobel uttered, climbing quickly to her feet.

She stopped, though, when she realized that Varen wasn't looking at her.

A sharp scrape of metal sent a warning chill up Isobel's spine. Turning her head fast, she saw Reynolds duck out from behind Lilith's disintegrating tomb, the walls of which had begun to collapse into ash.

Reynolds held a single blade at the ready, those black coined-size holes fixed on Varen.

As I am, so now are you.

Lilith's words from the hall of mirrors clanged through Isobel's head, and suddenly she knew Reynolds's and Varen's ultimate intent—the plan the two of them had apparently made without her.

To end the demon by ending Varen.

Isobel gave herself no time to think. No time to process what was happening as her surroundings began to peel away faster and faster, allowing patches of another world to show through.
Her
world, she realized, as flashes of blue and red light sparked in her periphery.

Sirens wailed, warped and distant—but getting closer.

Reynolds moved toward her with a purposeful, even stride.

“No,” she said as she ran to meet him. To stop him.

Somewhere behind her, tires screeched and car doors slammed. Men shouted, their voices muffled and indiscernible.

“Please!” she gasped as she crashed into Reynolds, hands latching onto his arm and pushing it down. “There has to be another way.”

To her surprise, Reynolds lowered the sword at her behest.

“I am sorry, my sweet friend,” he said, his gaze shifting to meet hers.

Isobel stopped, arrested by the deadness in Reynolds's eyes, how it now seemed more absolute than ever before.

Why, if he had decided against making his attack, would he still apologize?

“You! Drop your weapon!” a man shouted, his voice now clear and sharp in Isobel's ears.

“Varen, you do what he says!” screamed another, and this time, the voice was one Isobel knew.

But . . . what was Mr. Nethers doing here? How had Varen's father found them? And why was he yelling for Varen to—?

Isobel's eyes grew wide as she realized, with a sudden gut punch of horror, that Reynolds hadn't intended to harm anyone.

He'd only been distracting her.

Whirling, she saw Varen turn to face the dark street now lined with police vehicles, leaving her, again, with only the view of that horrible, white, spread-winged raven.

In one hand, Varen held a black object. Lifting an arm, he aimed it toward the spinning lights and the silhouettes who, huddled behind their car doors, raised their own in response.

Isobel broke forward, terror shredding her insides.

Reynolds caught her, though. Pulling her back, he wrapped her tightly in his strong arms.

But his hold on Isobel lasted for only a second.

Because, when the sharp bang of a gun rang clear and loud through the street, Reynolds's arms—like Lilith's tomb, Varen's palace, and the rest of the wreckage left in the wake of the departing dreamworld—transformed into dust.

Varen's imagined handgun followed suit, his black coat as well. Both dreamworld remnants crumbled to ash.

Then Isobel's ribbon fell from the sky, tumbling to the dirt only half an instant ahead of Varen.

The grave still looked fresh a week and a half after the funeral.

Hands clasped in front of her, Isobel's eyes traced the welt of earth. Over the next few months, the mound would sink and heal over with grass, blending in with the surrounding turf until the only evidence left that anything lay beneath would be the smooth black granite marker.

The stone shouldn't have looked so new, she thought, with its clean-cut edges and glossy surface, its numbers and letters cut so rigidly deep.

Actually, everything about the monument struck her as too utilitarian, too unfeeling for the grave's tenant. Except for the epitaph, which appeared below the standard information of name and dates, its lines written in looping, scrolling cursive.

SOUL OF STORMS AND FRIEND OF FEW,

O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN,

FOREVER SHALL I MISS YOU.

Though touching and beautiful in their own right, the words—which she had not allowed herself to read until now—affected her less than the knowledge of who had penned them.

Isobel drew in a long breath and released it with a shuddering sigh. But that couldn't stop the heat that rushed to her cheeks, the tears that stung her eyes and fell despite her efforts to hold them in.

Before leaving the house to come here, she'd promised herself she would not cry. But she hadn't accounted for how real everything would feel after seeing the stone. So real that for the first time since all this began, she didn't have to fight the impulse to check a watch or clock to see if it really was.

The crisscrossed flowers piled atop the hill of brown earth helped attest to the grave's authenticity too, the carnations and roses drooping their heads as if sharing in the sorrow.

When fresh, the flowers had been colored cream and yellow, pristine and bright. Isobel found it both ironic and fitting that their petals now resembled aged parchment. And while February's dying breaths had apparently held enough chill to preserve the half-wilted flowers for this long, they hadn't been able to prevent the heavy odor that overcame all blooms at the onset of rot.

Of course, the scent was one Isobel knew well, and so it was possible, she mused, that she was simply more attuned to it.

Now, the moldering smell carried her mind backward through time, transporting her to the moments she'd spent locked in the arms of a friend she both loved and hated. Moments that had proved to be Reynolds's last.

Had he planned it that way?

Oh, who knew. . . .

Wherever Reynolds was, though—and she had to believe he was
somewhere
—Isobel knew he would be glad about being there. Freed, along with the other Lost Souls. For dying, she knew—dying for good—
had
been part of the plan.

His and Varen's.

Maybe she would see Reynolds again one day. Then again, maybe not, she thought, squinting when a spark of sunlight lit the gravestone's polished surface, causing the name chiseled there to blend out of sight.

“Hey,” came a voice to her left, followed by a familiar clank of bracelets. “You okay?”

Having been so lost in her thoughts, Isobel hadn't heard anyone come up behind her.

“Yeah,” she said, responding too quickly. “No,” she amended, lifting a hand to cover her face as more hot tears streamed forth.

Stupid, stupid.
She so should have known better than to wear makeup.

“Here,” Gwen said, plunging a hand into her patchwork purse and retrieving a wad of tissues, which she handed to Isobel. “They're clean, just a little crumby. Graham cracker mishap.”

“Thanks,” Isobel said, and, swallowing, forced the upsurge of emotion back down. Though she blotted her face, she knew by the streaks of black on the tissue that the damage had been done. “So much for waterproof. . . .”

“You
do
know they make that stuff out of bat poop, don't you?”

“I do now.” Isobel sighed.

“Where's Blondie?” Gwen asked.

“Should be here any minute. Where's Mikey?”

“Told him to wait in the car,” Gwen said, jerking her head over one shoulder. “He still doesn't know . . . the details. Really, though, I was there and
I
still don't know the details. At any rate, I thought it would be better that way. Keep 'em in the dark for the time being. Given everything that . . . well . . . you know.”

Isobel nodded again. “I know.”

Glancing up, she met Gwen's gaze full-on for the first time. Gently she brushed aside her friend's bangs, eyeing the fading welt Reynolds had dealt her when he'd knocked her out cold. Though Isobel had caught hell from Gwen about the whole episode, not to mention a nice long tirade about being gullible, she had to admit she was glad Reynolds had made the executive decision to put Gwen out for the count. Otherwise, they might not both be standing here now.

“What did you tell Mikey about your head?” Isobel asked.