Oblivion (26 page)

Isobel stopped, startled by his out-of-the-blue admission. Curious in spite of herself, she tilted her head, uncertain about what, exactly, the confession meant. Or where it had come from.

“I kept it to myself,” Varen went on, “like everything else that was happening to me. But in the beginning, it was all just superficial anyway. As shallow as I'd convinced myself you were.” He paused as if searching for a memory that had become distant, remote. “I meant it, you know, when I said you weren't my type.”

A pained smile, involuntary, tugged at Isobel's lips and then faded. She remembered that conversation. Of course she did. How could she forget their first phone call?

“And
I
meant it, when I told you I'd be back for you,” Isobel replied.

“Obviously. And that's why, now, you never . . . ever . . . go away.”

Isobel kept her feet planted on the tile beneath her, fighting the impulse to go to him. She didn't dare try. Not when that was precisely what all the doubles did. Not when the long-fingered, ring-lined hands holding her butterfly watch still frightened her.

Isobel winced inwardly, recalling how the same hands that had once communicated such gentleness had also gripped her with frightening force. How they'd tossed her to the side. And let her go . . .

“It was easier to hate you,” he said, snapping the watch closed with a sharp
click
. “A lot less painful, too.”

Vines of longing wrapped around her heart, urging her to tell him how she'd gotten there and what was happening—to explain how all this could be possible. Words continued to fail her, though, because his candid brashness and calm indifference all served to further confirm her fears that in his mind, he was only speaking to another figment—a soulless projection of his own consciousness.

“We were better off that way,” he went on, glancing up at her again. “Well,
you
were better off. Back when I assumed you thought you were better than everyone else, which—ironically enough—allowed me to go on telling myself that you were beneath me. Back when you believed I was everything everyone said I was.”

“I didn't—”

“Admit it,” he said, cutting her off. “They were right about me, weren't they?” An off-putting smile touched one corner of his mouth, causing his silver lip ring to glint. “Your friends. Your boyfriend. Your dad.” Just as quickly as it had appeared, his smile fell. His eyes darkened and slid to the far wall. “
My
dad.”

Isobel wanted to respond, to say the right thing, but she still didn't know how to enter into the battle that was taking place before her. The one Varen was so clearly waging against himself.

It was never about you.

Pinfeathers's words rose inside of her, right along with his final message of—

“‘I told you so,'” Varen said. “I bet that's what they all wish they could say to you now that you're gone. Your friends, your family—all our teachers. Hell, I wish I could tell you myself.”

“You have,” Isobel replied, forcing strength into her voice. “In a way. And you're telling me right now, too. But . . . I'm here to prove that you're wrong. Just like they were.
Are
.”

Varen rose from his desk, pocketing the watch, wallet chains clinking as he drew to his full height.

Isobel's heart raced faster with every step he took toward her, clumps of ash tumbling from his boots and the hem of that black coat. Her instincts screamed for her to back up, to slide behind Mr. Swanson's empty desk, if only to put something between them.

She stayed rooted, though. He stopped to stand before her, and even as her body chanted the command to run, her heart begged for her to step nearer, to enfold him in her arms.

She could risk neither.

“I've only been wrong about one thing,” Varen said, shaking his head. “And that's you. Every step of the way, in fact. Whenever I was sure of one thing, you always surprised me, proving just the opposite to be true. Every. Single. Time.”

Keep shattering expectations
.

Another of Pinfeathers's cryptic one-liners shot to the forefront of Isobel's mind. Building on one another, each phrase offered glimmers of insight, linking with everything Varen was saying to her now. Maybe, she hoped, that meant the Noc's advice would do just what he'd said it would: reveal what she needed to do in order to penetrate—and dispel—Varen's darkness.

“Not anymore, though,” he said. “And I guess that's the one perk of loving a dead girl. She never changes.”

Isobel's head jerked up, and she met his onyx stare.

Loving?

With that single word, the slow-burning ember of her faith caught fire anew, and it occurred to her that she just might be able to do this, to save him. To bring them both home to a reality that still waited for them. She only had to break through. Everything she needed was here.
He
was here. Pinfeathers had spoken the truth.
It should be simple,
she thought. As easy as saying it out loud.

Maybe it would be.

“You think I'm a dream,” Isobel said, “that I'm dead. But Varen, I'm not.”

“You always say that,” he murmured, eyes tracing her face, stopping at her lips. “Always. Just before you die.”

“I won't this time,” she said. “Wait and see. I'm still here, aren't I?”

“Sometimes I do it without meaning to,” Varen continued, as if he hadn't heard her. “Other times, on purpose. Just to get rid of you. To get you out of my sight. Out of my head for one moment. Every time, though—and it doesn't matter where we are”—lifting a hand, he touched her cheek, his cold fingers trailing electricity in their wake—“what we're doing. I'm always the one who does it.”

“Varen,
look
at me.” She seized his hand and, squeezing, pressed it over her scar. “How
can
I be a dream? This scar. My dress. It's real. And your jacket, how did I get it? Remember the petals in the courtyard? The blue sky? And on the street. That was me too. I sent you back, but only because I
had
to. Because it
was
real. And Varen,
we
are real. I
am
here. For you. And . . . it's time to go home now.”

“The worst is when I get close, like this,” he went on, and leaning down, he brought his lips almost to hers. “When I try to kiss you.”

Isobel didn't attempt to speak again. Her gaze fell to that small silver loop, and gripping his hand harder, she willed him to continue, to move in and press his lips to hers so that she could
show
him just how real she was.

“I don't try that anymore, though,” he whispered, pulling back.

Though she attempted to keep his hand, Varen pried free and turned away, leaving her only the view of that horrible, white, spread-winged raven.

Pins and needles played over her skin each place he'd touched her.

“If you really believe I'm a dream, like all the others,” she said, watching him as he drew to a halt at the opposite end of Mr. Swanson's desk, “then change me. Go ahead. Try.”

It was a risk. She knew that. But at this point, what wasn't? Especially when she could sense she was failing. Again. Her window of time with him was closing fast. He would shut her out once more, and that would be it.

“Try,” she pressed, “and you'll see it won't work. Then you'll—”

He moved quickly, snatching the black stapler from Mr. Swanson's desk. At first, Isobel thought he might throw it at her. Instead, his arm swung out, and he aimed the item straight at her—but now the stapler become something else entirely.

Varen pressed his thumb down on the hammer of the sleek handgun, cocking it. The weapon made a sharp cracking sound like the splintering of bone.

Isobel's voice, her breath, her comprehension,
everything
jarred to a halt inside her, and her renewed terror gave way to a single thought. That the black hole of the gun's barrel exactly matched the soulless centers of his eyes.

“That . . . that isn't real,” Isobel whispered, lips scarcely moving.

He swiveled his arm toward the windows and fired. Isobel jolted as one deafening bang after another rang out, bullets shattering glass.

Varen returned the gun to point at her. “It's at least as real as you are.”

She clamped her mouth shut, setting her jaw.

He wanted a fight, she thought. He craved contention. His self-hatred had become a drug, an addiction he needed to feed. His lone source of perverse comfort in this forsaken realm.

Isobel's soul ached for him with that notion. He had given up on himself as well as her. But knowing that also provided her with a scrap of strength—kept her from fracturing into a thousand pieces as she faced him—because at least it gave her somewhere to start.

Remind us of who we are,
Pinfeathers had said.

“This . . . this isn't you,” Isobel whispered, rolling the Noc's words over and over in her head and choosing her own carefully. This time there could be no going back, no try again after the game over, if he pulled that trigger. “You aren't like this.”

Varen held himself as steady as he held the gun. Seconds ticked by, each one more unbearable than the last. Then, finally, relaxing his arm, he tilted the gun upward.

But the reprieve didn't last.

“Maybe you're right,” he said, nestling the muzzle of the gun under his chin. “Care to find out?”

“Varen,
stop it
,” Isobel snapped, her own anger spiking, mixing with the panic she could no longer restrain. She dared not make even a slight movement toward him, though. Not now that he held them both in the thrall of his black erraticism.

“That's just it.
I can't
,” he said. “I can't ever stop. Even if I wanted to. It's always
just
too late when I'm ready.”

“This isn't who you really are,” Isobel insisted. “I know it isn't. And so do y—”

“How?” he asked. “How do you know
anything
about me? You don't. Not anymore. Because now I've become exactly what everyone expected. The only difference is that I've decided to stop fighting it. To fit the mold, so to speak. Isn't that what we're supposed to do in life? We've all got a part to play. Someone's gotta be the bad guy.”

“I
do
know you,” Isobel said. “You are gentle. You're kind. You care about what's important, what's right, even when no one else does. I've seen the real you, and that person—that beautiful soul—he wouldn't hurt anyone. Please. If you let me, I
can
show you that I'm real.”

“You don't have to show me,” he said, his tone turning mocking. “All you have to do . . . is promise.”

Once more, he switched the gun's position, leveling its barrel at her. He squeezed one eye shut, taking aim at her head. Though he stared directly at her, his gaze would not meet hers.

“Do you promise?” he asked.

“Varen, I never meant to leave you—”

“I said!” he yelled, and her heart stalled. He lowered his voice again, his tone suddenly soft, rational. “Do you promise?”

Yes,
Isobel wanted to tell him.
Yes, I promise
. But was that the right answer?
Was
there a right answer?

She didn't know what to do, what to say. Even if she could shift their surroundings again, break through the constructs of his world, it wouldn't change his mind—it hadn't before in the courtyard of angels. He'd shut down completely this time. And if he could be counted as lost to this realm, then he was even more lost to himself.

Isobel didn't know of any way to combat that. How could she reach him when he wasn't even present?

Darkness there and nothing more . . .

Taking a step forward, moving before she even knew why, Isobel brought her forehead to the mouth of the gun. The sensation, cold and hard, reminded her of the last kiss Varen had given her, delivered to the very same spot just before he'd sent her over the cliff.

“I made you a promise once,” she said.

She saw the cuff of his sleeve move when she spoke, the fabric stirred by her breath, and she knew he'd felt it, because his hand, so steady before, suddenly began to quiver.

“I tried to keep it,” Isobel went on. “I tried, and I failed. So I came back. I know you didn't think that I would. I know that's why you did what you did. On the cliff. Because you didn't think it was me. That I would find you again. I guess I failed you twice. But Varen, I never gave up. No matter what it looked like to you. I never did.”

The anger in his expression began to siphon off as she spoke, transmuting into sorrow. His finger eased from the trigger.

“In your note,” Isobel continued, “you said we would see each other again, and I never stopped believing that. I never stopped believing in you. After you showed me what I should have known already—that there's so much more to someone than can be seen on the surface—I couldn't
ever
give up on you. But . . . what about me? I'm not everything you thought I was either, am I? You said so yourself. Just now. So what if I
am
really me and not just a figment of this place? If you thought there was a chance, even a small one, that I
could
be real, tell me, would you still pull that trigger?”

Varen cringed. Withdrawing the gun, he spun away. He tossed the weapon aside, and at once it burst into a flapping crow. The creature squawked loudly, its brash voice and frantic flittering breaking Isobel's spellbound stare as Varen moved through the now-occupied classroom chairs.

Aside from her own chair and Varen's, each desk now seated a skeleton.