Oblivion (42 page)

Slamming into him hard, she actually sobbed out loud, straight into his waistcoat.

“Why didn't you
tell
me?” she wailed. “Why didn't you tell me right from the start what was going on? That you had to pretend to be on Lilith's side? That she knew I was alive? That she
wanted
me to try to show Varen I was real, so that he would re-enter reality and bring the dreamworld with him? You could have. You didn't
have
to play her game.”

“You remember when we fought?” Reynolds asked. “When the demon summoned me by name? I'd stepped out to kill you on her orders.”

Isobel nodded, recalling how Reynolds had tried to coach her even then, guiding her through the sword fight on the terrace overlooking the cliffs where Varen had stood.

“It was not by accident that she called on me to dispatch you in that moment,” he said, his husky voice rumbling through her. “At that point, she suspected I was the Lost Soul who had been helping you all along, and the one who had ended Edgar's life. Our fight and its outcome, I knew, would only confirm her suspicions. But I also understood that before exacting any revenge on me, she would take my ability to enter your world into consideration.

“After I returned you to that hospital, I knew that since you lived, she would try to use you again. But in order to do that, she would need me. And Isobel, if I was to be of any use at all—if I was to keep my promise to Edgar, to supply you or your world with any aid—I had to accept the demon's offer to play the part of your guide. I had to deliver her lie to you—that she thought you dead, that you would be facing an unsuspecting enemy. And I had to let
her
believe I was aiding you only as a means to complete
her
goals.

“Even if I'd told you the truth, you would not have believed me—whether or not you would admit it now. It would only have made you more wary than you already were. You would have asked more questions. You would have waited to act. I also knew that, regardless of my commands, you would interact with the boy the moment you set eyes on him. Why do you suppose I was so adamant against it? I used your mistrust of me to both of our advantages, knowing that you would take your chance when you saw it. When you saw him. The sooner the better, was my feeling. You are welcome, by the way.”

“Oh, yes,
thanks
,” Isobel quipped. “Good to know
I'm
the predictable one here.”

“I only predicted what I hoped would be true,” he replied. “My wager, as the demon called it—believing the best of you. Believing
in
you.”

“Oh, you are
so
lucky this is a dream,” Isobel mumbled into him. “Because if I really
was
here, I'd totally barf on you right now.”

“I am . . . touched,” he said.

But really,
she
was touched. Wrapping her arms around him, she squeezed him hard.

As un-Reynolds as his words had been, she thought that he must have meant them. And if he was getting mushy, if there really were no more ominous tidings for him to bring, no more secret suicide missions to send her on, then . . . then this really must be good-bye.

She still wasn't ready for him to go, though. Not yet. But without the threat of worlds colliding or demons seeking to consume reality, all she had left to keep him there were questions.

“Your ability,” Isobel murmured. “Crossing between worlds. You can do that because of Poe?” Hitching a breath, she realized Reynolds's scent, that essence of decaying roses, was gone now. Further evidence that he was slipping away. That he would depart forever, when the time came. And it was coming.

“Yes,” Reynolds replied, and Isobel shut her eyes when she felt his palm against her back. “I could cross between worlds because of the power granted to me by Edgar's writing.”

“Through that story,” Isobel sniffled, her voice muffled against him as she kept her face stupidly smashed to his chest, now if only to see how long he would tolerate it.

“My book, the only novel Edgar ever wrote, was meant as an experiment,” Reynolds explained. “Edgar's idea was to take my story, which I told to him over the course of many dreams, and adapt it to fit a real location in your world. He would then publish the piece in increments, touting it as a nonfictional account. In so doing, he hoped to create a link that would allow me to cross physically into your reality and become a part of it. His plan worked, and might have saved me from my imprisonment in the dreamworld had he not been working on another piece at the same time. A story called ‘Ligeia,' inspired by another dreamworld entity. The Nocs were unleashed from his soul, and I perished by the hand of Scrimshaw. Edgar, who wed shortly after, never knew of my demise; unbeknownst to him, his union with Virginia had severed his ties to the dreamworld. It was only after she died that Lilith again pursued him.”

“She went after him again,” Isobel said, “and pulled him into the dreamworld.”

“I found him there. When he discovered what had become of me, that I was now bound to the woodlands forever as a Lost Soul, his remorse was deep. We reconciled, and after exchanging clothing, I agreed to both play the part of his decoy, and to use the ability he'd granted me to help him return to his reality—your reality.”

Isobel pulled back from Reynolds, and taking up the edge of his heavy cloak, she ran her fingers along the material. “That's why they found him wearing someone else's clothes,” Isobel said. “This . . . this is
his
cloak, isn't it?”

Reynolds didn't answer, but he didn't have to.

“You knew what Varen would do, didn't you?” Isobel asked. “You knew what he'd decided. That he needed to die in order for the worlds to separate again?”

Silence again.

“Typical,” Isobel said. “I should have known, but, whatever. As long as you're
not
answering my questions like you said you would, can you at least tell me what happens now? Where you'll go?”

“Presumably,” he replied, “wherever Lost Souls go when they are found. But you needn't worry. I will not be alone. See for yourself.”

He extended an arm toward Greene Street.

“Who said I was w—” Isobel's words halted, evaporating out of her mouth at the sight of who stood beyond the gates.

No. Flipping. Way.

Stern-faced but not unkind, there stood a man in a top hat and a black comb moustache.

Touching the brim of the hat, Edgar Allan Poe bowed his head at her very slightly.

Isobel, unsure of what else to do, gave a small, shell-shocked wave.

She jumped when Reynolds brushed past her, making his way toward the gate.

Though she wanted to call after him, to dash forward and catch his hand, she let him go.

Reynolds opened the gate, and with a low groan, it swung in toward him. As he stepped through, he unclasped his cloak and unfurled it from around his shoulders, extending it to Poe, who, without pause, drew it around his own.

The two men clasped hands, shaking fiercely.

Poe turned to go then. But Reynolds, pausing, glanced back at Isobel.

He touched the brim of his own hat, giving her the signal.

The salute of the one true Poe Toaster.

The real deal indeed.

Isobel's eyes opened on their own. Above, her bedroom light blazed bright, stinging her eyes.

She breathed in fast and deep, her chest rising quickly as the final images of her dream flipped through her head. Desperately, her mind groped for them before they could turn to vapor, sorting them and storing them in an effort to preserve every last detail, every shared word. Poe standing beyond the gate, nodding to her as if she were an old acquaintance. As if she and he had somehow known each other the whole time . . .

Isobel shifted to get out of bed but stopped when she saw her father.

Seated in a chair at her bedside, Isobel's dad watched her with folded arms, his gaze steady. His eyes red-rimmed and tired.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” Isobel replied, her voice raspy with sleep. She started to sit up but paused again when she heard a soft clink and felt something hard in her palm.

Glancing down, Isobel opened her hand to find Reynolds's watch.

“Oh,” she said, sitting up quickly.

“You . . . you were talking in your sleep,” her dad said.

“Um.” Isobel wrapped the watch tight in her fist again. “Just . . . weird dreams.”

“Bad?” he asked, eyebrows arching.

Isobel shook her head. “Good.”

He nodded. Then, after a beat, he gestured to the watch. “What's that?”

“Uh . . . it's a pocket watch . . . thingie.”

“Oh yeah?” her dad said through a small chuckle. “Mind if I have a look?”

“Sure,” she said, offering him the timepiece.

“Humph,” her dad murmured as he turned the watch over and over between his fingers. “I don't think I've ever seen one like this. Where'd you get it?”

“Friend gave it to me,” Isobel murmured, scooting back to prop herself against her headboard in a movement that felt eerily like déjà vu.

Her dad clicked open the watch's little door. “Who's Augustus?” he asked.

“I'm . . . still not sure.”

“Well, this is nice, but it looks ancient,” her dad observed. “Hard to believe it still works.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Isobel checked her digital clock.

The numbers 6:45 blared in neon blue. But the strong smell of garlic and simmering tomato sauce wafting from the hall, combined with her father's presence in her room and his mostly calm demeanor, told Isobel it wasn't morning and she wasn't running late for school.

Then she remembered that after getting home from her first day back at cheer practice, she'd come upstairs and, thinking she would just rest her eyes for a moment, curled up in bed.

Something about going back into that gym, about rejoining the ranks of the squad and reconnecting with Nikki and Stevie—not to mention picking up the slack after her short hiatus—had sapped Isobel's energy far more than she'd anticipated. And maybe she'd fallen asleep so easily because, for the first time in a long time, she'd felt safe in letting go, in allowing herself to fall under and dream. . . .

“Dinner's just about ready,” her dad said, interrupting her thoughts. “Spaghetti and garlic bread.”

She nodded. “That sounds good.”

“Dooo . . . you wanna go out for ice cream afterward?” he asked.

Isobel pursed her lips. “Depends,” she said as she drew her knees to her chest. Resting her chin on them, she wrapped her arms around her legs. “Is . . . Mom coming?”

Her dad's smile came tight, but genuine. He nodded. “Danny, too.”

“Then . . . yeah,” Isobel said. “Count me in.”

“Great.” Isobel's dad stood and set her pocket watch gently on the open Poe book.

“Doing some light reading?” he asked, tilting his head at its pages.

Isobel shrugged. “Just flipping through.”

“Okay,” he said. “Then I'll see you downstairs in about five?”

“Yeah, I'll . . . be right there.”

Isobel's dad tucked his hands into his pockets. Without saying anything else, he went to the door. He paused there, though, and after several seconds turned to face her again.

“Hey,” he said, withdrawing something pink from his pocket—Isobel's cell. “Want to invite your friend?”

She gave him a small smile, marveling at how Gwen had been able to do it again.

Never in her life would Isobel understand that girl's odd way with people, her crazy ability to weasel into favor just as easily as she fell out of it—if not more so.

“He likes ice cream, doesn't he?” her dad asked as he tossed the phone onto her bed.

Isobel's mouth popped open wide.

Seconds flew by as she tried to catch up with what he'd just said, to wrap her mind around his meaning. Then she scrambled for her cell, finding her wits and her voice in the same instant.

“Yeah,” she said. “Actually, he does.”

“How do you know she'll be home?” Isobel asked.

Breaking her stare on the condominium complex across the street from where they sat, Isobel clutched her oversize coffee mug between both hands.

“I don't,” Varen replied, before taking another bite of the slice of German chocolate cake that he and Isobel (mostly Isobel) had all but destroyed.

A small, sad smile touched Isobel's lips, and, lifting her mug, she watched Varen from over its rim. Then, deciding she didn't want the last sips of her mocha, she set the cup down again.

“Are you worried?” she asked.

“No,” Varen said, his voice carrying that low monotone drone that coated his words whenever he wanted to sound like he didn't care. “She probably won't know who I am anyway.”

“It's your birthday,” Isobel said. Reaching across the table, she placed a hand over his. “Who else would you be?”

His fingers caught hers, and his jade eyes flicked up. “You tell me, cheerleader.”

An infinitesimal smirk teased one corner of his mouth.

That sly half smile, combined with the faint scar that still marred his cheek, caused her heart to stammer a beat.

Every so often, he had moments like these. Flashes when that other side—that other self—showed through. Though they often caught her off guard, they no longer scared her.

Quite the opposite . . .

“I know we're here now,” Isobel said, giving his hand a squeeze. “But . . . you
can
still change your mind if you want to. Whatever you decide, I'm right there with you. You know that, don't you?”