Nevermore

Then, like a black shadow, another figure drifted into her focus, this one clearer, though still frayed at the edges. With a surge of terror, she realized that it was one of those creatures.

He smiled jaggedly at her, and Isobel writhed to pull away from the hands that held her. The creature drifted closer, and she found that she could not pull away. Vaguely, she thought she heard one of the gray, muted ghost figures saying her name, instructing her to lie still.

Isobel stared, powerless to break free as the creature’s face, a white collage of angles and serrated points, drifted close to hers. Behind him, she saw more shadowy figures collect to line the backdrop of white and gray that resembled the school gymnasium.

She squirmed, her eyes following the creature’s movements as he lifted one clawed hand. He reached toward her, his talons—his entire hand—entering her chest, passing straight through her as though she were made of nothing but air.

She felt a clutch in her body and then a heavy, dragging sensation, as though she was being peeled away from herself. For a moment everything went double. The gray shapes and the black outlines multiplied into a sea of forms.

There was a scraping metal sound, followed by the creature’s shriek. The angular, disjointed shadow of his presence fell away from her, and a shattering crash sent the remaining black figures fleeing. They dispersed into swirls of black-violet fog, and instantly Isobel was back in the world of nebulous, blurry images.

With another scrape of metal, her savior came to stoop beside her, black eyes set against the white shroud of his scarf.

“You must realize,” he said, “that I am not a dog to be called.”

“You.”

“Yes, me.”

“Where am I?”

“Between realms.” He looked around. “This is very dangerous. You could become trapped. You must go back immediately.”

“What’s happening? What are those things? How come only I can see them?”

His eyes returned to her. “They are called Nocs. Ghouls. Dark creatures from the dreamworld . . .” His voice trailed off. “There is no time.”

“Where is Varen?”

“Lost.”

“No!”

“Isobel, you must go back.”

“I won’t. Not without him.”

“He is yet in your world.” He paused. “There is still a chance. All is lost only if you stay. Go.”

“What about you?”

“I may reach your world easily now. I will be near.”

“Reynolds, wait. You . . . This all has something to do with—”

“Isobel, this isn’t the time. They will return. Go now, while you can.”

As he swept away, Isobel blinked, and color broke through the whiteness. She blinked again, staring up into the huddle of people around her, the shapes of her squad mates becoming clearer, sharper. The white noise of a murmuring crowd flowed into her ears, like someone turning up the volume on a TV.

“Who’s she talking to?” someone asked.

She closed her eyes against the brightness, then, opening them, recognized Stevie’s face first, then Nikki’s, red and blotchy, streaked with tears, then finally, closest of all, Coach’s, pale with worry.

Together their heads made a neat sort of shape with the light, kind of like a lopsided four leafed clover. She sure could use a little bit of luck right about now.

“I’m sorry, Isobel! I’m so sorry!” Nikki blubbered. “I dunno what happened! I—I just—”

Coach turned. “Will someone please get her out of here? Stevie, go take Nikki out in the hall and see if you can get her to calm down. Splash some water on her face. Isobel, sweetheart,” she went on, “how many fingers?”

Isobel groaned. Did people honestly do that test in real life?

“Four.”

Coach checked her open hand, then craned her neck to squint at the other squad members. “Are you all sure you didn’t see her hit her head?”

“I thought she just passed out.” It was Jason who spoke that time.

Isobel groaned again and used her elbows to sit up. She glanced around, looking for Reynolds.

“Hold still, Izzy,” said Coach, holding a hand out to stay her. “I think you’d better lie back for a second. Four’s not quite right.”

Isobel sat up anyway. This was utterly mortifying. How and when had she become such a freak show? “Yes, it is,” she said. “A thumb’s not a finger.”

To her surprise and relief, Coach laughed, rocking back on her heels to allow Isobel some space.