Now a ragged corpse, its cheerleading uniform hanging limp from an emaciated frame covered in gray, weblike flesh, the demon smiled at her.
Revealing two rows of sharp and spindly needle-teeth, that grin seemed to dare Isobel to venture a single inch nearer.
But when she stayed put, the demon slowly lifted an arm, extending a skeletal fist toward her. Through those disintegrating fingers, Isobel glimpsed something small clutched in the wraith’s grip.
“Death comes for us all eventually,” the double said at last, again using Isobel’s own voice. “Sooner for some than others, though nearly always sooner than expected. Especially, as you just witnessed, in regards to those we hold most dear.”
The demon opened its hand, those awful fingers crumpling toward the palm where there rested a small wad of what appeared to be pink construction paper.
Isobel hitched a quick breath when she recognized the crushed origami butterfly as the very same she had made at her family’s kitchen table the evening before.
“And to think,” Lilith said with a giggle, her voice going guttural and low, mutating to match her decomposing body, “they actually believed I was you.”
With that, the entity fell apart into ash—just like all the other pawns.
Oh God, Isobel thought as she snatched for the crushed paper butterfly, rescuing it before it could float to the floor with the rest of the demon’s discarded guise.
The paper felt too real in her grasp.
Her mom and dad.
Danny.
25
Disturbances
“Mom!” Isobel shouted, and as she burst through the front door of her family’s home, all around, objects rose into the air.
“Dad!” she called into the solemn emptiness of her house.
Lifted from their hooks, the picture frames lining the wall floated in separate directions. To her right, the empty umbrella stand flipped end over end, drifting lazily by.
She looked behind her, through the open door she’d made in one wall of the white chamber.
The dilapidated ballroom still lay on the other side, making her uncertain whether she’d actually crossed back into reality. If there was a reality left to cross into . . .
Isobel slammed the door shut, blocking out the visual of ash and death. Almost in unison with the deafening bang, the floating objects hit the floor with a collective clomp.
A corresponding thump sounded from the living room, and snapping her head in the direction of the archway, Isobel scanned the space for a sign of anyone.
Miscellaneous mundane artifacts littered the floor: the TV remote, her mother’s paperbacks, a cardboard drink coaster, one of her little brother’s video-game controllers.
But where was Danny? Her mother and father?
Isobel’s gaze locked on the mantel clock, its hands spinning around each other in endless freewheeling circles.
Running fingers through her matted locks, Isobel tried to get a handle on herself, on her surroundings. Yes, the clock was spinning, but the layout of her house wasn’t reversed. So this couldn’t be the dreamworld. Not . . . not unless she really was too late. Not unless the veil had already eroded and the two worlds had merged.
Then again, how else did she think Lilith could have crossed to this side?
Had the attack from Scrimshaw merely been a distraction? A diversion thrown at her for no other reason than to keep her occupied and away from Varen while Lilith used him to finish her plans for destruction?
No. No. It couldn’t be. The butterfly had to have been a lie. Her parents and Danny, wherever they were, they had to be okay.
“Mooooom!” Isobel wailed into the house, her mind spiraling further into chaos as it flipped from one horrible conclusion to another. “Dad! Dan—!”
The sound of the front storm door opening made her whirl around in time to see the inner knob turn.
As the door swung wide, Isobel took a retreating step.
Sunlight flooded the foyer, and with it came Danny, his cheeks red from the cold, his nose rosebud pink. Taking one look at her, he dropped the cell phone he held and rushed her. The phone thudded to the floor, joining the rest of the bric-a-brac, and slamming into her, Danny wrapped his arms tight around her middle.
Automatically, Isobel’s own arms wrapped him back.
“Danny, omigod,” she breathed, squeezing him hard, fingers gripping the nylon fabric of his puffy winter jacket.
Relief poured through her like a drug, numbing her from head to foot as a cold breeze wafted in to cool her heated face. “You’re okay. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“I hate you,” Danny sobbed into her shirt, and through the thin layer of fabric, Isobel could feel the sudden cascade of warm tears.