There were more pictures of turrets and iron gates, passageways glimpsed through keyhole doorways and windows. There were also a few shots that showed snarling gargoyles who leered from rooftops, and still more depicting stone angels mourning from their high perches atop cemetery monuments.
Much like books, Isobel could tell how voiceless things had provided a brand of companionship more compatible to Varen’s nature than human friendship had ever been. These things, locked in their inanimate ways, fed him ideas, she thought. They whispered their tales to him through unmoving lips and he listened, opening himself to their world so much more than any normal passerby. That much was evident in the way he’d taken the photos, as if he’d caught each soulless thing in a candid moment of secret animation. Like they’d sensed him coming and so turned themselves his way because they knew that he held the power to translate their silence into words.
By putting their stories on the page, he could give them life.
A beautiful gift that had turned dangerous.
Maybe none of this would ever have happened, she thought, if Varen’s mother had stayed.
Isobel had often wondered why his mother had left. Always, her presumed answer pointed at one individual: Varen’s father. But even if she—Madeline—had needed to escape, even if she’d had to get away, how could she have left her son behind? She must have known about him, that he was different. Special.
Hadn’t she cared?
Lost in her thoughts, Isobel hadn’t realized that she’d flipped to the last photo in the stack, one that showed a solitary stone face that peered out from an alabaster wall.
Isobel looked closer, realizing that she knew that face. She recognized it from one of the houses on Varen’s street. It was one of the “green men” he had told her about, the group of gargoyle busts said to act as protectors against evil.
“Sleeping on the job,” Isobel muttered at the photo.
The face of the gargoyle glowered up at her. He looked almost human, except for the oversize, orblike eyes that stared sightlessly forward.
Isobel sighed and gathered the photos. Before tucking them back into the box, she took a moment to sift through the remaining contents, a collection of bits and pieces strewn along the violet crushed-velvet lining. Broken typewriter keys lay intermixed with antique jewelry, buttons, and brooches, and folded slips of . . . sheet music?
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Isobel snatched up one of the papers. She was about to unfold it when she noticed the glimmering object that had lain beneath, concealed.
A lady’s elaborate hair comb, encrusted with amethyst gemstones, winked at her in the candlelight. Isobel dipped her hand back into the box and lifted the comb free. She held it up for inspection and it sparkled in her grasp, as if each jewel held its own glowing ember within.
She had seen this comb before, but where?
Isobel’s phone began to buzz in long pulses from within her pocket. She pulled it free and answered.
“Yeah?” she said, keeping her voice at a whisper.
“He’s gone,” Gwen said. “Just left. But he did something weird before he drove off. ”
“What?”
“He put something in Varen’s car. ”
Isobel paused. Varen’s dad had put something in his car?
“What was it?” she asked. “Did you see?”
Isobel returned the comb to the box. She laid the stack of photos on top and then closed the lid. Carefully she slid the box back into its original place against the wall.
“No,” Gwen answered. “I was trying to make it look like I was busy reading. Which is hard to do when all you’ve got laying around are road maps and gas receipts. But I thought I saw him open the glove compartment. ”
Dusting herself off, Isobel stood.
“I’m coming out. ” With that, she closed her phone, blew out the candle, and went to the narrow hole in the stairs.
She pulled herself out, replacing the plank before hurrying to the door.
It was still open. She poked her head out first, though she didn’t see Bruce behind the counter. Maybe, she thought, she could slip out while he was occupied somewhere amid the stacks. She listened another moment for coughing or heavy breathing. When she didn’t hear either, she took a cautious step out.
“I don’t know how you did that,” a voice behind her said.
Isobel stopped midstride. She glanced over her shoulder to find Bruce sitting on a stool and facing one of the wall shelves. A cardboard box half-filled with books sat near his feet.
He turned his head to look at her with mismatched eyes, one brown, one ghostly gray.
“Nor do I want to know,” he added. “I’d prefer you keep it to yourself. I get in trouble when I know too much. And just for future reference, it’s this one that’s glass,” he hissed, and aimed a finger at the gray eye.
Isobel gulped. She shrank to press her back against the wall behind her and waited awkwardly for whatever would come next. She wanted to make a break for the front door, but she couldn’t decide whether it would be better to stay and try to conjure up some excuse for herself.
She started to speak, but he cut her off.
“No,” he grunted, holding up a hand to silence her. “Don’t say anything. I’m glad you’re here. Even if I feel like he could do better. ”
Isobel’s mouth snapped shut, her teeth clicking together. For real? Did he just say that to her?
“But if he was dead, I doubt you’d be sniffing around here. And that’s something I’m grateful to know. Besides that, you’re probably the one who’s got the best chance of reaching him. So when you do, if you haven’t already, I need you to pass on a message for me, do you hear?” He shook a finger at her. “You tell him I’m going to sell that car. I’ve already got an interested buyer. So you tell him I’m not a holding garage, do you hear me? He’s got till March. March, you got that? Don’t forget. ”
Miffed by his words, Isobel didn’t respond. She couldn’t trust herself not to say something scathing or to tell him that, as far as best friends went, he didn’t quite get her Varenworthy stamp of approval either.
He grunted when she didn’t speak and went back to pulling books from the shelf, letting them fall into the open box one at a time.
Isobel turned and stalked toward the front door.
“Wait!” she heard Bruce call as soon as she placed a hand on the knob.
She halted. Back rigid, she complied, even though she wanted to walk out on him.
He started coughing again, and though he tried to talk through the fit, he only succeeded in getting out one or two unintelligible words.
She looked back to see that he held one knotted hand over his mouth and the other extended toward her.
“Don’t . . . ” He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, at last regaining his composure. “Don’t tell him that. Don’t tell him I’m going to sell it. Just tell him March. He needs to come get it by March if he still wants it. Tell him that’s . . . tell him that’s what the doctors said. ”
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“Doctors?” Isobel asked. What was that supposed to mean?
He rose, using one of the shelves to help him pull himself to his feet. “Go on now,” he said. “We’re closed. ”
“But—”
“I said we’re closed!” he growled, waving his arms at her as though she were an alley cat he could frighten away. “Now get out!”
“I—”
“I said go!”
She bit back her questions and pushed through the door just before he could reach her. She stumbled out onto the sidewalk as he flipped the OPEN sign to the CLOSED side. The lights inside the shop went out with a snap, and his dark brown eye lingered on her a second longer before he slipped backward into the shadows.
“What the heck happened in there?”
Isobel turned to find Gwen standing
on the curb right next to the Cougar, a folded slip of paper held ceremoniously between both hands. Without asking, Isobel already knew that Gwen had pulled the paper from the glove compartment of Varen’s car.
“He thinks Bruce knows something,” Isobel said.
She kept her eyes steady on that white slip as she wrapped her arms around her middle. Dusk had already begun to settle over the street, causing the lamps to glow brighter and the bite in the air to grow stronger. Isobel hugged herself tightly, shuddering as she wondered what the paper held. At the same time, she wished she wouldn’t have to find out.
“About Varen?”
Isobel nodded once.
She’d already decided not to tell Gwen about the secret room beneath the stairs, or the foreboding message Bruce had asked her to relay. Both of those things felt off-limits, knowledge meant for Varen only. More things to be added to her growing list of isolating secrets.
“His dad is convinced that he’s still around somewhere,” Isobel said. “Hiding. But . . . ” She shook her head. “I can’t understand why. He has to know someone would have reported seeing him by now. ”
“Um,” Gwen said. Her eyes flitted to the ground and then to the side. She pressed her lips together and stepped forward, holding the paper out to Isobel. “Hope you don’t mind. I sort of read it already. ”
Isobel took the slip. She unfolded it, revealing a handwritten message to Varen from his father, the brief sentences formed with sharp and slanted lettering.
You think it’s funny to walk out in front of my car? You almost drove me straight into the fountain last night. You could have been killed.
It’s time to stop playing morbid games. No more vanishing acts.
Come home. Now.
A brisk wind rattled the paper in her hand.
Isobel glanced up in time to see Gwen quiver, her teeth chattering. “You—you said you saw him too . . . didn’t you? As in, not dreaming?” Gwen asked.
“Yeah,” Isobel murmured, turning to stare at her reflection in the car window. “Twice. ”
21
Dissemble No More
At the first red light they came to, Gwen took the opportunity to raise her hand to her lips and bite her fingernails. Even though the noise it made was loud, like popcorn popping, it could do nothing to distract Isobel from the whirlwind jumble of her thoughts, from the inconceivable notion that since his disappearance, someone else, someone besides her, had seen Varen in waking life.
According to his note, Varen’s father had almost run him over just last night. Yet Isobel already knew that reflections could not stroll out in front of moving cars.
Was it possible that Mr. Nethers had only thought he’d seen his son?
Maybe, Isobel speculated, he’d been drinking right before.
But Varen’s father had been so adamant in the bookshop. His words with Bruce had been as fierce and sure as his clenched fists. And the way he’d stomped up into the attic, so furious and so certain he would find what and who he’d come looking for.
I don’t believe in ghosts, he’d said.
The declaration made her wonder if Varen’s father had uttered that statement more for his own benefit than for Bruce’s. Had it been self-reassurance? Or denial . . . ?
The traffic light flicked to green.
Gwen stopped biting her nails. She stalled for a moment. Then, putting on her turn signal, she shifted the car into gear, hit the gas pedal, and swerved to the left.
“Hey!” Isobel gripped the dashboard. “Where are we going?”
Gwen didn’t answer. Instead she steered the Cadillac into the right-hand lane and, swerving a second time, left the road for a parking lot.
“Why are we turning here?” Isobel asked. Leaning forward, she craned her neck to peer up at the enormous burger-shaped sign stationed on its post high overhead. It glowed like a beacon.
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“Because,” Gwen said, “I need something greasy to soak up all the norepinephrine. ”
“The what?”
“My nerves are shot. Time to eat. ”
“It’s . . . getting late,” Isobel protested. “My parents are probably wondering where I am. Dad especially. ”
“Send him a text. Ask him if he wants something. ” Gwen swiveled the Cadillac behind a minivan already idling next to the freestanding back-lit menu. “Tell him I see they’ve got something called a Classic Melt and it made me think of him. ”
“Gwen, please. I have to play by his rules until Baltimore. You know that. ”
“I’m thinking onion rings and an iced tea,” she said. “What about you?”
Isobel sank into her seat again. She shook her head. “I’m not hungry. ”
“What’s that?” Gwen hooked a hand around one ear in a “didn’t quite hear you” gesture. “Fries and a milkshake?” she asked. “Very Sandra Dee of you. ”
Isobel started to argue, but the car in front of them pulled ahead and Gwen pressed down on the gas pedal. They jerked forward to the intercom. Switching off the heat, Gwen cranked down the window, hung an elbow out the door, and leaned into the cold.
“Welcome to Mighty Burger,” a jaded male voice broke through the speaker. “Would you like to try one of our Mighty combo meals, or perhaps our two-for-two Mighty drink special?”
Gwen’s breath puffed out in small bursts of white as she spoke. “You know,” she said, “I can almost hear the little TM implied after every time you say the word ‘Mighty. ’ You’ve got great inflection. ”
“Ma’am?”
“Uh, yeah, can I get a large onion rings, large fries, large chocolate milkshake, and a large unsweet—that’s no sugar—as in I come back and challenge you to a plastic fork duel if I even think I taste a hint of sugar—iced tea?”
There was a pause before the monotone voice returned through a crackle of static. “So I’ve got a large Mighty onion rings, one large Mighty fries, a large Mighty chocolate shake, and a large Mighty extra unsweet iced tea. Will that be all?”
“Now he’s trying to get on my nerves,” Gwen muttered under her breath. “Yeah,” she barked at the speaker, “that’s all. ”
“That’ll be nine sixty. Please pull through to the second window. ”
Gwen eased off the brake, allowing the Cadillac to glide past the first window to the next.
“Tea was never meant to be sweetened,” she said, more to herself, it seemed, than to Isobel. Reaching into her patchwork purse, she scrounged before pulling out a ten. “Soon as you cross the Mason-Dixon it’s like everything turns into molasses and corn syrup. ” She smacked her lips. “I can feel myself getting a cavity just thinking about it. ”
Beside them, the drive-through window squealed as it swung open. A greasy-haired guy in a blue apron and white envelope hat handed Gwen their drinks in exchange for the ten. Ducking inside for change, he pulled the window shut again.
Isobel took the foam cup and straw that Gwen thrust her way, while Gwen slid her own into the holder next to her. With hurried and nervous fingers, Gwen ripped the paper free from the straw, jabbed it through the plastic lid, and leaned down to suck in a gulp.
As though tasting for poison, she swished the liquid back and forth in her mouth. Then, with a satisfied nod, she swallowed.
“Good man,” she said. “Mighty man. ”
A moment later the drive-through window opened again. Grabbing the grease-stained bag, Gwen tossed it into Isobel’s lap. Then she stuffed her change into her purse, rolled her window up, and pulled out of line.
“And you had better drink that shake,” Gwen said. “You’re starting to look a little waifish. ”
She steered the Cadillac toward one of the parking lot’s tall lampposts and slid into a slot just underneath the wide circle of light.
“Wait,” Isobel said, “why are we parking?”
“Because, talented as I am, I can’t shift and stuff
my face at the same time. ” She pointed at the milkshake. “That’s not going to drink itself. ”
“I told you, I’m not—”
“Straw in cup. Now. ”
Taking in the strained, almost panicked expression on Gwen’s face, Isobel bit back her objections. She slid the straw from its paper sheath and, after shoving it through the plastic lid of her shake, forced herself to take a sip. After a few attempts to suck the cement-thick substance through the straw, the creamy liquid finally made contact with her tongue. Though the coldness of the drink made her shudder, Isobel had to admit it did taste good.
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Mollified, Gwen snagged the bag and fished inside with one hand, the paper crinkling loudly. The smell of fried food permeated the cab as she removed an onion ring. She bit into it, chewing fast as she stared sightlessly forward through the windshield.
Isobel looked down into her lap at the milkshake, which she’d nestled between her knees. One at a time, she pressed down each of the plastic lid’s bubble tabs indicating diet, tea, and other.
She could tell from Gwen’s sudden edginess and fidgeting that she had again reached her freak-out limit. She hadn’t started asking questions yet, though.
Maybe, Isobel thought, she’d learned her lesson in that regard.
“Not enough salt,” Gwen said. Then she added, “By the way, I hope you know that I’m well aware there’s an exorbitant amount of stuff you’re not telling me these days. ”
Isobel stiffened. Her eyes slid in Gwen’s direction.
“Like why we went back to that bookshop today,” she continued. “And what you were looking for, and whether or not you even found it. You’ve had more dreams, too, haven’t you?” She finished off the onion ring and immediately scrounged for another.
Isobel took a moment to deliberate before speaking, searching for the right words.
“It’s just things . . . have kind of gotten . . . intense . . . lately,” she said. “I don’t know what’s happening anymore, let alone how to explain it. There’s just so much. I’m . . . I’m starting to think it’s . . . better this way. ”
“Sure. ” Gwen nodded. “Maybe it is,” she conceded. “Maybe the less I know, the more I’ll be able to . . . I don’t know, to go along with this quietly like you want me to. With you going to find him. After all, I’m sure it makes it easier on you not to have someone calling foul on whatever you think you’re gonna do when you get there. ” She gave a short snort of a laugh. “’Cause if I don’t really know what’s going on, then how am I supposed to keep reminding you you’re on a suicide mission?”