Nevermore

37 The Grim Facade

After stopping to retrieve her gym bag from the girls’ locker room, Isobel slipped out the side doors of the stadium and into the darkened, car-filled parking lot. As awful as it seemed, she’d moved quickly after reading Varen’s note, using the distraction of Brad’s injury to make a clean getaway. She hadn’t wanted Nikki or Stevie (or anyone, for that matter) to catch up to her or ask her where she was going. It had become clear that she could no longer afford any more distractions. Not when she had wasted too much time already. Not when the only thing that mattered anymore was finding him.

As Isobel made her way through the parking lot toward the Cadillac, she imagined how her face must look—bleak, colorless.

“What’s the matter?” Gwen asked.

A tall, thin boy with choppy black hair stood next to her. He eyed Isobel as she approached, sizing her up, grinning like he found something funny. She glared at him in return, ready for him to say just one thing about her cheer uniform, because she knew he must have pulled the black jeans he wore straight from the girls’ rack at Target.

Gwen, having changed out of her phony prep getup, now wore a black V-neck dress. With enormous bell sleeves and no waist, it looked like a vampire’s nightgown. The whole ensemble was almost as ridiculous on her as the oversize Trenton sweatshirt. Under any other circumstances, Isobel might have laughed. Instead she frowned.

She’d already tucked Varen’s note into her gym bag, next to her tag for the Grim Facade, not wanting Gwen to see it. After tonight, after seeing what the Nocs could do, what they had done, she knew that her promise to herself to protect Gwen from knowing too much was one she had to keep.

“What happened?” Gwen squinted at her as Isobel drew nearer. “We saw an ambulance leave,” she said. “Somebody get hurt?”

“Brad,” said Isobel. There was no reason to hide that detail. “His leg got broken,” she explained, trying not to remember the sight of the jagged bone poking white through the bloody flap of skin.

Gwen winced. “Ouch. He okay?”

Isobel nodded. She moved past them and opened the back door of the Cadillac, tossing in her gym bag.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Gwen seemed to deliberate. She swayed on her feet, as though not sure which way to turn or what to say. Finally she said, “Isobel, this is Mikey. Mikey, Isobel.”

After the introduction, Gwen pivoted and rounded the back of the car. She opened the trunk to scrounge. In the meantime, Mikey busied himself by staring at Isobel. She stared back, her distaste for him growing by the second. Finally he winked and climbed into the driver’s seat.

Great. He was driving? Isobel scowled but said nothing, not wanting to waste any more time arguing. She slid into the back on the passenger side. From the front, Mikey twisted around to smile lazily at her, his face angular and sharp. Rows of silver stud piercings lined each ear. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she said, doing her best to smile. There was something about this guy that set off her smarm alert, big-time.

“Scooch,” Gwen said, appearing on her side, a long white box tucked beneath one arm. She nudged Isobel, then wrestled in beside her. She threw the box over Isobel’s lap.

“What’s this?” Isobel asked. “Why aren’t you sitting up front?”

“This”—she tapped the box—“is your costume. It’s Halloween, remember?”

In the front seat, Mikey cranked down the driver’s-side window, stuck his head out, and unleashed a long, loud howl to the moon. Gwen reached forward to grab him by the neck of his hoodie and pulled him back in. He laughed and shoved the key into the ignition. The Cadillac whined, then rumbled.

Isobel looked down at the box in her lap. The last thing she wanted to do when she got there was waste more time in putting on a stupid costume. Even if Gwen didn’t know all the circumstances involved, couldn’t she understand that she just needed to find Varen? That finding him was the only reason she was even going?

“Just open it,” Gwen said. “You know you can’t wear what you’ve got on. They’ll kill you.”

“Cheerleader meat!” Mikey growled as he hit the gas pedal. The Cadillac lurched forward, throwing them back. The radio snapped on with a fuzz and a pop before jumping through stations. Loud, crashing music blasted from the speakers, fast ragged vocals following close behind. Isobel gripped her seat as the car sped away from the stadium. They turned onto the main road, the rear bumper scraping the curb. She glared at the back of Mikey’s absurd hair, which resembled that of a bomb-blasted, smoke-charred cartoon character’s.

Next to her, Gwen, impatient, yanked off the box top, revealing folds of lace.

Isobel’s eyes widened.

“What?” said Gwen.

“Gwen, I can’t walk in there wearing that thing!”

“Why the hell not?”

“It’s pink!”

“So?”

“Uh—hello—did you not see Carrie?”

“Plug it up!” Mikey cried, and banged the steering wheel rapidly in tune to the drums.

Isobel glared.

“You’re making a statement,” Gwen said, and draped the gown across her own lap, pulling the zipper down.

“I’m not wearing a pink dress to a goth prom.”

“These are the shoes,” said Gwen, and shoved a pair of rose pink flats into Isobel’s lap.

“Gwen, no!”

“Look, it’s going to be crowded. Everybody between here and the Indiana underground is coming to this thing. How else is he supposed to find you? Honestly, you’d think I was sending you off as a virgin sacrifice.”

“Are you really a virgin?” Mikey chimed almost predictably from the front.

Isobel clamped her mouth into a silent and furious line. Gripping one shoe tightly, she fought the urge to whack him upside the head.

“Besides,” Gwen added, fluffing the dress folds, “this thing took forever, so you’re wearing it.”

“Wait, you made this?” Isobel asked, distracted.

“Altered it,” she admitted. She shrugged. “Half off at the Nearly New Shop. By the way, you owe me twenty-five dollars. Oh, and there’s a smudge on the toe of the left shoe, but I got them to throw those in, so don’t worry about it. Now how do you get this stuff off?” Her hands flew to Isobel, twisting her by the shoulders. Isobel felt the release of her cheer uniform’s zipper.

“What are you doing?” Isobel squealed. “I’m not getting dressed in here!”

“What? Why not?”

“Uh, boy!” she shouted, and shot a finger at Mikey, who lifted his chin and waggled his eyebrows at them through the rearview mirror. Isobel made a sound of disgust. Who was this kid, anyway?

Gwen leaned forward. Reaching through from the backseat to the front, she flipped the rearview mirror so it faced the ceiling.

“Isn’t that kind of dangerous?” Mikey protested.

“Keep your eyes on the road or you’ll be a eunuch before the night’s out.”

“What’s a eunuch?” he asked, chuckling.

“Look it up.”

Gwen fell back in her seat and immediately set to work with the dress. Resigned, Isobel let Gwen help wrestle her out of the cheer top, though her eyes never wavered from the back of Mikey’s spiked head. If he so much as peeked . . .

They were on the highway now and flying. Her turtleneck was the next to go, followed by her sports bra. Then Gwen, hardly giving Isobel time to breathe, threw the dress over her head and pulled down. Isobel fought through the folds of pink to bring her arms through the tunnel of the cinched waist. The satin lining slid smooth and ice-cold against her bare skin, making her gasp. Her fingers wiggled through, seeking for straps or sleeves, but then, without warning, Gwen yanked the dress into place, and Isobel realized that there weren’t any.

“Lean forward,” Gwen said, and shoved Isobel over at the waist, knocking the wind out of her. Gwen pulled up the zipper. The fabric drew snug around her body, molding to her perfectly. “Now sit up,” said Gwen, and pulled her straight again.

Isobel stared down at herself as Gwen fussed. Even in the dark, she could see that the thing was vintage and frilly. It had a lace overlay, a sweetheart neckline, and a poofy skirt that she thought would frill out and fall to just below the knee when she stood. It was nothing Isobel would have ever picked out herself—almost too pretty, with the pink satin Alice-in-Wonderland ribbon that tied around the waist.

Arms folded, Isobel allowed herself to be dressed and primped. Gwen proceeded to strip her of her blue and gold hair ribbons. Head twisted, Isobel stared out the window. They were moving fast. Too fast. But she found herself actually liking the speed for once, and she urged the car along in her mind, never wincing, even as Mikey swung around one sharp turn after another. Up front, he handled the wheel like a wrestling partner.

Soon the car exited the freeway and traveled along a maze of back roads. Without the aid of streetlights, the darkness outside transformed to blackness. Trees raced by, illuminated by moonlight and the Cadillac’s brights, their steady, thickening stream seeming to keep beat with the music.

Isobel felt a bobby pin scrape her scalp, then another. The Cadillac dipped down a hill, and her stomach lurched to high-five her heart.

They would be pretty far out from town now, she thought, watching the trees grow denser, their skeleton shadows more wicked. She hadn’t been watching for signs, but she figured they were probably somewhere out in Henry County, or Spencer, though she couldn’t be sure.

Then again, could she really be sure of anything anymore? Reality? Reason? Herself?

Isobel looked down at her lap, at her hands. She turned her left one over, remembering where Varen had written his number on her that first time. Those numbers were gone now, but in hindsight, he may as well have tattooed the moment onto her soul. She clenched her hand into a fist.

What had he meant by not wanting things to “end” this way? Why did it feel as though the note was his way of trying to tell her good-bye? And why had he said everything would

“disappear” after tonight?

Isobel squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to reach into her bag and read the note again. It was as though she hoped the writing there could have changed while she wasn’t looking.

Then again, why not, when everything else around her seemed to be doing just that?

An unnerving feeling unfurled through her stomach, a poisonous blossom of uncertainty and doubt and fear. She wondered if Varen had known what the Nocs would do. Worse, she wondered if he’d sent them—Pinfeathers, after all, had come bearing his letter. Or were the Nocs part of what he’d meant by having lost control?

“Done,” Gwen said finally, dropping her arms. “Now, where’s your tag?”

Freed, Isobel opened her eyes. She pulled the tag from her gym bag. Gwen snatched it from her, grabbed Isobel’s hand, and looped the red ribbon around her wrist. She tied it there, tightening the knot until the ribbon pressed into her skin, almost to the point of cutting off her circulation. “Whatever you do,” she said, “don’t lose this.”

The Cadillac slowed suddenly, and Isobel had to brace herself as the front tires bumped over what felt like a log. Gwen bounced as though having expected the jolt, and went to securing her own tag. They shuttled off the last of the long, snake-winding back roads, the tires crunching and popping over gravel.

Mikey switched off the brights, and the Cadillac’s normal headlights dimmed to cast a yellowish white light over a wide lot of pale dirt and rock. Dust and grit kicked up to swirl through the two beams like mist. Rows of dark cars lined their path like sleeping monsters. Isobel scooted forward, grabbed the back of Mikey’s seat, and squinted through the windshield.

Ahead she saw groups of figures standing outside a long two-story building—something that looked part barn and part warehouse. A pulsing green-to-pink light radiated from within, and distantly Isobel could feel more than hear the low thump of music.

As the car crept closer, its beams passed over a set of tall, pallid figures. Isobel’s insides tightened at the sight of them, at the way they stood huddled together beside a black Honda, sharing a cigarette. She pressed to the window, scanning their faces.

Smoke swirled up from the group, and as the Cadillac crawled past, each white face turned to stare. They glowered at her, their sharp noses and starkly painted faces menacing but nevertheless whole. Isobel sat back, taking a moment to breathe, to urge her heart to slow.

“Hey,” Gwen said, nudging her. “Look.”

Her heart thudding anew, she turned to scan the parking lot. The headlights passed over the rear of a familiar car, and Isobel let out a small cry as she caught sight of the jagged letters against the black finish, the hateful word FREAK spelled out on the side of a Cougar.

Isobel unlatched the door. It swung out, and the Cadillac stuttered to a halt.

“Hey, what gives?” Mikey shouted.

She slipped from her seat into the cool air that instantly latched to her bare shoulders. A shiver ran through her, but the sharpness of the cold felt good—further evidence that she was really here, that she was awake, alive—that Varen must be too.

“Isobel, wait!”

Ignoring Gwen, she ran at full speed for the warehouse, her feet joining in with the thumping, chaotic beat of music. She glanced up at the sky. An almost full moon beamed silver-white through a gauzy haze of cloud cover. Shining like a lazy serpent’s eye, it cast the world around her in a ghostly pallor and caused the pink satin and lace of her dress to turn luminescent.

Even over the crashing drums that joined in with the drone of bass guitar, Isobel could still hear the quiet rustling of her skirts.

A wide wooden door stood open before her. Inside, colored lights raged. Flashes of violet and red blinked and pulsed, flaring through a writhing throng of black-clad bodies. She slowed her run as she drew into the archway and took in the sea of masked faces. Against one wall a band, the source of the tortured music, played atop a makeshift stage. A boy dressed in a long black coat, his face painted like Death’s, screamed into a microphone. He dropped to his knees. The drummer and guitarist behind him thrashed out a violent rhythm while he reached toward his audience, begged them with anguished lyrics to pray for him.

Fighting against every instinct, Isobel drifted farther inward, deciding to try her best to keep back from the carnage that was the dance floor. She glanced up to see pockets of figures standing around a wooden gallery that rimmed the circumference of the room. Like decorative gargoyles and cemetery angels, they stood huddled close to the edges, elegant hands poised on the banisters. She caught a few stares, flinty gazes turning in her direction. She looked quickly away. A flash of black light caught her, turning the pink of her dress deep violet for a fleeting second. She wished that the light could have stayed, could have stained the fabric, hidden her.

She felt someone tap her on the shoulder, and she swung around. A tall boy with an unruly black Mohawk and tiny round sunglasses took her wrist without asking. Black lipstick coated his full lips. A spiked dog collar fastened with a padlock encircled his neck. She jerked away from him, realizing too late that it was her tag he was after and not an open vein.

Annoyed, he grabbed for her wrist again. Isobel let him check her tag this time, knowing better than to try and shout a coherent explanation for her very blond, very frilly presence over the deafening music. He flipped the tag over several times before actually reading it, as though to first confirm authenticity. Isobel stood her ground and watched his face as he took in the purple writing. His eyes flashed to hers, disbelieving. He looked as though he wanted to speak but he didn’t, maybe deciding it wasn’t worth the trouble to yell.

Isobel jerked her wrist back, remembering Gwen’s warning not to lose her tag. The point was that she had one. So what else did he want?

She took a step backward, but he shook his head. It didn’t seem as though he was ready to let her go. He crooked a finger at her to come closer, and this time it was her turn to shake her head. He scowled and turned to point at a nearby gathering.

The group he gestured to looked like a stately if not unusual funeral party. There were three young men, two of them with black umbrellas open and held aloft over the head of a girl, her golden-bronze arms coated in black lace sleeves, her thick dark hair piled atop her head beneath bands of silver, secured with large roses and long drapes of black ribbon. She looked like a queen, her full dress a deep bloodred, accented with black.

Lacy.

For a moment Isobel thought about bolting straight into the crowd, but then the other girl saw her and it was too late. Like a mouse paralyzed in the gaze of a cobra, Isobel stood frozen.

Lacy’s artfully painted eyes narrowed hard on her. She surveyed Isobel for a long moment, a sneer contorting the perfection of her ebony lips. By this time the other members of her party had turned to stare as well, lowering their goblets.

Isobel gulped. They were going to eat her alive.

She silently cursed Gwen for dressing her in baby-girl pink. Why couldn’t they have swapped? A little eyeliner, a dash of sullenness, and she could have slipped beneath the radar completely.

Apparently growing inpatient with her, Mohawk Man placed a large hand against her back and urged her forward, toward the group. Isobel, not knowing what else to do, went where she was pushed.

The guys with the umbrellas looked like they were in their twenties at least, each of them clad in top hats and long coats. The third had a more edgy look. He wore a leather jacket laced in chains, his hair spiky on one half of his head, shorn clean on the other. Lacy handed off her goblet to Mr. Mohawk and seized Isobel’s tag. Her dark eyes narrowed as she read, and when she looked up she stared past Isobel, searching the crowd behind them.

This was the last shred of evidence Isobel needed to know that Varen was present, that he’d been seen, and she wasted no time. She lashed out at Mohawk Man, jerking his arm, causing him to drop Lacy’s drink. It splattered on the floor, dark droplets flying onto the skirt of Lacy’s dress. She gasped in horror and let go of Isobel’s tag. Isobel, seizing her chance, broke away from the group, running headlong into the black throng. She plowed forward, pressing her way through the bodies, weaving between them. Her dress snagged on someone’s spiked bracelet, and she had to stop to free herself. She glanced behind her, then turned and spun in another direction. How would she ever find him? Was he down below, or above, somewhere on the gallery?

The farther she wove into the crowd, the more eyes she seemed to attract. Whispers started up around her. Strange faces turned toward her, most of them either porcelain white or covered by masks. She looked over her shoulder, still expecting to find Lacy two steps behind, furious and ready to snatch her bald. Either that, or drain her of blood.

Isobel stepped on someone’s toe and looked up. The boy, dressed completely in different versions of plaid, smiled at her. That disturbed her more than if he’d glared, and she turned and pushed through again, the space growing tighter as she wove her way deeper into the crowd. Someone caught her around the waist and she screamed, her voice lost in the noise of the screeching music. She wrenched away. A laughing face fell backward, becoming lost within a haze of colored lights. She stared after it, wondering if she had imagined the hole in his cheek.

Isssobel.

Isobel jumped at the sound of her name. It was as though someone had spoken it from inside her head, the voice metallic and sharp—a woman’s.

Someone knocked into her, and she was jostled to one side. Sharp red fingernails reached out from the darkness. She gasped and pulled away, stumbling. Like the face, the hands vanished, leaving her unsure whether they’d been real.

Isobel blinked and watched as the dark figures around began to merge and meld into one another. Becoming one, they moved in on her like a black tide. Blood rushed into her ears and drowned out the music. All sound seemed to drift farther and farther away. She drew her arms in tightly around herself and turned once more, then again, only to find every clear step closed off, covered over by shapeless black shadows.

Isssobel.

That voice again, that same haunting hiss. It caused the hair on her arms to rise and prickle, the thrum in her ears to intensify.

Isssobel, it breathed.

A wave of dizziness washed over her. The room around her shifted on its axis. She lost her balance and threw her arms out to brace herself. She felt people all around her, shapes moving, dancing through the blackness as though they’d been swallowed up just like her but hadn’t realized it. Isobel shut her eyes and opened them, but nothing changed. Why did it suddenly feel as though she was slipping away from herself, disconnecting? Why did it feel as though the world was falling away—capsizing?

Was she falling asleep, or waking up?

Isssoooobell . . .

Who was that calling her name? Coach? Mom?

No. It was someone else. Some thing else.

This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be happening. She was here. She was really here. She couldn’t be dreaming. Even if this was a dream, she couldn’t wake up now. Not when she’d come so close.

Isobel reached out, felt the air shimmer in front of her.

From behind, she felt someone take her hand, clasping hard, pulling her around. She spun sharply, and the force of the movement seemed to shock her into herself.

The world snapped into place.

All at once, the noise of the party spiraled into full volume again. A girl’s siren voice now replaced the frayed chords of the skull-faced boy. Her song, backed by the haunting pull of a cello’s strings and the gentle thump of percussion, reverberated through the hall. The figures around sprang apart from formless shadows to become people again, leaving in their wake a dark figure that now stood before her, his face hidden beneath a mask of white.

“It’s you,” she gasped.