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His dad sighed, and his voice sounded tired now. Spent. He held his open hands over the mess of writing and blank papers waiting to be filled, as though there was no answer for it.

“Joe, that’s enough,” the woman whispered. “He said he’d clean it up. Come downstairs.”Advertisement

Isobel crouched low, peering up through the slats.

She saw the woman enter the room, though her face remained obscured. She saw her reach out an arm, long, slender, and tanned, her delicate wrist encircled by a glittering bracelet.

She touched the man’s shoulder.

“Better clean it up,” he stammered, “’cause I’ll be back up here t’ check.”

The woman, Varen’s stepmother, pulled his father from the room. Isobel shut her eyes. Slowly she rose, clutching the Poe book to her chest. She heard the sound of stumbling. A curse.

The door slammed.

In an instant, whispers filled the room—ten people hissing and talking at once.

Her eyes flew open. On the floor just outside, she saw the light dim and then grow bright again, as though the chandelier over Varen’s bed swayed on its chain. The echo of footsteps on the stairs grew distant and distorted, as though coming from somewhere far away and deep underwater. Shapeless shadows flitted over the floor and across the closet door, throwing Isobel into moments of complete darkness.

Somewhere in the room, Slipper yowled.

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Driven

Isobel rattled the closet door. It refused to open. The whispers grew louder; they seemed to seep from the walls. She could no longer see Varen—the space where he’d stood was now empty. Isobel pushed against the door with both hands, the Poe book clamped beneath one arm. She banged against the slats.

The closet door flew open with a crack. She jumped back. The whispers ceased.

He stood there wearing his beat-up satchel, staring through her, his face as cold and expressionless as glass. Behind him, the light hung motionless on its chain, no longer flickering, though she could still hear Slipper growling.

“I’m taking you home,” he said.

He spun without another word and, grabbing her backpack, he went to the window against the far wall. Isobel stepped cautiously from the closet, her eyes scanning the floor, the walls, the closet door. Everything was silent.

She watched him grip the window and pull it up. He slipped out into the encroaching darkness, vanishing from sight.

Isobel hurried to the window. She found him standing just outside, seeming to float on nothing. She looked down, and as her eyes adjusted, she saw the black platform that supported him. An unfolding iron stairway clung to the brick siding, a rust-caked fire escape.

She hesitated. They were so high up. Varen gripped her free hand, giving her no choice. Powerless to resist him, she climbed out into the cold air, her trembling transforming to shivers as a frigid wind rushed up the side of the house, blasting them.

His already fierce grip on her tightened, and when her feet found the metal landing, he pulled her into motion. Beneath them, the rickety stairs groaned and sighed, swaying as they rounded the first corner. Down, around, down, and down. From a rooftop above, an ebony bird sounded a warning, its hoarse call answered by an echoing croak and a flurry of wings.

Varen jumped down first from the ladder that hung at the end of the escape. Quivering uncontrollably, Isobel turned to lower herself one rung at a time, descending one-handed, with the Poe book still tucked under her arm. She felt Varen’s hands fasten around her waist. He lifted her and set her on her feet. He caught her hand once more, and she was moving again before she could comprehend how or where.

They reached the curb, and when he let go, handing off her backpack, she knew to get into the Cougar. He rounded the car and flung open the driver’s side. Throwing his own satchel into the backseat, he got in, then pulled the door shut behind him.

Isobel fell into the passenger seat, clutching her backpack and the Poe book in her lap.

Should she say something? Would that just make everything worse?

He started the car, revving the engine. Isobel shut her door quickly, afraid he would bolt at any second. He revved the engine again. He must want them to know he was leaving, she realized. Isobel looked back toward the house and saw the porch light come on. His stepmom hurried outside onto the verandah. She was blond, tall, and candle-straight, and she wore a long silver evening dress that glistened like water in the moonlight. She left the stained-glass door open and rushed down the sidewalk toward them, heels clacking, calling to Varen.

The stereo kicked on. Guitars and crashing drums filled the car, somebody screaming more than singing.

The woman stopped when she saw Isobel. For one full second, their eyes locked. pqdm.com