Nevermore

He’d been right there in front of her not two seconds ago and now, in the space where he should have stood . . . nothing.

Isobel peeked into the nearest classroom. Vacant. She turned again, this time in a slow circle.

Lockers slammed. Somewhere in the distance, she recognized the shouts of her favorite call-and-response chant: “When I say Trenton, you say Hawks! Trenton! Hawks! Trenton! Hawks! When I say down, you say Bulldogs! Down! Bulldogs! Down! Bulldogs!” More students streamed by her, laughing and chattering, no one seeming to have noticed one person’s total evaporation.

* * * When Isobel entered the lunchroom, she found Gwen right away, sitting at their table. Stevie was there too, which wasn’t a big surprise. Someone she hadn’t expected to find, though, sitting at one far end, picking through her untouched taco salad, bedecked in cheerful dangling earrings yet still managing to look mopey, was Nikki.

For a moment their eyes met. Isobel resisted the urge to look away, to steal a glance toward where she knew the crew would be sitting. Or, she corrected herself, where what was left of the crew would be sitting. With Nikki attempting to cross over and merge with the light side (if that indeed was what she was trying to do), Isobel figured the crew should be neatly split somewhere down the middle.

At this newest complication, Isobel found herself more annoyed than anything, wishing Nikki had picked another day. Yesterday, for instance. She didn’t have time for drama right now. She switched her gaze to Stevie, who waved, no doubt on Nikki’s side for her attempt at a smooth convergence.

“Hey, Iz,” he called, “where’ve you been?”

Isobel came to a stop beside the table, letting her bag drop to the floor. “Long story.”

“You know,” said Gwen, after swallowing a mouthful of what looked to Isobel like a peanut butter and banana sandwich, “I’ve seen that look before. Not on you”—she shook her head—“on somebody else. I think his name was Rambo.”

“Gwen.”

“Isobel,” Gwen said, echoing her tone of seriousness.

Isobel swiveled where she stood, then sat so her knees faced out instead of in. This put her back to Stevie and Nikki. “Listen,” she said in a low voice, “can you still get me to that thing tonight?”

Gwen took another bite of the goopy sandwich and smiled. “I thought you said you didn’t want to go.” The words were barely decipherable.

Isobel frowned. She’d never said she didn’t want to go. She had wanted to go, only more so now because she had a gut feeling that if she was going to catch up to Varen at all, she would need to find him there, tonight, at the Grim Facade.

“Hey,” said Gwen, jabbing a bony elbow in Isobel’s ribs, “what’s with you? You’re doing that creepy stare-off thing again. What made you change your mind, anyway? Not that I was really going to give you a choice in the first place since I got Mikey to tag me. How come you’re not eating? Where’s your lunch? Talk to me here. Did you guys get the project done or what? And where is the Dark One, anyway? I haven’t seen him all day.”

He should be here at this table, Isobel thought, clenching a fist.

A new thought dawning on her, she lifted her gaze to scan the room. She looked toward the goths’ table. The congregation there was sparse, probably in aversion to the pep rally and the chaos of rival game day. And it was Halloween. No doubt they were all somewhere getting ready for their own celebration, for the Grim Facade. Among those missing from the table, Isobel couldn’t help but notice, was Lacy.

“Are you just going to sit there and ignore me?” came a quavering voice. Nikki.

Isobel pulled her feet up, turned around, and slid her legs underneath the table. She wished that she didn’t have to deal with this, of all things, right now.

“Just tell me if you hate me,” Nikki went on. She propped her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands—a condemned prisoner begging the executioner to hurry up with the ax already. “Tell me off or something.” Her chin trembled. “But don’t just sit there and ignore me.”

Isobel averted her eyes with an actual pang of guilt. “Nikki.” She sighed.

All at once, she sucked her breath back in.

“Omigod, Gwen.” She reached out, fixing a clawlike grip on Gwen’s arm. Her banana sandwich missing her mouth, it tumbled to the side and onto the floor.

“Omigod what? I was so gonna eat that.”

“Who’s that guy?”

“What guy?”

“That guy,” Isobel said, her hand tightening on Gwen’s arm. “Sitting with Brad.”

Both Stevie and Nikki swung around to look.

Sitting right next to Brad was a boy with porcelain white skin, his dark bloodred hair slicked back, sleek yet somehow spiky. His clothes were black leather and chains. Beneath the table, she could see he wore boots, and his pants were covered with buckles and dull silver chains. He had on a thin strap-covered black coat that almost looked like a straitjacket. It fitted snugly against the boy’s spindly frame.

“Where?” asked Gwen. “I don’t see anybody.”