Nevermore

“He’s sitting right there. Right next to Brad. Nikki, you see him, right?” Isobel glanced at her former best friend, only to be met with an expression of hurt and doubt.

“Are you making fun of me or something?”

“What? No! I—”

“Iz,” Stevie interjected, “Nikki has been trying to say she’s sorry.”

“No, I know!”

“Tch!” Scooting her tray aside, Nikki pulled her ostrich legs out from the table and rose. “I knew you wouldn’t listen.” Leaving her tray behind, she stalked off, hurrying toward the courtyard doors.

With a heavy sigh, Stevie drew himself up. Before turning to follow, he eyed Isobel with baleful disapproval.

She shook her head. “No, this isn’t about that! Look!” She pointed. “He’s right there! He’s sitting right there. He’s got . . .” Ignoring her, Stevie turned to head Nikki off at the door. Isobel let her gaze trail after them for a moment until, looking back, she saw that the boy sitting next to Brad had turned to stare at her. She quickly lowered her arm, something in her gut telling her she shouldn’t have pointed.

“Isobel,” Gwen started, “no offense, but I’m gonna have to go with the cheeries on this one. Not funny.”

Transfixed, Isobel watched as the blood-haired boy raised a thin, abnormally long hand, the tips of which ended in long, red, talonlike claws. He waved at her, and she felt her stomach plummet to the floor. Her mouth went as dry as paper.

They couldn’t see him. No one could see him. No one but her. Even Brad, who was sitting closest to the boy, hadn’t been paying any attention. He’d been bent low over the table, conferring with Mark, who hadn’t seemed to take any notice either. And Alyssa, indifferently listening in, sat coating her nails in polish, oblivious.

“I’ll . . . I’ll be right back,” Isobel mumbled, gripping the table for support as she rose.

“What? Wait a sec, where are you going? Isobel. You’re not seriously going over there. Hey! Are you crazy? Sit down!”

She felt Gwen swipe at and catch the hem of her pleated skirt. She pulled free, however, her heart drumming a steady rhythm in her ears as she headed toward the wide windows paneling the wall, walking in a straight line toward the crew’s table. She was surrounded by the low murmur of talking, the clank and clatter of silverware and trays. Somewhere behind her, a table erupted into laughter. It all felt so real, so normal.

The muttering between Brad and Mark ceased when Alyssa, with one yet-to-be-slathered nail, tapped the space between them. “Hey,” she said, “look who’s coming over to chat.”

But she wasn’t there to talk. Not to them, at least.

Sitting one seat over from Brad, closest to the window, the blood-haired boy leaned forward, turning his head toward her, revealing the other side of his face. Isobel froze, her eyes locking on the jagged black hole that marked his cheek, as though an entire chunk of his face had been knocked out, like a chink in a porcelain vase. She could see straight through, to his hollow jaw and the two rows of red daggerlike teeth within.

Fear pulsed through her, and yet she stood hypnotized. He was horrible and fascinating all at once, like a scorpion prepared to strike, all angles and sharp lines and menace.

Running now on pure nerve, Isobel took up her steps again, determined to prove to herself that this wasn’t a hallucination—that she was awake, and this was real. The boy’s eyes followed her, eyes that she now saw held no irises, whole only in their blackness.

“Well hey, Isobel,” Brad said, greeting her with mock enthusiasm, “what a surprise.”

“So you can see me,” said the boy. The sound of actual words coming out of his mouth startled her.

His voice was quiet, smooth, and acidic, somehow corroded in essence, as though he was speaking through a thin layer of radio static.

It was eerily familiar.

This close, Isobel could see that his hair, which really was more like coarse feathers, grew darker, almost black toward the roots that weren’t roots at all, but thick quills sprouting from his scalp.

“That’s very interesting,” he continued, “that you can see me like this.” He smiled, flashing a dangerous, dark pink mouth filled with jagged teeth the color of red coral.

Isobel swallowed, clearing the way for her own voice. “Who are you?”

Brad flipped his fork onto his tray, and Isobel jumped at the clatter. She’d almost forgotten he was even there.

“Aw, c’mon, Iz,” he said, “don’t give me that old ‘I don’t even know who you are anymore’ crap.

And don’t pretend I didn’t warn you.”

Suddenly the blood-haired boy moved. Isobel’s focus snapped to him as, in a series of quick, jerky motions, like a DVD on fast-forward, he brought an arm across Brad, extending a red-clawed hand toward her. “The name is Pinfeathers.”

Isobel drew back half a step, making no move to touch him, staring instead, as though it were a dead rat he’d offered her and not his hand. His nails, more like the scarlet fangs from some deadly venomous snake, gleamed in the light.