Nevermore n-1

by Келли Криг

  He recoiled with a long hiss. His frame loosened once more, and he became a mix of wisps and bird. He floated above the grave, a dark mass emitting hoarse croaks and inhuman wails.

  His wings beat at the air with a broken rhythm, his bird’s body twirling in a spiral, struggling to gain the purchase of flight. His face appeared through the vapor, long enough to roar at her.

  Then, as violet mist, he swept away, black plumes escaping his wings, flitting down like fallen leaves into the open grave.

  In the distance, the deep chimes of the hour continued to ring, and there was no way to know how many remained to be announced. Isobel threw the hollow, broken arm to one side and returned to the coffin, which had grown silent.

  “Brad!” she called. She pulled at the wooden lid. It budged only slightly. Isobel whirled, looking for the shovel. She snatched it up and drove the blade against the side of the coffin. The wood cracked, but not enough. She tried again.

  “Brad!”

  She hacked the blade against the wood again, and this time a portion of one corner splintered off. Isobel dropped the shovel. She shoved her hands into the hole and pulled upward. The coffin lid came slowly. She conjured all her strength, pulling until at last the lid came free, clattering to the side just as the bell tower’s final chime bonged through the cemetery.

  It was twelve midnight exactly.

  Inside the coffin, Brad lay silent and shaking, his eyes fixed heavenward. He was dressed in a clean hospital gown, his broken leg bandaged in a thick blue cast. Isobel reached for him, but her hands swept cleanly through, as though he were a hologram.

  “Brad!” she shouted.

  His shaking intensified.

  “Is-Isobel?” he murmured. His eyes stared sightlessly past her, focused on something above her.

  She tried grasping for him again, but once more her arms ghosted straight through him.

  Something thick, wet, and warm splattered against her arm, stopping her. She looked to see a bright crimson starburst of blood glistening on her forearm. Had she been hurt?

  Another splatter came, this one straight into the open palm of her questioning hand.

  Isobel looked up. Blood oozed from the statue looming above her.

  Great streaks of red coursed the length of its robes, sliding down the folds of its stone gown, pooling in the dirt.

  “Isobel!”

  Brad flew upward and past her, his limp form yanked from the grave like a rag doll, plucked by an unseen force. He swept up, distorted and stretched, elongating as he was sucked one inch at a time into the visage of the statue. It drew him in, arching the moment it absorbed him completely, Brad’s screams snuffing into silence.

  Within the darkened hood, two pinpricks of ruby light sprang to life.

  Stone gave way to spilling folds of brilliant crimson. Blood soaking through the stirring fabric of its robes, the figure moved. It turned its head and stepped down from the anchor of its granite base. Isobel stared in motionless horror as the specter rounded the gaping hole in the earth, its blood-dabbled robes fluttering about its shape as it floated more than walked.

  A heavy train of red fabric followed the form. It dragged through the ash, causing a cascade of red-stained grit to spill over her.

  Isobel coughed and fell back, sprawling into the now empty coffin. She squinted through a haze of dust, mesmerized as she watched the dripping thing drift around the outer perimeter of the open grave.

  “Brad?”

  The figure stopped. Its glistening, fiendish gaze fell on her. From within the drape of its sleeve, it raised a hand over the open grave, over her. The blood-drenched, bone-thin fingers curled one at a time into a slow fist. Beneath her, she felt the ground tremble, then shudder. Above, the edges of her enclosure quivered, dirt and rock loosening until, at last, they broke forth in a tidal surge.

  Earth poured over her in rushing waves from all sides. It fell against her body in heavy clods, a suffocating weight that fast became crushing.

  “No!” she screamed, flailing. She thrashed, battling to loosen herself from the raining soil and ash that threatened to consume her. She fought to stand, causing the dirt to press more tightly around her. It claimed her legs, trapping her. She reached with both arms toward the edge of the grave, toward the open sky, but the earth gushed, building to her waist, to her chest. It piled past her shoulders, her head, and now raced to consume her arms, swallowing the light one fragment at a time. With it went the vision of the trees, the gravestones, the ashen sky, and the scarlet, blood-drenched visage of the Red Death.

  44

  Red Death

  The growing silence seared her mind. Isobel arched against the constricting earth, the enclosing darkness. Her dirt prison shifted in answer to her movements, compressing.

  Out! She needed to get out!

  With her mouth clamped shut, she unleashed a scream from the back of her throat. But who would hear? She couldn’t move her arms. Her legs. Anything. Panicked, she realized she’d been holding her breath. The packed dirt squeezed her chest, crushed her lungs. She couldn’t breathe!

  She gasped involuntarily and was rewarded with a mouthful of coarse grime. She swallowed and her body convulsed at the acrid taste. Her lungs burned for air. Her heart knocked hard against her rib cage, begging for release.

  If she didn’t get out, she was going to die. She knew it. She was going to die.

  Varen. She thought his name over and over in her head. Varen, where are you?

  No answer came to her, and gradually she grew still again. Locked in the earth’s suffocating embrace, she listened to the flutter of her heart, the only sound in her ears as, beat by beat, its rhythm began to slow. Its thump reminded her of the sound of a clock, one that was winding down, about to stop forever.

  At least she’d gotten to see him, she thought, to tell him how she felt. At least he knew. At least she’d tried. Tears pricked at her eyes. How could she die when she’d promised to come back for him? When he was waiting for her? She squeezed her eyes and felt the tears leave her, stolen by the absorbing dirt that had taken her breath, and with it, her final hope.

  Something cool grazed the very tips of her fingers. That was when she realized that they must be the only bit of her still above ground. Her waning consciousness told her it was the wind. The sensation came again, and Isobel flexed her fingers—and felt the soft brush of . . . fabric?

  All at once, the crushing pressure pushing down on her lightened. Something drove into the dirt, and Isobel latched at once to the arm that plunged to grasp hers. It pulled, and she felt herself being dragged up one inch at a time. The dirt fell away, releasing her from its death grip. Her head broke the surface. She gasped. Someone was there, pulling her free.

  Coughing, Isobel sucked in cool gulps of air, her lungs battling to expel hunks of dark gray soot.

  “Varen?” she choked, groping for the arms that pulled her from the grave. “Varen!”

  “Why will you not heed my words?”

  The gloved hand clutching hers tightened. She opened her eyes.

  From behind the white scarf, Reynolds’s dark gaze tunneled into hers, anxious, angry, and . . . fearful? He shook her. “Why do you not listen to me? If you would only take control!”

  The world swam. Above him the sky churned to a deeper, more tumultuous violet. The ash fell heavily now, catching like snowflakes on her eyelashes. She blinked them away.

  “Varen,” she croaked. She released her clutch on Reynolds and fought to sit up.

  Ahead, through blurred vision, she could see the doors of the masquerade palace open. That thing—the Red Death—had gone inside.

  Isobel pushed against Reynolds, who held her still. She struggled to stand, but he gripped her hard, holding her steady by the shoulders. “You will not find him there.”

  Her eyes snapped to his.

  A long, low moan of wind stirred the edges of his cloak, the gale picking up speed. It whisked a cascade of falling ash between them in a whirlwin
d.

  “What are you talking about? Where is he?”

  “Escaped. If I am discovered in this, his release could cost what is left of my soul. And yours,” he added in earnest. “In truth, it could cost everything. Do not let it have been in vain.”

  Isobel shook her head, trying to understand. “How?”

  “I followed you,” he said, his tone clipped. “You left me no choice. I knew how to enter the purple chamber. May it be that I was not witnessed. If he was not intercepted, then it is on the other side, in your world, that he now waits.”

  Isobel hesitated, gripping his sleeve, wanting to believe. “You said there was no way!”

  “In truth, there is no real escape for him—for anyone,” he said. “Not unless the link he has created is destroyed. As long as it remains, this world shall always lay claim to him.”

  He drew back, and from within his cloak, he brought forth a gathering of coarse green cloth. A familiar jacket—Varen’s. There was the emblem of the bird pinned to the back, and the patches of all his favorite bands sewn to the sleeves. Startled, Isobel reached for it. She took it in her dirt-caked hands and knew from its scent that it was truly his.

  “How did you get this?”

  “He bequeathed it to me as a token of testimony, because you had mentioned me as a friend. And so now, as your friend, I beseech you.” She looked up from the jacket and saw that the plea within those black eyes was real, filled in equal parts with pain and desperation. “Help me to honor my vow as I have helped you to honor yours.” The fluttering ash began to fall more heavily around them. “The world of dreams and the world of your reality have already begun to merge. All that you know is in danger. The fusion has only just begun. It is incomplete, and so there is yet a small chance. As long as that hope remains by your side, so shall I. But you must end this now.”

  Her eyes strayed down to the churned soil, to the thick, black liquid trail of blood, the ominous path left by the Red Death.

  “What about Brad?”

  “His spirit, stolen by the Nocs, exists here in astral form alone, trapped between realms. As long as he is held by forces here, his body will remain in your world while his mind, his essence, lingers here, imprisoned. A torturous link, which only death could sever. It is what happened to Edgar.”

  He stood, and Isobel felt herself being drawn to her feet.

  “But how can I free him when I couldn’t even touch him?”

  “You mustn’t touch him now. He has been cast in the role of the Red Death—a figure whose sole function, you well know, is to destroy.”

  “What do you mean? Cast by who—or what?”

  “There is no more time for questions. If you wish to save either of them, then you must take action now. You must change the dream, Isobel. It is here, in this realm, that you hold the ability to control your surroundings, as long as you do not allow them to control you first. That grave”—he pointed—“you could have flown out of it.”

  Isobel stared at the sunken ground, disbelieving.

  “Come,” he said, releasing her. “We must go at once to the woodlands.” He started away. Following the path of blood, he moved in the direction of the abbey.

  “Wait!” she called after him, gripping Varen’s jacket to herself. “First tell me why you came back. Why did you change your mind?”

  “I didn’t,” he said without turning. “You did.”

  She took a wobbly step after him. “But you said—how do I know I can trust you?”

  Calling back, he did not stop. “As I have been left with no choice but to place my faith in you, Isobel, so it seems have you been left with no choice but to place yours in me.”

  She glared after him, a shudder running through her. He was always talking in circles like this, always leaving her with more questions than answers. It made her want to scream at him, to demand one single cut-and-dry, yes-or-no reply.

  But she knew he was right. Time had run out. It had slipped through her fingers, like sand, leaving her with no other choice but to trust him. This person, this entity who she knew nothing about yet at the same time knew enough to have called him a friend. He had warned her from the beginning. He had saved her. He’d tried to save Edgar. And now he was trying to help her save Varen.

  She moved to follow him, and her feet wobbled unsteadily beneath her, her knees weak. She paused to slide her muddied arms into the sleeves of Varen’s jacket. She drew the fabric close around her and turned up the collar as she had once seen him do. His scent washed over her, expelling from her mind the bitter taste of dirt and the coppery smell of blood. Now each of them held in their possession something of the other’s. Something to return. A double promise. Affirmation that there was still a chance. That they would see each other again when, at last, the nightmare ended.

  When she ended it.

  Ahead, Reynolds turned, waiting, his black cloak fluttering around him as he watched her through the screen of falling ash.

  She ran to catch up, her footfall sure once again.

  45

  A Door

  They found the double-doors of the palace open, a long smear of blood leading them inside to the first chamber—the blue chamber. Crystal snowflakes hung suspended from a vaulted ceiling, wavering ever so slightly in the eerie stillness that now replaced the once feverish chaos of the masquerade.

  The revelers had since stopped their antics and had receded from the center of the floor. They stood in a mass of confusion and fear, masks lowered, eyes darting in the direction of the open doors leading into the purple chamber. Following on Reynolds’s heels, Isobel rushed into the room. Or rather, into the space where the purple chamber should have been. Instead she found herself back in the warehouse—at the Grim Facade—the raging goth music blasting at full volume, the sudden noise of it startling her so much that for a split second she’d thought the world truly had ended.

  Confused, Isobel turned to look behind her. The archway to the chamber remained, freestanding in midair, all the courtiers watching her, their faces as stunned as hers. She glanced down. Between her feet, a long wet smear of blood marred the floor.

  She followed its path with her eyes, her gaze stopping on the hem of a scarlet-stained robe.

  The Red Death. It glided amid the other costumers, who, Isobel noticed, began to consist of goths and dream-revelers alike. And the two worlds were only just starting to notice each other.

  Reynolds appeared suddenly at her side. “Look out,” he growled, shoving her.

  A hissing sound pierced her ears as a Noc came sailing between them. Reynolds, his arm as quick as a striking cobra, grasped the Noc by the neck and slammed the creature to the floor, where it shattered on impact, a look of shock registering on its face the instant before it smashed apart.

  Several masqueraders and goths squealed and shrank back from the commotion.

  “Reynolds!” Isobel gasped, pointing. Behind him, another Noc formed through a cloud of violet murk. Reynolds whirled, taking a swipe with one arm, his movements precise, practiced.

  His attack sailed through the violet mist, and, laughing, the Noc slid away. Another swooped in to take its place, snatching Reynolds’s hat from his head and placing it on his own, while yet a third formed through the air, its crimson claws raised.

  Isobel rushed the Noc that was poised to strike. At the sight of her, it screeched in terror and dissipated. She heard an echoing shriek from somewhere to her right, followed by another smash. Then the head of the Noc that had stolen Reynolds’s hat, now free of its body, rolled to a stop at her feet, its eye sockets hollow and void. Isobel brought her foot down, crushing the face in.

  The remaining Nocs wailed in terror, and as one, they receded, flitting apart as they took their bird forms. Their dark wings whisked them up and higher, until they reached the banisters of the gallery, where they perched. There they squawked and hopped, their caws ringing in their throats like curses.

  Isobel glanced down in time to see Reynolds replace his hat o
ver thick, dark, and smoothed-back hair.

  Somewhere in the crowd, a girl screamed. The goth music ground to a slow halt, and the moaning singer’s voice died out. Everyone began to take notice, to shrink back from the visage of the Red Death. At its feet lay one of the dream-revelers, her silver dress spotted with crimson. Beneath her dove’s mask, her face oozed, glistening red from the pores.

  “It is happening,” Reynolds said. “You must go to the woodlands now, find the door with the signs. You’ll know it when you see it. The link between our worlds is there inside. You’ll know that, too, when you see it. Godspeed, and beware the white one.”

  “What—but I don’t even know how to—”

  “Go,” he said. “Only you can change the dream. Only you can sever the link.”

  She hesitated. “What about you?”

  “I will fight here.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

  His eyes locked with hers. Surprise lit their darkness from within. And then he laughed, a bitter sound. “For me, the worst has long since been done. Now go.”

  “But—!”

  “I cannot vanquish the Red Death. Not without killing the boy whose soul it imprisons. I can only hold it at bay, and only for so long. Then know that I will do what I must.”

  “What? Brad? No! But—but I don’t even know how to get to the woodlands from here!”

  “Make a door, Isobel,” he said. “When there is no way, you must make a way.” His hands disappeared beneath the folds of his cloak. There was a scrape of metal, and in the next moment, his gloved hands emerged. In each, he now brandished a short curved blade. A pair of silver cutlasses. They glinted in a pass of strobe lights. Without a further word, he turned from her. His gait measured and assured, he walked a straight line for the figure of the Red Death.