by Kelly Creagh
She wasn’t dreaming, though. She couldn’t be.
“You found him,” Gwen said. “You talked to him. I know you did. ”
Feeling suddenly too warm in her coat, Isobel pressed her forehead to the cold window, wanting out—out of the car, out of this cemetery, out of her own skin.
“Fine,” Gwen snapped. “Let’s skip that one and come back. Moving on to the more immediate question. Whose boot prints were those in the hall?”
Nausea crept over her, causing her head to swim. Saliva rushed into her mouth.
“Stop the car,” Isobel said, but Gwen sped up, taking the twisting turns harder.
On either side of the winding blacktop, endless granite markers and squat tombstones dotted the hilly landscape, crowding all the way to where pavement met with grass. No cemetery could be this big, could it? And that obelisk . . . Hadn’t they passed it already?
“Tell me what happened,” Gwen demanded, her voice trembling with equal parts hurt and fear. “I deserve to know. ”
In the distance, Isobel spotted an awning tent. Beneath it, an open pit. A pile of fresh red earth waited to one side and, next to that, rolls of fake green turf meant to make things appear more natural. The scene flew by and dizziness slammed into her, bringing with it the memory of being buried alive in just such a trench, dirt pouring over her in heavy clods, pressing her down, crushing her chest and filling her mouth.
The cemetery around her became a rolling sea of stone and grass. Craggy trees cropped up with more frequency, blurry black skeletons between the markers that seemed to creep ever closer. Or was the lane growing narrower?
Robed statues sprang up everywhere, some with wings, others without, some holding rings of flowers, others clinging to crosses, all of them looking straight at her.
She was awake. She knew she was.
Wasn’t she?
“Isobel!”
“Stop. Please. I need to get out. ”
“Not until—”
“I said stop the car!” Isobel screeched.
Gwen hit the brakes, causing the tires to scream. The sound, combined with the lurching halt of the Cadillac, prompted Isobel to inhale at last. She gasped for air, and then she gasped again. And again.
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All this time, she hadn’t been able to take a single breath. She’d forgotten to try, but now she was breathing too much, too fast.
The cab of the car seemed to squeeze inward, the roof threatening to collapse.
Isobel pulled on the sweat-slicked handle still in her fist and the door swung open. She unlatched her seat belt and stumbled out into the winter air.
Her feet found the lawn, but her cold surroundings continued to orbit her. Names and dates swirled in her vision. Bile rose in the back of her throat and she staggered to one side, afraid she might hurl right there on Eloise McClain’s name plaque.
Instead she started running, bolting headlong through the rows of graves, the wind licking sweat from her skin.
“Isobel!” she heard Gwen shout.
Isobel dodged headstone after headstone. Then the terrain dipped. She felt her ankle twist. Faltering, she cried out before dropping, nearly tumbling into the stump of a stone topped by a tiny, acid-rain-eaten lamb—an infant’s grave.
She gripped the grass beneath her, crawling away from the distorted marker until her back met with the cold side of another.
Unable to look away from the child’s stone, Isobel covered her eyes.
“Isobel!” The sound of feet rushing over grass grew louder, and Isobel heard Gwen fall to her knees at her side, her bracelets clanging. Isobel dared not lower her hands to look, however, too fearful that Gwen would be like the paper people she’d seen in the hall—that her friend’s face would erode right before her, another nightmare she couldn’t escape.
“What,” Gwen huffed, “are you doing? Why . . . did you run . . . like that?”
“I should be dead,” Isobel gasped, her thoughts leaping out of her mouth as the memory of awakening on that hospital table ripped into her with chain-saw teeth. “I was, and I should have stayed that way. ”
“No!” Gwen pulled Isobel’s hands from her face, forcing her to look into her frantic brown eyes. “Why would you say that?”
“He—he tried to kill me,” Isobel whispered.
Saying it out loud for the first time felt like pulling a knife out of her soul. She was able to draw breath again, and gradually, the world stopped swirling.
Grabbing Isobel by the shoulders, Gwen pulled her away from the plinth. Isobel swayed, falling to lean against her warm friend.
Gwen’s wiry arms wrapped around her, pulling her in tight, and the scent of lavender caught Isobel off guard, because she’d never noticed it before. The aroma was one detail her brain could latch onto, though, something that testified to the realness of this embrace, which had to be the first she and Gwen had ever shared.
“I’m sorry,” Gwen said. “Isobel, I’m so sorry I brought you here. And I’m sorry I said those things in the car. I—I didn’t know. I just wanted to—I thought he—”
“She won. ” Isobel sobbed the words against Gwen’s shoulder, though her eyes remained dry; the storm raging within her took place inside a wasteland, where there could be nothing as cleansing as rain. “Gwen, she won. He hates me. She made him hate me. ”
“He hates himself,” Gwen said. “You just got caught in the cross fire. ”
She pulled Isobel tighter. But the comfort of arms around her could not shield her from the memory of his eyes. Like a pair of black holes, they threatened to devour her, to incinerate her like they had in the dream, leaving no trace of her former self behind. Not even this shell she now occupied.
“He can find me,” Isobel murmured. “Anywhere I am. He can find me. The ash in the hall . . . That—that happened in a dream. He was there. He . . . ”
Gwen hushed her.
“I wanted to come here today,” Isobel went on, “because—because I thought I might see him. Like before. Now, though, I’m afraid that I won’t ever stop seeing him. He scares me so much. I don’t know what he wants anymore. ”
Humming, Gwen began to rock her gently back and forth. Then, out of nowhere, she began to sing.
The sound of Gwen’s singing voice, smooth and melodic—so different from the brash, cut-and-dried voice Isobel thought she knew so well—shocked her into stillness. Isobel blinked, her focus shifting at once to the strange syllables climbing and falling through their haunting phrase.
“Lyulinke, mayn feygele
lyulinke, mayn kind
kh’hob ongevoyrn aza libe
vey iz mir un vind. ”
As Gwen’s song unwound with a slow, sad melody, Varen’s face—angry, vengeful, hollow—dissolved from her imagination, dissipating like smoke cleared by a gentle breeze.
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Cool air gusted past them, stirring Gwen’s hair, intensifying the scent of lavender, and with each silky note, the world around Isobel grew clearer, its lines sharper, the colors more vibrant, until she was fully present in the moment, not split between two places, two worlds.
She’d never known Gwen could sing like this. She’d never have guessed, either. Before this moment, Gwen had always been wry wit and blunt truths. Gwen was sound advice and rationality. Her kindness had always been the sandpaper sort, as abrasive as it was smoothing. Apparently, though, Gwen had a softness, too, a gentleness she kept hidden. A gentleness Isobel found herself all too grateful for.
“That word,” Isobel said as the song looped to its chorus. “Lyul—lyul—”
“Lyulinke,” Gwen said, pausing. “It means hush-a-bye. ”
Isobel shivered at the meaning, recalling how Varen’s mother had once composed a lullaby for him. Isobel had seen his memory of that moment multiple times, both in reality and in the dreamworld.
Like Gwen’s, Varen’s lullaby had been unbearably
sad. Sorrow distilled into sound. And though Isobel could not understand the lyrics of Gwen’s song, the music helped her to feel less alone. Because it captured how she felt. Bereaved. Forsaken. Held hostage by the past.
As Gwen’s singing turned again to humming, Isobel’s clenched muscles began to relax. Her body slackened in Gwen’s grip, and she rested her head into the crook of her friend’s arm, content to feel like a child again. Content to be reminded that, despite everything she’d lost, she was still here, still alive.
The song ended before Isobel was ready for silence, and though the ache inside of her returned with the pulsing noiselessness of the graveyard, the fear that had nearly consumed her moments before remained at bay.
“That was beautiful,” Isobel said at last, staring into the bright blue of the clear sky. “Where did you—?”
“My grandmother,” Gwen said. “Lullabies are kind of an old tradition in our family. In many families, I guess. They’re said to have the power to protect. The word ‘lullaby’ itself means, ‘Lilith, begone. ’”
Isobel frowned, remembering how Pinfeathers had once said something about lullabies. About how they never worked . . .
Then her fingers rushed to her collar, burrowing through the layers of material to find the hand-shaped pendant Gwen had given her, the amulet that had worked to save her life. “You mean like the hamsa?”
“Like the hamsa,” Gwen said.
The wind whipped past Isobel’s ears with a white-noise rush, mixing with the chirping of birds. She listened, doing her best to sync her breathing with Gwen’s, to slow the rhythm of her heart before trying to move.
Huddled there in the grass with the best friend she’d ever had, Isobel tried to limit her thoughts to the here and now, absorbing the calmness she would need to prepare her for whatever came next.
But then a loud crack boomed through the cemetery, causing the birds to disperse in a flutter.
Starting, Isobel sat up.
Gunshots, she thought as the blasts came twice more, their echoes ricocheting through the air like claps of thunder.
6
The Grey Tombstone
Peeking around the corner of an enormous mausoleum, Isobel saw another tent erected several yards away, its burgundy canvas shielding a gathering of about a dozen from the weak winter sun.
The cluster of mourners, dressed in somber suits, skirts, and heavy winter coats, stood with their backs to her and Gwen, facing what Isobel knew must be a grave site.
To one side of the small assembly, a trio of military officers waited at attention, each armed with his own rifle—the source of the gunshot blasts.
“Green Berets,” Gwen whispered, peering over Isobel’s shoulder. “This must be the bookshop guy. ”
Recalling how Bruce’s obituary had mentioned his service in the army, Isobel realized Gwen had to be right. The shots they’d heard moments before must have been meant as a final salute.
Isobel scanned the ranks of mourners, searching for Varen’s familiar form.
“Do you see him?” Gwen asked as the first notes of “Taps,” played by a lone bugler, floated forth to fill the reverent quiet.
Slipping out from behind the tomb, Isobel glanced left and right but saw no one among the other graves, no sign of that black coat or jet hair.
“No,” she said.
Just because she couldn’t see him, though, didn’t mean Varen wasn’t there. Watching.
Strengthened by Gwen’s lullaby, by the reminder of the hamsa’s presence around her neck, and by the knowledge that she had already survived Varen’s worst, she pressed toward the memorial, Gwen behind her. Together, they crossed the grassy alley between plots and entered the shade of the tent, joining the group at the rear.
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Gwen stayed close and pressed one shoulder into Isobel’s, like she thought doing so would help to keep her strong, grounded. The contact did better, reassuring her more than any timepiece could have.
As the bugler’s mournful serenade wore on, the tension in her shoulders eased, and her anxiety over the question of Varen’s presence faded. For it suddenly occurred to her that by standing at this grave site, she’d already accomplished what she’d set out to do. Her presence communicated what Varen had refused to let her convey with words. That she cared more than he knew. That despite what he’d been led to believe, that wasn’t something she could turn off, or shove aside. Or fake.
Isobel lifted her chin with new resolve and stared forward, through the spaces between shoulders, at the elevated casket. A flash of red, white, and blue fluttered as two soldiers lifted the American flag from the coffin’s silver lid. The officers then began to fold the banner in a series of clipped and practiced movements, and Isobel concentrated hard on the sharp, choreographed motions, working to clear her head.
Though she had attended only two funerals in her life, she had learned through both experiences that observances like this were intended for the living, not the dead. Burying someone meant sealing that person away for good, surrendering everything that wasn’t a memory. Anything that couldn’t be kept in an album or a box.
When the bugler’s song ended, the crowd shifted as if everyone had been holding their breath. Blinking, Isobel turned her attention to the wavy-haired man and little girl at the head of the group, the only two people to take seats.
When one of the soldiers stepped forward to kneel before the man, offering him the folded flag, Isobel realized the man had to be Bruce’s surviving nephew, mentioned in the obituary. And the girl must be the man’s daughter.
After presenting the flag, the soldier saluted and backed away. Then another man in a black suit and green tie, a bible tucked under one arm, stepped forth to address the crowd. He thanked everyone for coming and announced the conclusion of the service.
Low conversation broke out among the group. People angled toward one another and then away, breaking off in ones and pairs.
Isobel remained in place, stunned at the ceremony’s abrupt conclusion.
Whole minutes ticked by until only Isobel and Gwen were left standing under the awning. But Gwen, as if she was able to sense Isobel’s inner turmoil, stayed put, continuing to lend the pressure of her shoulder.
Car doors slammed in the distance. Somewhere close by, an engine turned.
Resisting the urge to crane her neck and check their surroundings one last time, Isobel turned toward Gwen instead. She started to speak, to tell her that she was ready to go even though she wasn’t. She stopped, however, when she noticed Gwen staring off at a pair of previously obscured metal tripods set up just outside the tent, each supporting a large photo.
The first tripod displayed a yellow-tinted portrait of a young, clean-shaven, and virtually unrecognizable Bruce in a Green Beret uniform, a strip of multicolored service ribbons pinned to his chest. The second photo showed an older and more familiar version of the bookshop owner, his face bearing an uncharacteristic grin. Seated next to him, a black-haired woman in a floral-print blouse beamed her own bright smile.
While Isobel assumed the woman must have been Bruce’s wife, she wasn’t immediately certain about the third and final person in the portrait—a boy who couldn’t have been much older than her at the time the picture had been taken.
Lanky and tall, clad in a white dress shirt and tie, the boy stood behind Bruce and the woman, a hand resting on one of her shoulders. His fair hair, not quite chin length, hung straight and limp around his face.
Isobel stepped toward the tripods, her curiosity piqued. She sensed Gwen following on her heels, but when Isobel stopped to study the photo, Gwen wandered ahead to the grave site and the casket that had yet to be lowered.
Squinting at the photo, Isobel noticed that unlike Bruce and his wife, the boy wasn’t smiling. But she thought he didn’t need to. He had kind and soft features, his bright steel-colored eyes lit from within by a spark of secret mirth, like he was wres
tling with the urge to make a face or hold up a pair of bunny ears.
“Oh my gosh,” Isobel heard Gwen say, and she saw her friend crouch in front of the flat slab embedded in the earth next to the empty space reserved for Bruce’s. Gwen waved her over.
“Look at the dates,” Gwen said. “His kid died only a year older than us. Couldn’t have been too long after that picture was taken. ”
Isobel stooped next to Gwen and read the name engraved on the marker.
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WILLIAM GREY NOBIT
Remembering that Bruce’s obituary had cited a deceased son, Isobel frowned at the short dash separating the birth date from the death date. Letting her fingertips trail over the numbers, she wondered what could have ended the boy’s life at just seventeen.
Though there was an epitaph inscribed below, the sad message held no answer.
Isobel mouthed the words silently to herself.
BARELY A MAN, YET SCARCELY A LAD,
OUR DEAR BOY, GREY, HAS GONE AWAY.
Recalling the heated argument she’d overheard little more than a month ago between the bookshop owner and Varen’s father, Isobel tilted her head at the stone, and she began to grasp that there had been a deeper layer to the friendship Varen and Bruce had shared than she had originally perceived. One she could never have fully appreciated until that moment.
Suddenly the term “best friends” no longer seemed like a fitting label for the unlikely pair. Family. The two had been family.
A makeshift father to a stand-in son.
That thought brought with it sharp pang of remorse, and a cavernous sense of pity for Varen.
Despite the pain he had caused her, the fear he now instilled within her, Isobel also knew he’d suffered enough loss already. Enough to make him choose darkness.
Enough for that darkness to feel like a sanctuary. A home.
Wherever he was, whether he was there watching her right that instant, or somewhere wandering the woodlands alone, she hoped this final blow wouldn’t drive him further into the despair that had already stolen him from her reach. But considering what she’d found in the hall that morning, Isobel feared it was too late—that Bruce’s passing had done exactly that.
“Uh, Isobel,” Gwen said, shooting to her feet. “We’ve got some stranger danger bringing up the rear here. ”
“What?” Isobel turned her head quickly—and then wished she hadn’t.