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Isobel glanced in the direction of Varen’s house. Through the thick cluster of trees, she could determine only the vague outlines of the homes farther down the street.
She moved onward, trying to ignore the sharp sting of the scratch that marred her cheek.
But the pain, like the thought of what the wound meant, would not relent.
Pinfeathers . . .
The way he had touched her had seemed so gentle. Like a caress. But she now knew that he’d inflicted the cut on purpose.
It had been his last act of protection. His final warning.
His way of telling her that Varen . . .
No.
Isobel stopped, refusing to let her thoughts stray in that direction. She knew better than to let the things that occurred in this world take root in her mind and grow. If she allowed that, she risked forgetting what was real, forgetting that what she’d had with Varen was real. That it still was.
It had to be.
A burst of wind slipped past as she continued to make her way down the desolate street. It was the first breeze she had felt since leaving the garden. Cool and brisk, it carried with it that familiar scent. Incense, spice, crushed leaves.
Ahead, the solemn structure of Varen’s house loomed into view, a darker twin of its real-world equivalent, its facade in complete reverse.
Unlike the other houses, which all looked as if they’d been blown through from the inside out by well-thrown grenades, Varen’s, though distorted, seemed to be intact.
The now-blackened windows gave the mansion a wounded look. And the stained-glass front door, no longer golden hued, hung slanted in its frame. A deep violet glow emanated from its colored panes, reminding Isobel of the purple chamber from the Masquerade, the room where she had left Varen on Halloween night.
The most obvious disfigurement of all, however, was the crack that zigzagged from the crown of the structure down to its very base, effectively splitting the house into two. One side, the right side, stood straight, bricks and windows in solid order. But the left side tilted downward, the second-story window askew, like a sorrowful eye.
Isobel stopped between a pair of trees that occupied the very place where the front sidewalk should have been. She looked up, seeking Varen’s bedroom window through the tangle of limbs, and saw a tall shadow slide by. It passed quickly, but she would know its shape anywhere.
“Varen,” she whispered, and hurried onto the sloping porch. But as soon as she touched the doorknob, an unexpected sound caused her to pull back.
Music. Piano music. It came muffled through the door, the lullaby drifting out in lingering tones.
Isobel set her hand on the doorknob again. As she did so, she felt the metal twitch beneath her fingertips. She heard a sliding back, followed by the clunk of the heavy metal deadbolt. Then the door drifted slowly and silently open, moving inward on its own.
A screen of pure darkness greeted her.
Like the house itself, the blackness that pulsated within seemed somehow alive, made of the same substance she had seen churning on the ceiling of Poe’s hospital room. It was the same murk that had stolen out of thin air to wrap its way around Varen during the Grim Facade, pulling him into its depths.
Isobel listened as the piano music continued to flow forth from beyond the sheet of darkness.
She hesitated, wondering if following the music through the black miasma was exactly what Lilith wanted her to do. Lifting a hand to the hamsa at her throat, Isobel wrapped her fist around the amulet.
Even if this was a trap, she thought, what other choice did she have?
She stepped into the house.
As she moved through the doorway, she felt the blanket of shadows engulf her. Black smoke tendrils slithered over her. Like tentacles, they wrapped their way around her arms and waist. She felt them pull her inward.
The darkness smudged her surroundings into nothing as the piano music became garbled in her ears. Though it grew louder for an instant, closer, the notes themselves began to tremble and shudder. They warbled and echoed, almost as though she’d been plunged far underwater.
Then, as suddenly as they had taken hold, the shadows released her.
Like a thick fog, they receded from her, leaving her standing in the foyer of Varen’s house, a few clinging wisps slithering over her now-bare shoulders and arms.
Glancing down, she found herself wearing a dress of pure ebony, her gritted and ash-caked clothes, along with Varen’s jacket, having vanished. A pair of black slippers took the place of her boots.
