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He nuzzled her neck, lips trailing to her shoulder.
“You . . . ,” Isobel said, her throat constricting.
“Us.”
And now she had her answer as to why Pinfeathers had returned. Lilith had brought him back to use as a weapon against her. Isobel had fulfilled her purpose, igniting the fuse that would send Varen on the rampage to destroy the veil and blend the two worlds. So the demon had deployed the Noc—Isobel’s lone would-be ally—as a final trap.
Hadn’t the Noc himself once confessed that he had to do whatever Lilith commanded?
“But . . . ,” Isobel murmured, her voice quavering, suddenly weak, “you wouldn’t. I know you wouldn’t. I know you.”
“For your sake, my dear Isobel, I very much hope you do. Because we certainly no longer recognize ourselves.”
“You’re not going to hurt me,” she said, her voice channeling a resolve she didn’t feel. “Even if you tried, you wouldn’t be able to.”
“It’s good to know you harbor so much faith in us,” he replied. “Because it’s all too far gone now, including us—especially us. And unfortunately for you, I’m very sorry to say, aside from this”—slowly his hand trailed up her body, claws snagging the fabric of her T-shirt, grazing her skin through the thin material, stopping only when his crackled palm pressed over the hamsa—“believing in the best of us—that we have a best to believe in—is the only weapon you have left.”
Isobel placed a hand on his. “You don’t have to do what she says. You’ve already proven that once. You protected me. You would do it again.”
She felt his hand twitch. “What do you suppose I’m trying to do right now?” he asked, his voice trembling. He seemed just as afraid as she did.
“You can’t hurt me,” Isobel said, the conviction in her voice failing. “No matter what, you won’t be able to.”
“I’m going to let you go,” he said. “And then . . . I want you to run.”
“No.”
“Run away. Like you did before. Like you should have done from the start.”
“I won’t,” Isobel said, tightening her grip on him. “I told you. I’m not afraid of you anymore. Either of you.” She shut her eyes, blocking out the trees and the road and the night, hoping that would help to make her words feel true.
“Oh, don’t you worry,” Pinfeathers said, loosening his arm from her waist. “Whether that’s really the case or not, there’s still plenty left to fear.”
Isobel spun before he could release her. She pressed her forehead to his chest.
“Don’t do this,” she breathed against him, gripping his jacket.
“Issssobel,” he hissed, drawing her name out as though to savor its sound.
Sharpened claws threaded into her hair. Her stomach clenched at the sensation, and when he leaned down, pressing his broken cheek to hers, she went rigid.
“You won’t.” She repeated it like a mantra, as if to reassure them both.
“Again . . . ,” he said, stepping back from her, the movement causing the open collar of his jacket to shift. Enough to allow her a glimpse of an etching, chiseled onto the shard positioned over the center of his hollow torso, over his nonexistent heart.
Slowly he withdrew his hand, and in her periphery, Isobel saw blue claws—not red—unthread from her hair.
“Half right.”
20
Twixt and Twain
Frozen in place, Isobel stood aghast as Pinfeathers continued to retreat from her, revealing more of himself the farther away he drew.
Horrible and heartrending, the truth left her wondering how she hadn’t guessed it all along.
A zigzagging crack split the Noc’s face in two. On the right half, the side that bore Pinfeathers’s trademark crater—the side that mirrored her scar—a single black eye watched her.
