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But even in his embrace—on the other side of fulfilling her promise—she knew they both had to be thinking the same thing. How, as beautiful as this was, as real as it seemed, it wouldn’t last. Couldn’t . . .
“Please,” she said, pushing back against him gently, enough to find his gaze again. “Say you’ll come with me.”
“Where?” he asked. But he sounded so uncertain.
“Home,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Where else?”
His brow knitted in confusion. “Home,” he repeated, as if the word was foreign to him. “You mean . . . heaven?”
The question, as startling as it was sobering, stole her already faltering smile.
She let her arms slip away from him.
Though it was clear that Varen now believed she was real, that he understood she’d come here to get him, it suddenly became equally clear that somehow, he still thought she was dead.
And if he was asking about heaven, did that mean he assumed they both were?
The memory flashes. The writing on the wall. Varen’s horrified reaction after her words about conquering death—now it all made sense.
He still believed that he’d killed her. It was the only way he’d been able to reconcile Isobel’s presence in the dreamworld.
“Varen, I’m . . . ,” she started, but as a look of dark concern clouded his features, her voice stalled in her throat and she thought better of trying to explain.
If keeping the truth to herself meant he would follow her more readily, if it gave her a better chance of luring him out of this realm—of convincing him that, with her, he could leave its boundaries—would it not be better to go on letting him think she was . . . what? A spirit sent to collect him?
An angel, she corrected herself, remembering the pair of statues standing watch at the altar, the stone seraphs populating the courtyard. The bust of the helmeted warrior girl stationed above the purple chamber’s doors. A guardian angel.
“Tell me you trust me,” Isobel said, peering into his eyes again. “Do you?”
His gaze narrowed on her, and he gave no answer. She could tell he knew there was something she wasn’t divulging. Something he was missing.
Another wave bowled into them, hard enough to knock Isobel off balance. Varen reached for her and held her steady. They watched the wave as it tumbled to the shore, crashing there with a low boom, hissing as it spread its way up the long bank of sand.
The tide had begun its nocturnal conquest of the beach, giving the illusion that, though she and Varen hadn’t moved, they’d drifted farther out.
“Are you doing this?” Isobel asked.
“No,” he said, jaw flexing, his focus still on the shore.
A beat passed before he spoke again. “It’s not over . . . is it?” he asked, looking down at her.
Isobel grasped him by the sleeves.
She bit her bottom lip and dug deep for what to say, wishing she could tell him that the nightmare had ended, that they’d reached their forever and there wasn’t anything left to be afraid of.
For one blissful instant, it had certainly felt like they had.
“Do you trust me?” she asked again.
Varen watched her with concern, brow knitted, his stare suddenly sober, searching. Slowly, he nodded.
“Then come with me,” she said, taking his hand. “And don’t let go.”
Gathering her soaked skirts in her free hand, she tugged at Varen.
He didn’t ask any more questions, and when Isobel started in the direction of the shore, he followed behind.
Black waters lapped at them, pearly pockets of white moonlight mottling the surface that seemed to lengthen as they headed toward the beach. Step after sinking step, Isobel trudged ahead, but the coast drew no closer.
