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Though her display hadn’t been enough to persuade him, apparently it had done the trick for the ghouls, who must have glimpsed her in the veil before Reynolds had shocked her back into her body.
A flash of terror flared inside her with a new thought: Lilith must suspect now too.
In her desperation, had Isobel given herself away, tossing aside the one advantage Reynolds had told her she—he—they possessed?
ould only hope that, at this point, her parents would still want to listen. That they would believe her. That they might even understand.
“There. Sitting in the middle.”
Isobel froze, ears tuning to the static voice that had spoken from several seats behind.
“That isn’t her,” rasped a second voice.
“It is her. Can’t you feel it?”
Though her instinct was to turn and look, Isobel remained still, shoulders rigid, fingernails digging into her jeans.
Her eyes flitted between the other passengers.
Near the front, a businessman worked a newspaper crossword puzzle against one knee. Across from him, a woman holding a sleeping girl on her lap gazed distractedly out the window. Another woman sat with her head bowed, thumbing at her cell phone.
None of them had heard the exchange of whispers. Not that any one of them could have done a single thing to help her even if they had.
“Let’s move closer.”
“Patience. If it’s her, she’ll get off at the next stop. At the park behind her house. Watch.”
Careful to keep still, to appear oblivious, Isobel checked the driver’s rearview mirror for the source of the static voices, aware that she wouldn’t see the creatures even if she did turn around.
But the bus mirror—her only window into the veil—was tilted in such a way that she could see just the top half of the operator’s lined face.
Leaning forward, the driver ducked out of view, triggering the doors. They closed with a clunk, sealing her in.
The bus rumbled louder.
The Nocs. They expected her to get off at the next stop. If she wanted to evade them—if she even had a chance at that—she’d have to act now.
Shooting to her feet, Isobel yanked the stop cable.
At the sound of the ding, everyone looked up.
“Sorry,” Isobel said, sliding into the aisle, legs trembling. “This . . . is my stop.”
As she made her way to the front, she could feel all eyes on her—the seen and unseen.
She bowed her head, allowing her hair to fall forward enough to hide her face. When the doors rattled open again, she took hold of the metal grip bar.
Then, in the split second before swinging herself down the short set of steps and out, she did something she shouldn’t have.
She risked a second glimpse into the mirror.
At the rear of the bus, a pair of blood-haired Nocs rose from their seats next to unsuspecting passengers.
Isobel dropped her head again, but as her feet met with the sidewalk outside, she knew the pair had seen—and recognized—her, too.
17
Back into the Tempest
