“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.
On the other, a hollow socket appeared to do the same.
Her gut feeling about Pinfeathers, she now knew, had been right. He wouldn’t harm her.
Of course, her gut had been right about another thing too. That she should never have entered the park. That something horrible awaited her within.
The very same something that had stalked her through its boundaries the last time.
Isobel’s hands sprang to her lips. “What—what did she do to you?”
“Ah well,” Pinfeathers said, shrugging. “Apparently, it was either this or scrapbooking. You know what they say. Everyone needs a hobby. You should take up jogging. Now would be optimal timing, I think.” He tugged at his collar with one claw, as if loosening a necktie. “I’m starting to feel a little crowded . . . if you catch my drift.”
Though the two Nocs apparently occupied a single shell, it was becoming more and more evident with every passing second that only one Noc could hold dominion over the shared body at any given time. What had Pinfeathers said when she’d heard his voice in the purple chamber? We’re here, and that means he’s gone.
The struggle—it must be constant. But . . .
“You can fight him,” Isobel said, inferring through his words and by the way he flinched, his head jerking suddenly to one side, that Scrimshaw was attempting to surface. To push through and take over. “Like . . . like you did in the garden,” Isobel added more weakly, and now she sounded desperate even to her own ears.
Wrapping his arms around himself, Pinfeathers lowered his head. Claws digging into his biceps, he quivered with restrained energy.
“Yes, the garden,” Pinfeathers said. “While that little scrap was so easily won—no contest, really—we’ll have to tag-team it this time, I think. Me plus he against me and you. Two against two. What do you say, cheerleader? That way the odds are more even. Can’t beat that now, can we? Ha. Well, I guess we’ll soon see.”
Without her telling them to, her feet began to take her in reverse.
“Don’t let him through,” Isobel urged. “You’re strong enough. You are. Please. You—you’re all I have.”
“Touching.” Wincing, he held up a palm. “Really. Romantic even. But save it. I think we both know that’s not how you would have it. Otherwise, you might have stayed in the dream. The one I made for you. For us.”
She knew he was referring to the last time the dreamworld and reality had come this close. On Halloween night. Almost as soon as Isobel had crossed from the warehouse of the Grim Facade into the masquerade ball of Poe’s story, she had encountered Pinfeathers. After throwing her into a mad waltz amid the masked revelers, guiding her through steps she shouldn’t have known how to execute, he’d swept them both into an alternate version of reality. Appearing to her there as Varen—blond, like in the childhood picture Isobel had glimpsed in Varen’s house, normal-looking right down to his blue button-up shirt and jeans—Pinfeathers had entrapped her, lulling her senses with the promise of an ideal existence.
