With that, she shoved through the door, into the cathedral hall of Varen’s Gothic palace.
Whirling, she ran again, steps echoing as her feet carried her fast down the long alley of columns and violet stained-glass windows.
She headed straight toward the altar, to the twin angels and their double-edged swords.
“Wake up!” she snapped at them.
Their eyes sprang open, those sapphire orbs glowing in faces that mirrored hers.
Isobel sprinted up the short set of steps. She slammed a hand on the altar, vaulted over it and, landing on her feet on the other side, twisted in time to see Scrimshaw storming down the long corridor toward her, a crazed smile contorting the entirety of his halved face.
“Break him,” Isobel commanded her angels in a whisper.
The seraphs moved in unison as they swung their swords up, holding them at the ready.
“Two can play, child!” bellowed Scrimshaw, and, as he slid to a stop, he sliced his hand through the air. Instantly the feathers of the stone angels’ wings shriveled, dropping away to reveal dragons’ wings. Wheeling on Isobel, the pair of figures morphed into crimson-eyed gargoyles, foreheads sprouting curling rams’ horns, faces elongating, noses sharpening into snarling snouts. Forked tails lashed out behind them like whips.
The statues released their swords. The blades clattered to the marble floor, and dropping onto all fours, two grotesque, doglike creatures growled and snapped in place of the seraphs.
Isobel groped through her mind for a counterattack, keeping watch on the serpentine tails that flipped and twitched as the chimeras stalked toward her, their massive stone paws cracking the marble beneath them with each stride.
Then, before she could even think about dodging the pair, they bounded forward. Leaping onto the altar, they opened toothy jaws wide, roars deafening and breath furnace-hot as they descended upon her. They might have crushed her even before they could have torn her to shreds—and would have—had Isobel not turned them to dust with a well-timed thought.
Debris rained over her, powdering her in yet another layer of grime.
“A bit like playing a game of chess, isn’t it?” Scrimshaw asked, materializing on the opposite side of the altar. Leaning his elbow against the marble top, he propped his split chin in one palm. Red claws drummed the right side of his face, the Pinfeathers side. With a blue claw of his free hand, Scrimshaw drew circles in the dust of his demolished demons. “That would make it your turn.”
Chess? Pawn. The words brought a sudden idea to her mind.
Swiveling on her heel, Isobel dashed to a tapestry covering the rear wall. Imagining another door behind it, picturing the first place that came to mind—the only space big enough to host her plan without overlapping the real world—she ripped the drapery free.
She visualized herself in her cheer uniform, the one with HAWKS embroidered on the top and the matching blue skirt with yellow pleats. As she shoved through the ornate double doors, her clothing morphed in compliance, her performance sneakers squeaking on the floor as she hurried into the white ballroom of Poe’s Red Death masquerade story.
Quickly, though, she skidded to a halt, too arrested by what she saw to engage the next phase of her plan.
Bodies—more skeleton than flesh—lay everywhere. Mounds of them.
Still clothed in their rotting costumes, their decaying faces half-hidden beneath their garish, gore-stained guises, the courtiers and revelers lay strewn across the floor, draped over one another, a corps of corpses.
Limp forms draped the banisters and balconies, arms hanging free.
Shrunken and shriveled, the musicians sat slumped in their chairs. Their mouths hung agape, the ragtag wings of their dragonfly costumes bent and broken. Several of them still held on to their instruments with mummified grips.
The walls and flaking gold-leafed domed ceiling of the formerly grand ballroom matched the state of its inhabitants: decrepit and crumbling.
Isobel’s hand rushed to cover her mouth. Fighting the urge to retch, she spun back to see Scrimshaw leaning a shoulder against the frame of the open doorway, his arms folded.
“Don’t care much for the redecorating, I see,” he said. “That’s too bad, since you’re about to join the decor.” Pushing off from the jamb, he started toward her. “So thoughtful of you to have changed into a costume.”
“It’s not a costume,” Isobel snapped, scuttling backward. “And if we are playing chess, then it’s still my turn.”
Smirking, the Noc paused. “By all means,” he said, with an inviting wave of his hand.
Continuing to put distance between them, Isobel imagined the floor taking on a checkered pattern, like in the lunchroom at Trenton. Like on a chessboard.
