And maybe it was the fact that Isobel had returned Varen’s own words to him, instead of repeating something he’d heard her say in the past. Or maybe the combination of all her efforts had finally compounded, cornering his convictions. Whatever the reason, Isobel could tell that Varen’s room for denial had at last been obliterated.
He knew she wasn’t a dream.
But as Varen’s eyes widened, his shock morphing into terror, her burgeoning sense of relief quickly drained away.
As he continued his retreat, the singer’s muddled crooning died out. The light from the stage flickered, creating a strobe effect. The phantom goths began to move, heads turning in Varen’s direction. Slanted slits appeared on every cheek, oozing blood.
“That’s not possible,” Varen mumbled, shaking his head. “You are not possible.”
Isobel frowned, confused by his reaction. She reached for him, but as she did, another girl’s arm shot out from the crowd, snatching Varen by the sleeve. He wheeled away, jerking free, but another hand latched onto his arm.
When he looked to the girl who clutched his sleeve, instantly the figment became the bleeding and bedraggled Black Dress Isobel.
“It’s time to go,” Isobel heard the dark double say. “Come with us,” echoed an identical voice as another duplicate stepped to his side.
Isobel started forward, but the surrounding goths shifted to block her path. She shoved against them, but they refused to budge. Varen’s thoughts were taking over again, building in power to overthrow her own.
But this time Varen had lost the control he’d exhibited before.
“Varen!” Isobel shouted, trying to insert herself between the barricades of bodies that separated them.
“Don’t worry, Izo,” came a male voice, one Isobel had not heard for a long while, but one she knew well all the same. “I got this.”
Another arm appeared, reaching out from the blanket of shadows behind Varen. Its heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and the connection sent a ripple through the scene Isobel had created, causing it all to rupture.
The goths and the doubles and the stage and the walls all dissipated to vapor. The dance floor became pavement.
A nighttime blackness took the place of flashing lights, pierced only by the single streetlamp that sprouted from the leaf-strewn parking lot.
Even in the darkness, though, Isobel could discern whose hand was tightening its grip on Varen’s coat.
Dressed in his letter jacket, his frame once more hulking and rigid—strong, unlike the last time she’d seen him—Brad Borgan, Isobel’s ex, made quick work of tossing Varen backward into the side of the Cougar that materialized just as Varen collided with it.
Slam!
“No!” Isobel screeched.
Varen collapsed onto hands and knees. Behind him, the words YOU’RE DEAD FREAK now blazed in reverse on the Cougar’s driver’s-side door.
Isobel broke forward in a run, but she wasn’t fast enough to stop Brad from sending a sharp kick into Varen’s side.
“Stop!” she yelled, but the faster she charged, the farther the scene withdrew, the pavement elongating in front of her.
A pair of walls rose on either side of the road as it became a familiar stretch of hallway.
Brad grabbed Varen again and, hauling him to his feet, swung him straight into a row of blue lockers. Varen’s head bounced on the metal.
With the echo of the sharp bang, everything shifted yet again.
The walls smoothed, turning mauve as the ceiling dropped, pitching up in the middle. The fist fastened around Varen’s collar changed too, swelling in size, its sleeve cuff bleeding gray.
A slatted door materialized to block Isobel’s view and her path. She skidded to a halt in front of it as, simultaneously, walls lifted on either side to seal her into the dark and narrow space of Varen’s closet.
“You’re never going to wake up!” boomed Varen’s father.
Isobel shoved against the door, but it only rattled in its tracks.
She shouted to Varen that none of it was real. But a low hum like a roll of thunder rose to nullify her voice.
Helpless, Isobel could only stand and watch as a horrible scene she had witnessed once before began to replay itself.
31
Reversion
“Look’t this waste—your goddamned life.”
The muffled roar continued, underscoring the deep voice as it resounded through the attic.
Isobel recognized the words. Mr. Nethers had spoken them the night he’d stormed up to Varen’s bedroom—the night before everything had spiraled out of control. But now the phrases were jumbled.
