Nevermore

17 Dead Air

Isobel sat staring vacantly at the video game images that flashed in front of her eyes. She hadn’t the slightest idea what she was watching—some overdramatic vampire slayer game Danny had switched on when he’d gotten home from school. Blades swiped, blood splashed, and zombies screamed.

She’d spent the better part of the day right there on the couch. She’d turned on the TV initially for the noise, for some kind of normal sound to surround her until her mom returned from the grocery store. That, and she’d needed something to ground her, to let her know she was really awake and not still asleep—that she wasn’t locked in some perpetual dream within a dream.

But she hadn’t found much comfort in knowing that she was, indeed, awake and in the real world. Not given what had happened, what she’d seen in her dream—what she’d found in the kitchen.

“Isobel!”

She jolted, looking up to see her mother standing behind the couch, holding a hand over the mouthpiece of their portable phone. “Isobel,” she said, lowering her voice, her brows knitting. “Did you really not hear me calling you?”

Isobel stared up at her mother.

“I said, ‘Telephone.’ Isobel, are you sure you don’t need to go to the doctor? Ever since yesterday you’ve been acting like you’re on some other planet.”

“I’m fine, Mom,” she muttered, reaching out for the handset. “Just tired is all.”

Isobel held the phone to her ear, staring blankly at her mother’s back as she disappeared once more into the kitchen. “’Lo?”

“Don’t hang up.”

Her insides flared.

Maybe it was because he’d told her not to, or maybe it was because she couldn’t bear the sound of his voice so close in her ear. She hung up.

For a moment she stared at the phone in her hand, impressed with herself yet shocked at her own gall. It was like hanging up on Dracula. At the same time, an intense regret coursed through her. Why did she wish more than anything that she could tell him (of all people!) about everything that had been happening to her?

Maybe because Reynolds said he was involved. Or maybe because that freaky book had been his to begin with.

The phone rang again, its little red light flickering in urgency. Isobel stared down at the caller ID screen until a name popped up on the display. DESSERT ISLAND it read, with the phone number listed below.

Her thumb twitched toward the talk button.

Why was he even calling her? Surely he hadn’t expected her to show up for their planned meeting at the ice cream shop. He was arrogant and callous, but he wasn’t dense.

“Danny,” she said, rising, the phone ringing for the third time now. She tossed the handset to the floor beside where her brother lay on his stomach. “Five bucks says this is the wrong number.”

“Eez-oh-bel?” he said in a corny fake Spanish accent. “I don know no Eez-oh-bel.”

She turned and moved quickly into the kitchen, where her mother stood in front of the stove fixing dinner. She ignored, as best she could, Danny’s leisurely “Heeelllooo?” from the next room.

One look at the Poe book sitting where she’d left it on the kitchen table, however, had her turning straight back around.

“Isobel,” her mother said, stopping her. “You’re not mad at me, are you?” Her tone was curious, probing.

“No, why?”

“Oh, well.” Stirring what Isobel thought smelled like mushroom rice (one of her favorites), her mom shrugged. “I thought you might be upset that I cleaned your room this morning while you were still sleeping.”

“What?”

“I just picked up the floor a little. I didn’t think you’d mind, since you were still asleep. You must have been tired. You didn’t even wake up when I took your shoes off. But I was just making sure,” she chattered on. “I didn’t know if I’d put something back the wrong way. Oh, and I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed the book from your nightstand. Where did you get it? I didn’t see a library bar code. Dad said you were reading Poe for school.”

Isobel couldn’t register the question. Her gaze drifted again to the Poe book. Rushing forward, she snatched it off the table, then marched out of the kitchen and back into the hall, fixing her sights on the stairs. It had to be the book, she thought. Nothing freaky had happened until after she’d set eyes on it, and now she had to get rid of it. She couldn’t throw it away again, of course. Maybe if she dug a hole and buried it? Or would she have to burn it? Then again, Reynolds had told her to keep it, that it was important. But who, or what, was Reynolds in the first place?

What would happen if she just . . . gave it back?

Danny’s voice floated out to her from the living room. “Yeah, but the original Transylvania Wars is kind of old-school, don’t you think?”

Isobel paused outside the living room archway, her head turning slowly to see Danny cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear, his thumbs flying over the controller, a digital vampire slayer executing an elaborate string of sword blows to a group of manic undead.

“Okay, so I’m at the Nosferatu Dungeon door,” she heard Danny say. “Now how do you get Gothica’s Gate to open again?”

Isobel felt her clenched jaw fall slack. No way. She stalked into the living room and glared at the back of her brother’s head. “Who are you talking to?”

“Hold on.” He tossed the words at her from over his shoulder, scooting in closer to the TV, close enough for his nose to touch the screen. “Ohhh,” he said, “I see it now! Jeez! How did you ever figure that out?”

“Danny, give me the phone.” Isobel thrust her hand out for the receiver. “And you can forget the five bucks.”

“I was only gonna charge you three-fifty anyway,” he said, holding the phone just out of her reach. “He knew he hadn’t dialed the wrong number, so I had to tell him you were on the crapper.”

“What? Danny! Oh my God.” Isobel lashed out, wrenching the phone from his hand, her face scalding. Storming out of the living room, she contemplated hanging up again, this time on the grounds of mortification. But then she realized she couldn’t avoid him much longer and lifted the receiver to her ear. “What?” she growled. With the Poe book tucked under one arm, Isobel mounted the stairs and stomped each one as she climbed. She headed for the last place she wanted to be but the only one in which she’d find herself alone—her room.

“Your brother,” the soft voice said, a hint of laughter behind it.

“Is a little jerk,” she snarled. “Now what do you want?”

“Would you relax for a second?”

The hand holding the phone quivered in fury. “No!” she seethed, “I will not relax!”

“I need to—”

“You need to just drop dead, okay?”

“Isobel, listen—”

Could this really be the first time he’d ever used her name? She shoved the thought aside. “No!” she shouted, “you listen! You are such a hypocrite.”

Silence. Was he even still there?

She plowed on, not caring. “What?” she said. “Shocked that the dumb blond cheerleader actually has a vocabulary beyond ‘Go team’?”

He came back with a note of defense. “I never—”

“You have done nothing but condescend to me. I stuck up for you! And after what you did yesterday, you think you can just leave me little notes and call me up and be all, ‘Hey, we need to talk,’ and expect me just to say, ‘Hey, okay’? What kind of acid are you dropping?”

“Isobel—”

“No, Varen. Don’t call me again. You can just take the stupid project and do it yourself.”

“I didn’t call you because of the project.”

“Well, I’m flattered,” she said, unable to keep the waver out of her voice. Hesitating for a fraction of a second, she jammed her thumb on the end button, severing their connection.