Nevermore

Her fingertips reached to trace the damage, but he grasped her hand with his own. He leaned down, far enough that the dark ends of his hair brushed feather-light against her face, caught in her lashes. She had just enough time to take in a breath, to blink, to part her lips before he took them with his own.

Time froze. Her heart ceased to beat. Her eyes fluttered shut.

The cool slip of the small metal loop pressed into her skin as he kissed her. Urgent. Gentle. So slow.

Sweet, soft demolition.

He tasted of cloves and coffee. And of something else. A faraway essence, familiar and yet somehow foreign, too. Something sere and arid. A little like smoke. A little like decay.

Ash.

A tiny sound of alarm escaped her. She pulled back. He gripped her, though, and pulled her to him. Did he think that she might slip through his arms or vanish? Or was his fear that he might? He raised both hands to cup her face, to hold her lips against his own. It was as though the moment was a stolen one, as though every second counted, as though this first kiss was doomed to be their last.

Like horrible skeletons, these thoughts reared in her mind, corrupting the moment, frightening her enough to pull away. This time he let her.

A gentle sting played over Isobel’s lips, as though they’d just met with a battery’s charge. Onstage, the girl continued to croon longingly, though the music behind her began to build and climb, to swallow her reverberation and careen once again toward sure chaos.

“I found you,” Isobel whispered.

An agonized expression crossed his features. He gripped her behind the neck, pressed his forehead to hers. His soft hair draped around them, shielded their faces from view. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Her lips parted to utter a reply, but he released her, taking his mask from her and donning it once more. She watched him, confused as he turned to look behind, to scan the figures around them. He gripped her hand, and she squeezed it in her own. He spun around, and she soon found herself following him through the press of costumed bodies. Where was he taking her? What did he mean, she shouldn’t be here? Hadn’t he wanted her here? With him?

Fed by the new hard surge from the drums, the dancing turned to thrashing and the costumed bodies closed in, making it almost impossible to keep hold of him as he steered her through the tangle of ghouls, devils, dark faeries, and vampires.

At last they broke through the press of bodies. He led her toward the far wall, where several partygoers stared, their painted features sullen and apathetic. Varen drew her along, moving faster.

She tugged against him, attempting to rein him in. She was tired of being in the dark, surrounded by shadows and ominous forms that always knew more than she did. She was ready for answers. She tried to loosen her hand from his, but his grip only tightened. She tugged again, and finally he swung around.

“Tell me what’s happening.”

“Not here.” He grabbed her wrist and they were moving once more. He pushed through a gathering of Jack the Ripper look-alikes, and ahead, hidden within a recess of shadows, Isobel saw a door.

They slipped around a pierced couple pressed against one wall, their arms wrapped around each other, their faces molded together, locked in a deep kiss. Varen opened the door. He drew her inside, pulling a string for light, and shut the door behind them.

They were in what appeared to be a small office. At least, the tiny space had probably once served as an office. It smelled of sawdust and stale tobacco. An unfinished desk sat in one corner, a crooked corkboard nailed to the wall above it. A few sheets of paper, still pinned there, yellowed and brittle with age, stirred in the breeze of their entrance. A broken chair, overturned atop a threadbare throw rug, acted as the room’s centerpiece. Beyond that and the cord-and-bulb ceiling light overhead, there was nothing. Outside, the music raged on, though muted by the boundary of the four surrounding walls.

Varen, removing his mask and setting it on the desk, gathered the broken chair from the floor and lifted it. He hooked the backrest beneath the doorknob. The action caused Isobel’s skin to prickle. What was he barricading them against?

“Varen?”

He held a hand up to silence her and paused at the door, listening.

“Varen—,” she whispered.

He swung toward her again, moving fast to her side. “Don’t say my name,” he hushed. “She can’t find you here with me. You have to hide,” he said, more to himself than to her.

“She?” He couldn’t still be worried about Lacy, could he?

His eyes, wide and anxious, snapped to hers.

She’d never seen him like this. She’d never even imagined him this way. Skittish, fearful—almost fevered. Whatever she had expected to find when she got here, it hadn’t been this. His fear, so unfamiliar, doubled hers.