Oblivion

The bodies from Poe’s story vanished from the ground at her whim as on every square, she pictured herself exactly as she was now.

Everywhere, doubles—pawns—began to flicker into being. Ten squads’ worth of Cheerleader Isobels.

The Noc’s black eye narrowed at her. “What are you doing?” he asked, the confidence in his smile wavering.

Isobel didn’t answer. Instead she slid into the crowd of doppelgängers.

“Stop!” the Noc snarled, darting after her, but she’d already commanded each of her selves to switch places.

Taking a square of her own, Isobel now became one of them.

A single face among many.

22

Checkmate

“Clever, clever,” the Noc called through the hall.

Isobel held steady amid the other versions of herself and, careful to keep her focus forward, she followed Scrimshaw’s movements in her periphery.

His boots tapped on the black-and-white tiles as he entered the ranks of her conjured army, his echoing footfalls the only sound in the ballroom-turned-game board.

“Well played,” the Noc said, giving an appreciative nod, though he spoke through clenched teeth. “Well played, indeed. You’re smarter than you look. Though still not quite smart enough, I’m afraid. For it’s my turn now, and I’m sure I needn’t remind you how your cunning has bought you only time.”

He slid out of her sight line then, and Isobel had to fight the impulse to turn her head. Stiffening, she willed her doubles to blink and breathe in tandem with her while she scrambled to come up with her next move. She couldn’t deny that Scrimshaw was right. Though the idea to multiply herself and hide among a legion of look-alikes might be enough to preserve her life now, it would not keep the Noc at bay for long. Playing defense would only delay death. Not prevent it. But what attack could she make that he wouldn’t simply turn against her, like he had the angels?

She needed Pinfeathers. Had he not yet returned because he couldn’t?

“Eeny, meeny, miney, moe . . .”

Isobel flinched at the sound of the Noc’s voice. He was close—and getting closer. No more than a single row behind.

“My mistress told me to pick the very worst one, and it is—”

She swallowed, and in her ears, the gulp sounded like an explosion. Had the other Isobels made the same noise? She didn’t think so. She hadn’t commanded them to, she’d been so focused on him. On where he might be. And where was he? Why had he stopped talking?

Isobel didn’t hear footsteps anymore. She didn’t hear the creaking of his frame. Or anything at all.

Don’t move, she told herself. Hold very still, breath normally, and whatever you do, don’t—

“You!”

Isobel screamed, jumping as indigo claws burst through the chest of a double standing two spaces down from her.

“Aha!” Scrimshaw shouted, and withdrawing the clawed hand that had impaled the fake Isobel, he rounded to face the real her.

Collapsing in a heap, Isobel’s slain pawn became ash at the Noc’s feet. Scrimshaw strode through the pile, boots dragging dust as he closed in on her.

Isobel scuttled backward again, ordering the duplicates to switch—to shuffle.

Her imagined army obeyed, moving once, then twice, some shifting places on the diagonal, some from side to side, others forward and back. They bumped the Noc, jostling him as they brushed past him like robots, taking no note of his presence among them.

Sneering, Scrimshaw shoved through the crowd, and though she would not look at him dead-on, Isobel could tell he was straining to keep his vision fixed firmly on her. She could also tell by the way his head twitched from side to side that he’d again lost her, that she’d once more become anonymous in the midst of the copies.

Roaring in anger, Scrimshaw stalked through the assembly and began slashing indiscriminately at the doubles. One after another, they became heaps of ash that showered the floor, spattering the other duplicates and, as Scrimshaw raged nearer, her, too.

Isobel racked her brain, knowing she needed to act. Now. As in, ten seconds ago. But how was she supposed to fight something she couldn’t catch?

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Scrimshaw lilted.

He swiped at another duplicate and then another, claws hacking through Isobel’s summoned pawns, reaping them like dry wheat.

Her jaw tightened, and for a brief instant, she feared the manic thumping of her own heart would give her away.

Think. There had to be something she could do to end this. To end him. For good this time.