Oblivion (Nevermore #3)

Oblivion (Nevermore #3) Page 96

“What are they?” Gwen asked, her voice trembling as hard as her hand in Isobel’s. “Please tell me this isn’t real.”

“They can’t hurt you or me,” Isobel said. Huddling nearer to Gwen, she hoped her words—the only remotely comforting ones she could think to offer—were indeed still true.

Varen opened his arms wide and splayed both hands, as if that might somehow force the creatures to retreat.

The action only drew them nearer.

Gwen clung to her harder as Isobel fought a rising tide of helplessness. Then her racing thoughts latched on to what she’d just told Gwen. About their being protected.

“Varen,” Isobel said, pressing her back flush to his. “The Nocs. They couldn’t harm me before. Even when they tried. None of them could. Because of you. Because they come from you, and in your mind, you wouldn’t let them. Because you cared for me. About me.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but if you have a point—”

“They can’t get to you unless you let them. Like you wouldn’t let them get to me.”

“Weak,” whispered one of the snarling Nocs.

“Worthless,” snapped another.

“Surprising as you may find it,” Varen replied, his voice as doleful as it was dry, “I somehow doubt they share the same affinity for me.”

Isobel’s heart stammered a beat at this response and she scowled, arrested by how much Varen had just sounded like . . .

Breaking free from Gwen, Isobel rushed to stand in front of him. Though she saw no sign of Pinfeathers’s presence, no evidence that the Noc could have somehow rejoined with Varen, she now found herself wondering if the two had ever truly been separate to begin with.

“Don’t you see?” she said, gripping him by the arms. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“Screwup,” came another hiss.

“Waste.”

“Ignore them,” Isobel urged. “Tune them out. Focus on me. On what I know you know in here.” She pressed a hand against his chest—his heart.

“I can’t fight them.” He shook his head without looking at her. “And I can’t send them away with a thought. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“You don’t have to fight,” Isobel said. “Not when they only have as much power as you give them. These things answer to you. To your deepest thoughts. Your unconscious desires. Please, say you understand.”

“I’m afraid I do,” she heard him mutter, his eyes at last shifting to hers.

“I need you,” Isobel said through gritted teeth. “She is losing and she knows it. Why else would she send them?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Trouble letting go?”

“Hey.” She gave him a stiff shake. “You are mine. So don’t you dare let her win. Do you hear me?”

“If anything will help,” he said with a sad smile, touching her cheek, her scar, “that might.”

Panic clenched a cold fist around Isobel’s heart. She started to speak again, to remind him once more how much she loved him. But she didn’t get the chance.

The Nocs converged on him.

Cut off and thrown back, Isobel plowed into Gwen, who caught her and held her tightly.

“Varen!” Isobel screeched, struggling to free herself as the Nocs tore into their prey.

39

Redoubled

Though Isobel continued to fight against Gwen, her actions grew weaker with every passing second, enabling Gwen to pull her away from the carnage that, by this time, had already accomplished the worst.

Dying as quickly as it had begun, the chaos of noise and movement, of shrieking and slashing, subsided to nothing.

Stillness took the place of the mayhem and, not daring to breathe or blink, Isobel ceased her struggles.

Gwen’s grip on her eased. They both remained in place, staring into the clouds of white that had risen thick enough to hide the onslaught—and now, its outcome.

The curtain of soot thinned. Hours seemed to pass while Isobel scanned the haze, searching for something—anything—to make sense of.

She stiffened when, from nowhere, more dark forms emerged in her periphery.

Reluctantly Isobel broke her gaze from the dissipating fog, her eyes catching those of the towering figure who now stood beside her.

Confused by his sudden presence, Isobel frowned, trying to place the stranger’s sallow face, his rigid features. She’d seen him before, she thought dimly. He’d seen her, too.