Nevermore (Nevermore 1)

“Turn here,” said Isobel automatically when they reached the intersection to Bardstown Road. Gwen swerved to make the turn. Either she still had the jitters or she was mad.

“There,” she said, pointing for Gwen to pull over. Gwen followed the order. She put the Cadillac in park, turned off the engine, and pulled the keys into her lap.

Isobel grabbed the door handle, and Gwen, apparently not willing to wait in the car, got out too. Together they stepped up to the front of the tiny used bookstore.

Varen had to be here, Isobel thought. There was nowhere else for him to go. If he left school, this was where he would come. He would be here, and she could tell him everything. With that thought stoking her courage, Isobel opened the door and stepped inside. Gwen followed.

She caught that familiar, heavy scent of stale air, and the rusty belt of bells clanked as the door shut behind them.

“What is this place?” Gwen whispered. “What are we doing here? Whoa, is that a first edition?”

Isobel raised a finger to her lips. She led the way, and they wove through the shelves toward the vacant counter, stepping over stacks of books, finding neither Bruce nor Varen.

Then she heard that familiar rattling cough. It came from somewhere at the rear of the shop. Isobel followed the sound across the rickety floor and into the back room, stacked with all the newer-looking nonfiction. Bruce was there between the rows, taking books one at a time out of a cardboard box marked NON-FIC WILDLIFE in Varen’s careful, antique scrawl. He brought each book he drew out of the box up close to his face and examined it with a sweep of his good eye before finding a place for it on the shelf.

Isobel stood in the doorway, waiting to be noticed, not wanting to startle him. A distracted Gwen bumped into her from behind, unleashing a muffled “Oof” that made Isobel sure then that they were being ignored.

“Excuse me, Mr. Bruce? I’m looking for Var—”

“Not here,” he grunted, continuing to shelve. Isobel was taken aback. This was not the kind-if-loopy man she remembered from her last visit.

“Do you know where he is?” she tried, moving closer to him. Gwen remained in place, watching, her car keys clinking between nervous fingers.

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Isobel frowned, unsure where his sudden dislike had come from. Didn’t he remember her? “I—I think he could be trouble.”

“Could be!” he scoffed. He lowered the book in his hand, finally looking at her. He scrutinized her with his good eye, frowning at her cheer uniform. Then the coughing ensued once more, harsher, mucus rattling in his chest. “I think a bloody nose . . . and a busted lip says . . . that the trouble’s already found him. Guess the thing you’ll tell me next is that you hadn’t anything to do with that.”

Brad. He’d been telling the truth. But how could that be when she’d seen Varen only an hour ago? His face— he had been fine.

Bruce scowled at her, apparently taking her silence for confirmation of whatever suspicions he’d been harboring. His mouth tightened into a line, quivering with anger. “I told you now, I don’t know where he’s got to. Hasn’t said a word to me since he came in like that this morning. Went upstairs and slept till noon. Missed school. Left a half hour ago. Go upstairs and look for yourself.”

Isobel, her mind dulling as it tried to compute the barrage of conflicting information, actually turned to the attic door. She was stopped from making any progress toward it, though, by a soft hand on her arm. “Isobel,” said Gwen. “C’mon. He’s not here. We would have seen his car outside. We gotta go.”

Isobel turned to stare at Bruce again, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth. If Varen had left only a half hour ago, how could he have been at school to do the project? How could anyone be in two places at once? Maybe Bruce had it wrong, she thought. He was old. Old people got mixed up, right?

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” He waved them toward the door as though shooing flies. “I’ll call the police, if that’s what you want.”

“Isobel . . .” Gwen’s hand on her arm tightened, and Isobel took an involuntary step in the direction her friend pulled. “C’mon,” she said, “we’ll see him tonight, remember?”

For a moment Bruce’s good eye seemed to lighten in surprise. It flashed a glimmer of hope, but like a dying ember, the spark faded, dissolving into bitterness and then defeat. He shook his head. “I’m too old to worry about him like this. You tell him I said that. You tell him . . .”

The coughing again. He was sick. Really sick.

Isobel stood in place and watched him, unable to do much else. The coughing continued, unrelenting in its attack, and without saying a word, he brushed past them into the main room.

He hobbled toward the counter and reached for a box of tissues. Isobel trailed after him, torn. She wanted to reach out, to help him to his chair behind the counter, just as she could envision Varen doing. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry and that it wasn’t her fault and that she’d find Varen. She bit her tongue, though, knowing that it was her fault. She’d seen all of this coming, or at least part of it. Pinfeathers had said as much before he tried to slice her to ribbons. And, in truth, deep down, how could she be certain she would find him?

Isobel pushed that thought quickly aside. She would find him. She would see him tonight.

She felt it.

Bruce found his chair on his own. He rocked backward into it, as if the joints of his knees no longer worked. Clouds of dust plumed around him, worsening his cough. He glowered at Isobel, as if the sudden fit were somehow her fault. “You . . . don’t deserve him.”

Isobel’s breath lodged in her throat, the truth she feared most let out of its cage in an instant.

“Isobel,” Gwen said, pulling at her arm again. “C’mon, we’ve got to get back.”