Oblivion (Nevermore #3)

Oblivion (Nevermore #3) Page 97

In the Gothic cathedral of Varen’s palace.

This man had been one of the two shrouded figures standing in the shadows, whispering about her. The man who had removed his hood. One of the Lost Souls?

“Isobel, who are these people?” Gwen asked.

Tearing her gaze from the man’s black stare, Isobel glanced all around to see that the forest now held as many shrouded forms as it did trees.

Robed and hooded, grim-faced and onyx-eyed, each held a weapon at the ready, their assortment of arms ranging from swords to axes to spiked clubs, maces, and even scythes.

How long had they been there? Where had they come from, and why were they—

Crash!

Isobel and Gwen started in unison. The noise, like the shattering of porcelain plates, was one Isobel knew well.

The same sound—that of a shattering Noc—came yet again, louder than before, closer.

Then, as though he’d been thrown, a Noc flew out of the mist. Striking a tree, his hollow body exploded on impact.

A second Noc stumbled from the smog, and, choosing that moment to move, the Lost Soul beside Isobel rushed forward. Seizing the creature by the throat with an enormous hand, he knelt and quickly slammed the Noc down, smashing him to pieces against the ashen ground.

From the clearing vapors, violet smoke spirals shot into the air, zooming in every direction.

Dust mixed with smoke. Snarling faces appeared in the gloom.

Re-forming, the Nocs diverted their attacks to the Lost Souls as they dashed into battle.

A myriad of clashes and clangs, shouts and screeches, crashes and splintering noises rose, building into a crescendo.

Charging straight ahead, Isobel ran headlong into the heart of the riot.

“Isobel!” Gwen cried. “Wait!”

Though Gwen caught her by the arm, Isobel didn’t slow down. Not until she spotted two silhouettes standing opposite each other in the densest portion of the mist.

One of the figures, gangly and long-limbed, belonged to that of a Noc. The other, Isobel saw with a surge of relief, belonged to Varen.

He stood tall, alert, whole, and, aside from a few scrapes and a deep gash that marred the center of his right cheek, unscathed.

The Noc opposite him sought to change that, though, and he lashed out as Varen raised his arms to shield himself. But he couldn’t block the claws from raking clean across his body.

Reeling from the blow, Varen staggered backward.

Isobel halted with a gasp, and when Gwen crashed into her from behind, she fell to her knees in the dust. She looked on helplessly as Varen curled into himself.

As the battle between the countless dreamworld ghouls and Lost Souls continued to rage all around them, both Isobel and the Noc watched Varen, waiting and hoping, she knew, for opposite outcomes.

Slowly Varen lowered his arms.

Then he raised his head and straightened.

Isobel saw no blood—no more, at least—and she tasted relief a second time. Varen had listened. He’d heard her, and had been able to protect himself from the Noc this time.

The Noc’s face contorted with fury.

“You asked for this!” growled the monster.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Varen said.

“Turncoat!” roared the Noc.

“Your name,” Varen replied with a stiff shake of his head, blood trailing to his chin, “not mine.”

The Noc’s glower deepened, and for an instant, Isobel was sure he would attack again. The creature held off, though, seeming to deliberate. And then, without warning, his expression shifted from malice to delight.

“Our name is always the same,” said the ghoul, grinning widely as he aimed a curved red claw at Varen, “whether or not you care to admit it.”

As the Noc spoke, his outstretched hand began to change, claws receding, porcelain shell morphing into pale flesh. “We are the same,” the monster added, his voice shedding its caustic tone for a more familiar one.

A duplicate to the long coat Varen wore unfurled over the Noc’s figure. His dark, bloodstained feather-and-quill hair went soft and black.

“No,” Isobel muttered, and slamming hands into the ash, she pushed herself onto her feet.

Then she broke into a run, arms pumping at her sides.

But the creature had already completed his conversion, taking on the same shape that Pinfeathers, too, had shown the ability to adopt—one that mimicked Varen’s exactly. Right down to his crimson-smeared cheek, his ashy clothes, his lip ring and dirt-caked boots. Even his cool stare of derision.

“You should know by now,” Isobel heard the Noc shout as she closed in on them, his voice a perfect match to Varen’s, “that, try as you might, you can never escape the things that lie within. No matter how strong your cheering section.”