the dark figure blocking her path.
8
Approaching Darkness
Roses, Isobel thought. Not mildew.
The stairwell smelled of rosesâdead and decaying. She hadnât been able to place the odor, musty and all at once too sweet, until that precise moment. When it was too late.
Ash coated his clothing, smudging his gloves and dusting his slicked-back hair.
Even without his trademark cloak, fedora, and white-scarf mask, Reynolds was instantly recognizable. He glared down at her, his cold, penetrating eyes far more familiar than the sharp and weatherworn planes of the rest of his wax-white face.
Adrenaline flooded Isobelâs veins, urging her to do something, even though there was nothing she could do. Nothing except run.
So why didnât she?
Perhaps the real question, she thought, was why Reynolds had not yet drawn one or both of the cutlasses he wore at his beltâespecially given that heâd tried to slash her to bits during their last encounter, and on Lilithâs orders, no less.
âThe dream,â Reynolds said, his low voice reverberating in the confined space. âIt was my hand that took you there.â
An image of her ceiling light flashed in her mind, and she had her answer as to who had entered her room the previous night.
âWhat do you want?â she demanded, because, as always when it came to Reynolds, it wasnât remotely clear. If heâd come to complete the assignment of killing her, couldnât the task have been carried out while she slept?
âWe canât speak here,â Reynolds said. âTheyâre looking for you.â
Before she could determine what he meant by âthey,â Reynolds stepped toward her.
Dropping her things, Isobel backpedaled to the landing below, her notepads and binders sliding after her. When her spine met with the wall, her hands formed into automatic fists.
But Reynolds brushed past her. âThis way,â he said, descending to the second-floor landing, that moldering floral essence trailing him. âQuickly.â He rounded the corner below, slipping out of sight.
Dazed, still stunned by Reynoldsâs sudden appearance, and even more baffled by his breeze-by exit, she could only gape after him.
Did he seriously expect her to follow him? Werenât they past the whole Simon Says thing? He knew she knew he worked for Lilithâthat heâd been under the demonâs command from the very beginning.
And yet, since learning the truth about his allegiance, Isobel had puzzled repeatedly over why he had ignored all the opportune moments heâd had to kill her, and why heâd continually intervened on Isobelâs behalf. Like when heâd pulled her from that collapsed grave in the dreamworld. Or when, in a surprising act of seeming compassion, heâd carried her home after sheâd nearly died following his orders to destroy the link between worlds, Varenâs sketchbook.
At the time, of course, sheâd believed Reynolds had returned Varen home safely too. Like heâd told her he had. But if heâd truly been against her from the start, why would he have wanted that link severed in the first place?
Pushing off from the wall, Isobel ran a hand through her hair, and her thoughts returned to last nightâs dream. If Reynolds had transported her to the other side, stealing her astral self from her sleeping body as heâd done the night heâd first introduced her to the woodlands, then he must have known Varen would find her there.
Had Reynolds been counting on that? Perhaps heâd even staged the whole thing.
Drawn by the possibility of answers, Isobel took a step toward the descending stairway but paused again, unsure whether she was willingâor readyâto hear what heâd come to say.
Reynolds lied like it was his hobby.
And she had promised herself to let go of her part in all this.
I keep having bad dreams, Danny had said last night.
This involves me,