Die here, stay here.
At least, that was the abridged version of what he’d told her in that cold Baltimore graveyard. He’d reminded her, in nearly the same breath, that perishing in the woodlands—becoming trapped here forever—had been his own fate.
And even if Reynolds was playing her again, positioning her like a pawn, signing her up for yet another trip to the funeral pyre, she wasn’t going to take a chance on betting that particular bit of advice had been a lie.
“Still have that old pluck, I see,” Scrimshaw bellowed after her, his voice booming from all around so that she couldn’t be certain from which direction it emanated. “A few charming stunts left to pull. Well, you’re bound to run out of cheek eventually.”
Another door, she thought. She needed to make another door. To re-enter reality.
Staggering to a halt, panting hard, Isobel reached out. Imagining the front of her house, her street and the driveway, she grabbed for the knob that, like the one she’d made second’s before, should have appeared.
Nothing. Air.
No, no. Come on. She’d seen Reynolds do this before. Why wasn’t it working?
Isobel hissed a curse, spinning in place as Scrimshaw’s laughter echoed around her, growing closer.
She whipped her head this way and that, scanning the multitude of burned matchstick trees. But she didn’t see his scarecrow figure anywhere amid the stalks or against the woodlands’ violet back-lit glow.
“Door to door,” the Noc called. “It’s the only way to make a sale. Everyone knows that.”
Trying again, Isobel pictured her bedroom door, remembering specifically that Reynolds had passed from one world to another using the exact same entry point.
In spite of her faltering hope, a familiar frame materialized before her out of the nothing. Her heart leaped, and her hand itched to try the knob—so familiar—now in her grip.
Sensing eyes on her, though—an eye—she stalled.
“Well, go on,” came that craggy voice from mere feet behind. “What are you waiting for? Take me home. Introduce me to the folks. I’d love to meet them. And if I remember correctly, a little meddling bird might have mentioned a younger brother as well.”
Her grasp on the doorknob loosened.
“Come to think of it,” the Noc went on, “I may have seen him here before. Short and sort of round? A bit like a pigeon. Black ruffled feathers always in his eyes?”
Lowering her arm to her side, Isobel turned slowly.
Arms folded behind his back, crimson claws poking out on one side, blue on the other, Scrimshaw displayed a self-satisfied grin as yesterday’s discussion with Danny again returned to Isobel’s mind. How her little brother had mentioned he’d been having bad dreams. Nightmares about her dying . . .
Had he encountered the Nocs too? Or was Scrimshaw merely trying to goad her?
Deciding that it didn’t matter either way, that it was enough to know Danny was in danger, Isobel gave up on all thought of going home.
She couldn’t. Not so long as Scrimshaw remained locked on her trajectory like a heat-seeking missile.
If she was going to be free of him, if she was going to keep her family as safe as she could in the already bleeding worlds, she would have to stand her ground. She would have to fight—and defeat—Scrimshaw here, on his turf.
And maybe, Isobel thought as she reached behind her, fumbling for the doorknob again while she kept her eyes trained on the Noc, maybe her odds of achieving those ends were better in this realm, anyway, where everything was malleable.
“Change your mind?” Scrimshaw asked. “Afraid I won’t make the best of first impressions?” He gestured to his chest. “It’s the tattoos, isn’t it?”
Clutching the knob, Isobel banished her bedroom from her mind, imagining instead someplace else entirely. Somewhere she knew for certain would not intersect with reality. A place that, because its creator had conjured it in his imagination, existed solely in the dreamworld.
Scrimshaw’s gaze flitted between her and the door that must have taken on a new shape behind her. His smile waned, fading out along with the cunning crocodile gleam in his single eye. He took a halting step toward her, cocking his head to one side.
“Tell me truly, girl. Do you not ever tire of running?” he asked. “Do you never grow faint from the sickness, the pitiless pain—the fever that is living? From the horrible, horrible throbbing of your own aching heart?”
Isobel stood motionless, surprised to catch herself actually considering the question.
“No,” she said at last, “at least, not nearly as tired as I get from listening to you.”