Description: Enshadowed 1 Deep into That Darkness "Okay, Hawks," Coach Anne said. "That''s a wrap. We can officially call that our last run before Nationals. At least until we hit Dallas." Isobel released a sigh, her shoulders slumping in relief. Around her, tired whoops and clapping echoed through the gym, everyone breaking off to find their water bottles and towels. A dull ache spread its way slowly through her as she allowed her muscles to unclench. Her whole body felt like a twisted rope unwinding. Already, Coach had drilled the routine at least twenty times. Even if Coach had wanted them to go again, Isobel didn''t think she could have managed another pike basket toss, let alone landed one more full. She knew she wasn''t the only one running on fumes either. She''d felt the entire squad''s energy draining away little by little, like a machine operating on a single dying battery. Coach must have felt it too. Isobel had no doubt that she would have drilled them until midnight if she hadn''t sensed her squad preparing for mutiny. Then again, it wasn''t unusual for Coach to pull this kind of boot-camp, cheer-till-you-drop drillathon, especially right before a big competition. And this was the competition, after all. But her motivation for killing them like this lay less, Isobel knew, in ironing out any last-minute kinks and more in sending everyone home too tired to do anything but crash. "I want you all to get some rest tonight," Coach shouted above a sudden burst of laughing and talking, her words confirming Isobel''s suspicions. "That means no late-night Facebook updates, no texting, no two a.m. phone calls with Mr. or Miss Flavor of the Week, and no last-minute stunting in the living room--I''m talking to you, Miss Dorbon. I want everybody here in one piece and ready to go at five a.m. sharp. Got that?" Coach lifted one thick arm over her frizzy poof of brown hair and pointed at her wristwatch. "Bus leaves at six on the dot, so set your alarms. No hitting the snooze button forty times. No ''I forgot my uniform.'' No excuses. I know I don''t have to tell any of you that we won''t wait if you''re late." Speaking of late, Isobel wondered what time it was. It felt like they''d been there for hours. She glanced above the gym doors to the white-faced clock secured behind the protective metal grate designed to shield it from foul balls. At the sight of the dark, familiar figure standing in the doorway, however, all thoughts of time flew from her mind. Hands stuffed into the pockets of his black jeans, he watched her from behind reflective sunglasses, his expression calm, blank. A panicked stirring arose inside her, coupled with a nagging sensation that tugged at the back of her mind, like a child pulling on the hem of her mother''s dress. It was as though some deeper part of her was trying desperately to get her attention. Behind her, Isobel could hear Coach Anne''s continued tirade as she rattled off reminders about their uniforms and which colored tennis shoe inserts to wear. Blue bows for hair this time, she droned, not yellow. A-line skirts, not pleated. The longer Isobel stared at the figure standing in the open doorway, though, the more distant Coach''s voice began to grow. The walls of the gymnasium, the squad, and the floor, too--they all blurred out of her vision until there was only him. Isobel walked toward the figure and reached for the glasses, the urge to strip them from his face and look into his eyes nothing short of a compulsion. He stopped her hand with his. The contact made her pause, and the nameless dread inside her melted away as his fingers intertwined with hers. His hand felt so warm. "Ready to go?" he asked. His voice rippled through her, low, soft, and a little husky--like the hushed crackling of an old-fashioned record player just before the music starts. Quieting the tangled mesh of her thoughts, it numbed her like a drug. Her eyes flicked down from his glasses to the slight smile that tugged at one corner of his mouth. A glint of light caught on his lip ring, causing the silver to flash. Suddenly it was too hard to breathe. She wanted to feel that tiny slip of metal against her own lips, to kiss him. As if that would somehow help her catch her breath. But she couldn''t escape the feeling that there was something about the moment, something about his very presence that she wasn''t grasping. It was as if her mind had misplaced some vital bit of information. Or lost it entirely. "What--what are you doing here?" she asked him, because it was the one question that kept pushing all the others out of the way. One of his eyebrows drifted above the top edge of his sunglasses. His half smile remained in place. "I came to pick you up," he said. "You''re my girlfriend. I do that now, remember?" Girlfriend. The word felt like a switchblade to her heart. The pain it evoked was more tender than sharp, though, the kind that comes along with saying good-bye to a friend you know you''ll never see again. "C''mon," he said before she could ask any more questions. He began to turn away and she felt his hand tighten around hers, squeezing, tugging her after him. "We should go." Isobel found herself following him, her steps falling in stride with his. She wanted to look back, to see who''d been watching and who had noticed. Certainly Coach had seen her go. Isobel couldn''t understand why Coach wasn''t yelling at her right that very second, shouting for her to come back and that practice wasn''t over until after cooldown. But she didn''t have time to turn around. She and Varen had already reached the double doors that led out into the school''s rear parking lot. They pushed through, greeted by a cascade of snow that poured from above, the gray-purple clouds all but blotting out the sky, leaving no room for the cold winter sun. Varen''s black 1967 Cougar sat alone in the empty parking lot, a dark inkblot surrounded by a sea of vacant whiteness. Isobel frowned. Where were all the other cars? Where was the line of minivans and SUVs waiting to pick up the rest of the squad? Where was Coach''s hulking, rust-red Suburban? "I need to show you something," she heard Varen say, though he didn''t turn around. Isobel''s focus narrowed in on the nape of his neck, the place where his hair, black and silken, jagged as crows'' feathers, brushed the collar of his T-shirt. Had she only just noticed how long it had grown? A breeze whipped past them, and his bare arms made her wonder why he hadn''t worn his jacket. "Varen, where are we going?" "You''ll see," was his only response as he hurried her through the parking lot. Beneath their feet, the snow, still fresh and powdery, made no sound. Reaching the Cougar, he opened and held the passenger-side door for her, the cab light illuminating the familiar burgundy interior. She hesitated and glanced back to Varen. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he gestured to the upholstery. "Yeah," he said, "sorry about that. Still waiting on those mink seat covers." Isobel shot him a wry smile. Before she could return his trademark sarcasm with her own dry quip, though, something about his appearance made her pause. There was something missing. Something off . . . She realized that even though she was looking straight at him, she could not see herself in the mirrored lenses of his glasses, only the reflection of blackened trees standing in rows behind her, their thin prison-bar trunks still visible through the thickening screen of falling snow. In the reflection, a large ebony bird lifted off from one of the twisted branches, and the sound of its beating wings caused her to flinch and whirl. But when she looked, there were no trees. No bird. Only the rigid outline of Trenton High''s neo-Gothic facade. From here, Isobel could just make out the four spires of the school''s main entrance tower peeking up over the roof''s ledge. The countless windowpanes glared white, refracting the overcast light like a thousand dead eyes. Even though she''d just left the squad in the gym, the entire building now appeared deserted--except for the top floor, where Isobel thought she saw the silhouette of someone standing in one of the windows, watching them. "Get in," Varen said. "Now." Isobel turned and sank into the car, spurred by the urgency in his voice. She shut the door behind her and, glancing to the driver''s side, was shocked to find him already there, one hand on the steering wheel, the other locked around the stick shift, the bulky onyx gem of his class ring shining like oil in the stark light. The car hummed. Isobel felt her seat vibrate beneath her as the engine rumbled, though she couldn''t recall his turning the key. The smell of exhaust fumes filtered into her awareness while the windshield wipers jumped into action, slashing back and forth to cast off the gathering snow. By now, the cascade of whiteness had grown so heavy that the world outside had all but vanished. Beside her on the seat, the ratty old Discman Varen had rigged up to the Cougar''s

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