Where can i read nevermore

His eyes were stark and cold, the concentrated green of pale jade. Outlined in smudged black kohl, those eyes focused on her, unblinking through the feathery strands of his jet-black hair, and it was like being watched through a cage by a complacent and calculating cat. Who was this guy and what was his royal problem? Her gaze flicked briefly to the small metal loop that hugged one corner of his bottom lip.

She drew back, her face going hot. She swiveled away from him and put her hand in the air. Mayday, Swanson. Do you read me? There came a slow, ominous clink of chains from behind her. Isobel went rigid. She lowered her hand and, looking up, found him towering over her, all tall straightness and stone pale. She bit back a protest as he took her hand in his. She gawked as one long-fingered hand grasped hers and stared, unblinking, at the black pen that appeared from nowhere and began moving against her skin, the tip as cold and sharp as those eyes.

His face remained emotionless as he made small, careful lines with the pen. The steady impression of the ballpoint tickled, creating knots in her stomach. All she could do was stare at an enormous ring, molded into the shape of a silver dragon, as it snarled at her from his middle finger.

When at last he finished, he released her hand and, with one final almost admonishing stab of that razor gaze, turned away. Grabbing his black book, he slung his beaten leather satchel over one shoulder. Like the tips of her fingers had somehow fallen asleep.

She took a quick inventory, first of her senses, then of the people still in the room, afraid to see who had noticed, amazed that apparently no one had. So are you going to tell Brad? Nikki asked, an all-too-eager gleam in her pretty sapphire eyes. Isobel dialed her combination, then kicked the dented bottom corner of her locker. The door popped open, sending her makeup bag toppling out to hit the floor with a muffled crack, contents spilling.

No, she muttered, and squatted to recover her eye shadow, the bronze cake of color inside having split apart into crumbles. She growl-sighed, shoving it all back into the pouch, yet again catching sight of the slanted, dark purple numbers that glared like an insignia against her skin.

Because, Isobel said, I think Mr. Isobel rose to stuff the pouch back into her locker when Nikki halted her, grabbing her by the wrist, shaking her own hand at her. Izzy, she said, "look at this!

He wrote on you. Like he was marking you as his next victim or something. Isobel pulled her hand away. Isobel took the gloss and tossed it into her locker, about to mutter a quick thanks, when Nikki interrupted, snatching her wrist again. I mean, look at this! I mean, the guy is a total Trench Coat Mafia wacko. Nikki, are you kidding me? Yeah, I know. Isobel sighed again. We just got stuck together for this.

To her, the presence of Varen Nethers, aka that one guy, had always been like that of a fleeting shadow, an estranged entity that floated through the halls, never wanting to be bothered. Isobel jumped again, shaken from her reverie, her breath catching when the mystery hand reappeared. This time it looped over the top of her locker door, the fingers clutching a familiar pistachio-green cylinder.

Cautiously Isobel took the tube of Pink Goddess lipstick and watched the hand of her locker neighbor slither away once more. But the girl—Isobel thought her name was Grace or Gabbie—slammed her own locker shut, swiveled away without a word, and walked off.

Creepers, Nikki muttered. Back into the Middle Ages she goes. Isobel watched the retreating back of the girl, whose too long, too straight brown hair swished in time with her floor-length broom skirt. With a final faint tinkle of bracelets, the girl swept around the next corner and out of sight.

She blotted her lips and popped her mouth. I still think you should tell Brad. Whatever, Nikki shot over her shoulder. She fluttered one hand dismissively and quickened her pace.

Nikki was her best friend. She was on the squad and part of the crew. She slowed her steps and let Nikki walk ahead of her to lunch. At the sink, she turned the water on warm and pumped soap from the dispenser into her hand. She lathered it thick over the numbers.

Like curls of smoke, the deep purple ink loosened into violet swirls and then slid down the drain. At the end of a round-off, back handspring, back tuck, she overrotated and had to catch herself on her heels. She hit the gymnasium floor hard, landing straight on her butt, bones jarring, teeth rattling. Coach Anne ripped her for it, of course, blowing the dust off her old no tumbling without someone spotting you rant. Nothing made Coach more nervous than sloppy or botched stunts, especially with December Nationals looming.

Their choreography was tight and sharp. Too tight and too clean to sit a hurt squad member in the stands and still expect to place. Either way, she was grateful not to have to relive the locker argument and even more grateful that it was Friday. She needed a break. It would give the already purpling baseball-size bruise on the back of her thigh time to fade before she had to don her uniform again.

Had he come looking for her? A black-clad figure stood in a slump, his back pressed against a row of cobalt blue lockers, his tattered black hardback journal tucked beneath one arm. Brad hovered over him, wearing his blue and gold letter jacket, which bulked up his already hulking shoulders. Varen, comparatively thin and frail-looking, appeared able to do little more than endure, his head hanging, his wispy black hair draped in his face. So help her, Isobel wanted to strangle Nikki till those stupid little blue and gold puff-balls popped off.

He stuffed a hand into the pocket of his jacket and walked to meet her, slinging his other arm around her shoulders and planting a kiss on the side of her head with an audible Mmwah.

This, combined with his deodorant and Zest soap smell, reminded her that he was there. Still in macho mode and still in reach of the strange boy who had asked her what she was staring at and who was now, intently, staring at her. Brad asked as he pulled out of the school parking lot, joining the flow of traffic. Going to invite me? That was it. She jerked around in her seat to face him. What did Nikki tell you? He reached up to pull down his sun visor, and a pack of Camels fell into his lap. Isobel sneered and turned to look back out her window.

She hated when he smoked, and lately it had become more than just an after-school fix. Of course, she thought. It all made sense now. Just like preschool. Connect the dots.

So he wrote his number on your hand? Brad asked, his expression darkening. He took another turn, this one too sharply. Isobel gripped her seat.

One of his hands left the wheel to slide a Camel from its pack. Would you just chill out? Finding his Zippo between the seats, he flipped open the metal lighter and held the flame to the cigarette.

All I told him was not to talk to you, he mumbled, the cigarette bobbing between his tightened lips. He snapped the Zippo shut and tossed it into the backseat, taking a long draw from the cigarette before returning both hands to the wheel. Isobel glared at him. He only shrugged again, like that excused him or something. He only smiled away like he thought she was being cute.

After pulling into her driveway, Brad got out, like he always did, to get the car door for her. This time, though, Isobel threw open the door for herself.

She slammed it shut behind her, the bang echoing through her neighborhood. It was the amusement, the underlying laughter in his voice that made her anger swell. Isobel stalked to her front door, refusing to let him cajole her into admitting that she was overreacting. All right. Fine, he called after her. She paused on the front stoop of her house, then turned back to see Brad standing at the rear of his Mustang, trunk open, her gym bag hanging by its strap from one outstretched hand.

She was annoyed at herself for not thinking and annoyed at him for that big, churlish movie-star grin on his face. Abandoning the walkway, she stomped through the yard and jerked the bag from his grasp. He laughed again, shaking his head like he thought she needed glasses or a hearing aid, or a head check. Isobel forced her lips to pinch together. As much as she wanted, she would not return the sentiment. She knew he was only probing for a response, trying to wriggle his way off the hook.

She shut the door behind her and dropped her bag in the foyer. She turned, ready to push her way back outside, to catch him before he left, but his engine revved, and he took off, music blasting, tires squealing. Her parents had gone out for the night, leaving her alone with Danny, whose entire twelve-year-old existence revolved around his collection of video games, consoles, and online RPG empires. Each level gets harder, he explained, leaning to his left while trying to get the figure on the screen to do the same.

And eventually you have to face Zorthibus Klax. Isobel glanced down at her hand, at the pale purple lines that had somehow, very faintly, remained. Sounds like some foul disease. Isobel rolled her eyes. It sat there silent and still beneath the glow of the beige, fat-bellied lamp. The way Varen had looked at her in the hall. If she concentrated, she could still feel the sensation of the pen, the weight of his hand, the sharpness of the ballpoint.

Hunkering down into the couch cushions, she hooked a thumb in her T-shirt, biting the collar, unnerved all over again by the memory.

She flipped open the phone as she wandered into the kitchen and scrutinized the digits on her hand—or rather, what remained of them. Was that last one a zero or a nine? She decided to guess, pressing the corresponding keys. Uh, yes. May I speak to— She glanced up, catching sight of the digital clock on the stove. Nine thirty. She gasped. Automatically her thumb jabbed the end button. The phone went dead.

For a moment she held the cell limp in her hand, staring at it. What happened at nine? Was that when he retired to his tomb? Was it some bogus rule of his parents or his own thing? Why was he so weird? He ignored her, collecting the controller again, like he wanted to make up with it. Isobel settled back onto the couch and watched as he restarted the game. He swung around and lunged at her, grasping for the remote. Isobel dropped her phone to grapple with both hands.

She grunted, pulling the remote. Yeah, sure, he said, hold on. Smiling, he waggled the phone. Isobel clambered off the couch and charged her brother, ready for battle. No one messed with her phone calls. She threw the remote down on the carpet. He tossed the phone at her and dove for the remote.

The phone bounced between her hands before she caught it, and the video game music started up again. His tone went from cold to glacial.

You called me. Oh, she said, cringing. She glanced quickly at her brother, then slipped out of the room and out of earshot. She felt like throwing the phone against the wall and curling up to die all at the same time.

Who did this guy think he was? I never said I thought you were—". Look, I talked to him about it, she said, the words coming out quick and jerky. She hated sounding so spastic, especially when he seemed so unconcerned.

He just gets like that. She could hear a crackle on the other end, like he was moving around. After one. She paused, though, at the sound of someone calling for him in the background—a man. The line went dead. Isobel bit down on the insides of her mouth hard. She drew the phone away from her ear and squeezed it.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to smash the phone to pieces or cram it into the disposal. Turn it down, she yelled to Danny as she stormed through the living room. Apparently, the usual crew antics had all transpired without her and, perhaps worse, they had all gone on without a single Hey, where are you? No Brad, no Mark. Not a single call from her squad—no Nikki, Alyssa, or even Stevie, who was usually the peacekeeper in their group.

She set her phone aside, deciding to forget about the diss, but after taking a shower and a downing a granola bar, she gave in to the itch to call someone.

Still not ready to talk to Brad, she dialed Nikki instead. Isobel sat back against her headboard, listening as she stretched out. The song went on, and she rolled onto her stomach, facing her pillow. She grabbed the Magic 8 Ball off the bottom cubby-hole. Shaking it, she peered into the black circular window.

The little triangle bobbed to the surface through the murk, bearing one of its cryptic one-size-fits-all messages. Ask again later, it read. Isobel snorted. Isobel sat up, letting the Magic 8 Ball roll aside.

Did you know that? Hey, where were you last night? Nikki asked, her voice staying breezy. Nikki, I told you not to say anything about yesterday. Brad totally freaked out, and we had a fight. Quiet fizz filtered through from the other side and Isobel waited, picturing Nikki in deep thought mode. No doubt she was using the dead air time to Photoshop, airbrush, and gloss-coat a good response.

What is with you, anyway? Brad said that all he did was talk to the guy and that you were the one who freaked out. Whatever, Nikki said.

No, Nikki knew her better than that, and Isobel knew that they both knew that it all boiled down to her keeping the holdout on Brad. Isobel shook her head, her brow creasing. This felt weird, lying to her friends, sneaking around over some stupid project.

Isobel frowned at the rumpled folds of her pink comforter. Since when had they ever had an awkward silence? Anyway, Nikki went on, if you get out early or something, give me a ring on my cell. That afternoon Isobel got a ride to the library from her dad. Isobel hurried up the stairs and barely waved good-bye to her dad before heading inside to begin her search for Varen. After spending nearly fifteen minutes scouring through the stacks and checking the study rooms, she finally found him on the second floor.

Feeling more than just a little agitated by this, Isobel made a point of dropping her purse on the table right in front of where he sat reading, lost in the open spread of some gigantic tome. He glanced up with his eyes only, glaring at her past the ridge of his leveled brow.

A soft glint from the desk lamps ran liquid smooth down the curve of his lip ring. She twiddled her fingers at him in a wave. Ha , the gesture seemed to say, found you. He did the prolonged silence thing again, like he needed the time to contemplate whether or not to banish her from his sight.

He shifted the huge book around and scooted it toward her, one finger indicating a black-and-white thumbnail photograph. The image portrayed was of a gaunt, deep-browed man with unruly hair and a small black-comb mustache. His eyes looked sad, desperate, and wild all at the same time. Sunken and pooled by enormous dark circles, they seemed to ache with sorrow. She sank farther into her chair, picking at the pages. She shrugged and grabbed a book from the stack on the table.

She opened it, then flipped through the pages, glancing up at him. He leaned forward over the table and scribbled something onto a yellow steno notepad, which sat atop his black hardbound book. Open navigation menu. Close suggestions Search Search. User Settings. Skip carousel. Carousel Previous. Carousel Next. What is Scribd? Cancel anytime. Start your free 30 days Read preview. Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers. Released: Aug 31, ISBN: Format: Book.

A page-turning psychological mystery that is equal parts horror, humor, and romance, Nevermore is the story of Varen—a Poe fan and Goth—and Isobel—a cheerleader and unlikely heroine. When an English Lit. When Isobel has a single chance to rescue Varen from the shadows of his nightmares, will she be able to save him—and herself?

About the author KC. Read more. Related Books. Related Podcast Episodes. But many TV shows, movies and book actually manage to get science pretty right except for those pesky time-tra How New York Times Bestselling Author Sherrilyn Kenyon Writes: Part One: Prolific, award-winning, 1 New York Times and international bestselling author, Sherrilyn Kenyon, joined me this week to talk about what it's like to be a literary legend with over 70 million copies of her books in print in over countries.

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We've got your back. To find additional challenge book ideas Roshak is an award-winning Canadian writer whose work includes short fiction, kidlit, nonfiction and translat Lovecraft Literary Podcast 31 min listen. Related Articles. Related categories Skip carousel. Does he sleep? A shudder ran through him. He let his eye slip shut. Watch him, rasped another voice. He will take the next train. A stout man in a snug uniform pushed into the compartment.

The wheels squealed again. Without warning, the train lurched to a halt. He broke into a run. They slunk after him, their furious whispers now like a torrent of rushing leaves. Tall, gaunt, and rakish, the demons convened for only a moment, then dispersed in search. He knew that they would not be fooled for long. No matter. There were other means of reaching Richmond.

The carriage jerked, tottered, then rolled into action. Slowly Edgar lowered his hand. He turned his gaze to the shifting shadows at his right. She sat beside him, her slight form draped in luminous white gossamer. No, he murmured. But the enveloping blackness had already begun to take its hold. In an instant, the blackness devoured him, leaving the coach vacant. Projects took time. A lot of time. Probably, she thought. And love every minute of it too. Isobel felt her jaw unhinge.

Isobel Lanley and Varen Nethers. She felt her chest contract. Oh, no. No way. This could not be happening. That he drank blood. She approached him with steady steps, the way someone might inch up to a sleeping snake. She glanced to the clock on the wall. Seven minutes left until lunch. Did I say that? He turned his head and caught her with his eyes. Discomfort welled in her, thick and black as an oil spring. He blinked once, then slowly lifted one hand and crooked a beckoning finger at her.

Isobel hesitated but then as though spellbound to obey, she found herself leaning in. What are you staring at? He was writing on her. Isobel looked down at her hand again. Why not? She stared into her open locker as she changed out her books. Nikki, Isobel moaned, starting after her. At practice that day, she missed a jump.

She never missed a jump. Do you understand? Turning the corner, Isobel halted. Did he think she ran off to tell Brad? Then again, what else was there for him to think? Isobel closed her mouth. She let Brad angle her away. He dropped his arm to pat her tender rear. Anything to get away from those eyes.

Oh, he said, okay. Mark told me, he said. Never mind. Just take me home. Isobel hit the power button to crack her window.

What gives? She ignored him and marched up the brick sidewalk without a word. Ooh, he said with a wink. You heard what I said. I heard you threaten him! Good-bye, she said, and trudged once more for her front door. Okay, baby. He sighed. Love you, too. Steadily pulled away from her friends and her possessive boyfriend, Isobel ventures deeper and deeper into the dream world Varen has created through the pages of his notebook, a realm where the terrifying stories of Edgar Allan Poe come to life.

As her world begins to unravel around her, Isobel discovers that dreams, like words, hold more power than she ever imagined, and that the most frightening realities are those of the mind.

Now she must find a way to reach Varen before he is consumed by the shadows of his own nightmares. His life depends on it.

List Chapter or Page :. Page 1 2. Page 2 3. Page 3 4. Page 4 5. Page 5 6. Page 6 7. Page 7 8. Page 8 9. Page 9 Page 10 Page 11 Page 12 Page 13 Page 14 Page 15 Page 16 Page 17 Page 18 Page 19 Page 20 Page 21 Page 22 Page 23 Page 24 Page 25 Page 26 Page 27 Page 28 Page 29 Page 30 Page 31 Page 32 Page 33 Page 34 Page 35 Page 36 Page 37 Page 38 Page 39 Page 40 Especially not as early as a quarter till.

Then, rewetting his fingertips, he sent out the next stack, and the next. Well, here it is. The big one. Better to get it over with early in the year, I say. You guessed it—the Swanson project. Projects took time. A lot of time. Hold up. Did he say Halloween? Uh, yeah, where was his calendar? Did he not know that was the night of the rival football game against Millings? Lift up the rock, Swanson.

She kept her gaze steady on her English teacher, all dials now tuned to the Swanson channel. I want you and your partner to select a famous American author—any American author. Ten pages. That was epic. That was like. Was Swanson really going to sit down and read all those papers?

Probably, she thought. And love every minute of it too. Why did Swanson have to assign a huge project due on the day of the rival game? No one ever got any work done that week. He could have at least given them that weekend. Page 3 Isobel started an immediate scan of the room. This was serious, and she needed to locate a brainer—stat. She eyed Julie Tamers, marching band geek extraordinaire, and began to plan a strategic route to the open chair next to hers when Mr.

Swanson spoke again. So after I read your names off the list you can partner up, brainstorm among yourselves, and then head to lunch.

Starting with Josh Anderson and Amber Ricks. Wait, she thought. Just wait. Random pairings were so third grade. He could not be serious. Isobel sat stunned at their willingness. For real? Was she the only one who felt the burn of injustice? Oh, no. No way. She turned her head slowly and took a long, reluctant look to the opposite end of the room.

He sat in the back row against the far corner, slumped in his seat and staring straight ahead through shreds of inky locks, his thin wrists lined in black leather bands specked with hostile silver studs. This could not be happening. Her hunger forgotten, a gnawing discomfort tugged at her insides instead as she wondered how many of the freaky rumors about him were true. For a moment she seriously thought about requesting another partner, but knowing Swanson, she realized that would probably fly about as fast and well as cafeteria meat loaf.

Isobel frowned and bit her lip. Another glance at him, though, had her thinking otherwise. Resigned, Isobel rose and collected her notebook. There were rumors that he sometimes talked to himself, that he practiced witchcraft and had an evil eye tattooed on his left shoulder blade. That he lived in the basement of an abandoned church. That he slept in a coffin. That he drank blood. She approached him with steady steps, the way someone might inch up to a sleeping snake.

Slouched in his seat, one arm draped over the desktop, he was one long line of black, his well-worn, tightly strapped boots crossed at the ankles. In fact, it always seemed as though he was jotting or sketching something into its pages, though she could only guess at what. And maybe part of what made that whole thing so weird was that Swanson never called him on it, just like he never asked him to read out loud or answer questions.

And that was weird too, because no one ever called Swanson out on that.