Oblivion by Kelly Creagh Page B

Lyulinke ,” Gwen said, pausing. “It means hush-a-bye.”
    Isobel shivered at the meaning, recalling how Varen’s mother had once composed a lullaby for him. Isobel had seen his memory of that moment multiple times, both in reality and in the dreamworld.
    Like Gwen’s, Varen’s lullaby had been unbearably sad. Sorrow distilled into sound. And though Isobel could not understand the lyrics of Gwen’s song, the music helped her to feel less alone. Because it captured how she felt. Bereaved. Forsaken. Held hostage by the past.
    As Gwen’s singing turned again to humming, Isobel’s clenched muscles began to relax. Her body slackened in Gwen’s grip, and she rested her head into the crook of her friend’s arm, content to feel like a child again. Content to be reminded that, despite everything she’d lost, she was still here, still alive.
    The song ended before Isobel was ready for silence, and though the ache inside of her returned with the pulsing noiselessness of the graveyard, the fear that had nearly consumed her moments before remained at bay.
    â€œThat was beautiful,” Isobel said at last, staring into the bright blue of the clear sky. “Where did you—?”
    â€œMy grandmother,” Gwen said. “Lullabies are kind of an old tradition in our family. In many families, I guess. They’re said to have the power to protect. The word ‘lullaby’ itself means, ‘Lilith, begone.’”
    Isobel frowned, remembering how Pinfeathers had once said something about lullabies. About how they never worked . . .
    Then her fingers rushed to her collar, burrowing through the layers of material to find the hand-shaped pendant Gwen had given her, the amulet that had worked to save her life. “You mean like the hamsa?”
    â€œLike the hamsa,” Gwen said.
    The wind whipped past Isobel’s ears with a white-noise rush, mixing with the chirping of birds. She listened, doing her best to sync her breathing with Gwen’s, to slow the rhythm of her heart before trying to move.
    Huddled there in the grass with the best friend she’d ever had, Isobel tried to limit her thoughts to the here and now, absorbing the calmness she would need to prepare her for whatever came next.
    But then a loud crack boomed through the cemetery, causing the birds to disperse in a flutter.
    Starting, Isobel sat up.
    Gunshots, she thought as the blasts came twice more, their echoes ricocheting through the air like claps of thunder.

6
The Grey Tombstone
    Peeking around the corner of an enormous mausoleum, Isobel saw another tent erected several yards away, its burgundy canvas shielding a gathering of about a dozen from the weak winter sun.
    The cluster of mourners, dressed in somber suits, skirts, and heavy winter coats, stood with their backs to her and Gwen, facing what Isobel knew must be a grave site.
    To one side of the small assembly, a trio of military officers waited at attention, each armed with his own rifle—the source of the gunshot blasts.
    â€œGreen Berets,” Gwen whispered, peering over Isobel’s shoulder. “This must be the bookshop guy.”
    Recalling how Bruce’s obituary had mentioned his service in the army, Isobel realized Gwen had to be right. The shots they’d heard moments before must have been meant as a final salute.
    Isobel scanned the ranks of mourners, searching for Varen’s familiar form.
    â€œDo you see him?” Gwen asked as the first notes of “Taps,” played by a lone bugler, floated forth to fill the reverent quiet.
    Slipping out from behind the tomb, Isobel glanced left and right but saw no one among the other graves, no sign of that black coat or jet hair.
    â€œNo,” she said.
    Just because she couldn’t see him, though, didn’t mean Varen wasn’t there. Watching.
    Strengthened by Gwen’s lullaby, by the reminder of the hamsa’s presence around her