Mirror Image (6 page)

“It is a family heirloom,” the man continued inexorably, and Frazer was beginning to wonder what was going to happen when he refused him. “It should never have gone up to the auction in London.”

“I'm afraid the mirror is not for sale.”

The big man leaned forward. “Make it for sale, Mister Frazer.” The threat was unmistakable.

“I must ask you to leave now,” Jonathan said, as quietly as possible, attempting to keep his voice from shaking.

Diane Williams appeared by his side with a hammer in her hand. The big man looked at the hammer and laughed quietly.

“If you don't go now, I shall be forced to call the police,” Jonathan said more forcefully, encouraged by her presence. “You are trespassing.”

The big man glared at Frazer and then stared long and hard at Diane, his dark eyes moving slowly over her face as if committing it to memory. He turned and left, moving surprisingly quickly for such a big man. Jonathan and Diane turned to look at one another: they both knew that this was the intruder from the previous night.

And they both knew he would be back.

 

11

D
IANE WALKED
the length of the guesthouse, glass fragments rasping beneath her sneakers—she thought she'd cleaned them all up—checking that all the windows were locked. Frazer had gone back to the house, scampering along the graveled path like a frightened rabbit to phone the police. The phone in the guesthouse no longer worked for some reason. She'd locked the heavy door behind him and ensured that all the skylights were sealed.

Maybe she'd ask Jonathan Frazer for a few days off. She could go away, she had some savings put aside. She'd been wanting to buy a red Vespa Scooter she'd found at a nearby dealership, but she thought that a little vacation right now might be a much better idea.

The way that guy had just looked at her!

The scarred man had scared the shit out of her. The size of his hands, and he hadn't got those scars on his face playing chess. Give him the fucking mirror if that's what he wanted. Gift wrap it too with a big bow.

But it looked like Frazer was going to try and play cute with him; the only problem was, people like the scarred man didn't know how to play cute.

No, she'd take a couple of weeks off and maybe by the time she got back, this mess would have sorted itself out. And what would have happened if she'd been here on her own, she wondered. Her eyes scanned the workbench looking for something that she could use as a weapon. The hammer was too cumbersome. Rummaging through the clutter she eventually found a long crosshead screwdriver and a needle-pointed awl. She tucked them both in the back pocket of her jeans, one to the left and one on the right. So what if she felt ridiculous: she felt a little safer.

Diane moved the heavier items of furniture away from where the dog had been killed so she could bleach the floor. She carefully removed some of the antiques that Tony was working on before his death. A lot of them were in a poor state of repair—which is why they had been here in the first place—but she was wondering if there was anything more useful than a screwdriver and awl, like a .45 magnum for example.

Then she remembered Tony had once kept a BB gun in the guesthouse. He had demonstrated for her how accurately he could fire the weapon by taking the flower heads off a hibiscus plant in the garden. She smiled, remembering his delight and Frazer's horrified expression when he saw the devastation and knowing he would have to explain it to Celia. Jonathan had then banned guns of any sort, antique or modern, from the property.

Tony had known so much and yet there had still been a playfulness in his character. What a waste. What a way to die: killed by a fucking mirror.

Diane walked back down the room to stand before the huge slab of glass, staring at its grubby surface. She pulled a cloth from the workbench and worked it in a circle, grimacing at the amount of grime that came off the glass. She knew she must have cleaned this mirror every day since it had arrived: where did all this shit come from?

A glint of silver on the floor suddenly caught her eye. Squinting, she bent down and just underneath a small round side table she found a butcher's knife. This must be the knife Jonathan said he'd been carrying the night before. “Now that's more like it.”

Carefully placing the knife on the ground within easy reach, she lifted a bottle of cleaning fluid from the top shelf. Starting at eye level, she rubbed furiously at the grime on the glass. Ten minutes later, with a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead and an aching arm, she stepped back to examine her handiwork. There seemed precious little result for so much effort. Bringing her face close to the glass, she rubbed at a patch she'd just cleaned with her fingertip. The glass was slightly greasy, clammy to her touch.

Movement caught her completely unawares, sending her stumbling backwards with a scream. She whirled around, swiftly picking up the knife and holding it before her with both hands. The room was empty. The door was still closed and bolted, while dust motes spiraled undisturbed in the air.

“Fucking hell…” she breathed. “Scared the shit out of me.”

Feeling slightly foolish, she lowered the long blade and turned back to the mirror, grinning at the unexpected picture that presented itself: faded black jeans, blond hair, white face, the purple-black lipstick and eye shadow lending her a skull-like appearance. She laughed shakily; Tony's crazy death, the funeral—she hadn't been to a funeral in years—and now this strange business had her on edge.

She saw movement, definite movement, a twisting shifting flicker reflected in the glass.

Heart pounding she spun around, bringing the knife up again. She had glimpsed the movement behind her right shoulder, which would have put it there! Behind a sleek white bookcase still encased in its plastic wrap with a large sold sign attached. Behind it were three curved leather dining chairs. There was no place for anyone to hide. And yet she wasn't alone in here, she knew that. She opened her mouth to call out … and then closed it again. She didn't want them to know that she knew they were in the room with her. Maybe if she turned away, they would appear. Still clutching the long knife, she turned back to the mirror and looked into the glass.

There!

The temptation to turn was almost irresistible, but she continued staring at the mirror. She frowned, attempting to make sense out of what she was seeing, but the mirror was distorting the image. Transferring the knife to her left hand, she rubbed at the glass with the palm of her hand.

And yelped!

Something like a spark had leapt from the glass to her flesh. She rubbed her hand furiously against her thigh: static. She sometimes sparked when she touched metal, door handles, some cutlery, especially motorbikes, but never glass. Reaching out, she tentatively touched the glass again, but this time there was nothing. The surface of the glass felt unpleasant, slightly greasy, vaguely damp.

The flickering was still perceptible over her left shoulder. A twisting, shimmering movement, like a heat haze on a summer's day, but with some darker, deeper thread inside it, like coiling smoke.

Diane glanced back over her shoulder, but there was nothing moving except the twisting dust motes. She turned back to the glass, frowning and looked again. And then she realized … the disturbance was
within
the glass!

She drew back in shock, heart thumping. She leaned forward, forefinger touching the slick surface. With her finger still pressed to the glass she turned her head again: there was still movement within the glass, but nothing behind her. OK, so it was an imperfection in the glass, after all it was five hundred and more years old, some trick of the light, refraction or reflection or whatever it was called.

She was about to turn away when the flickering seemed to intensify, becoming even more agitated, the twisting, coiling smoke seeming to speed up. Diane watched it, mesmerized by the movement, fascinated by the way the colors ran along its length, like oil on water.

It was … it was the mirror, she thought, magnifying the whirling dust motes behind her …

That's …

That's …

 … all it was.

She blinked, and then blinked again, realizing that she'd been daydreaming, watching the spiral dance. The shimmering was hypnotic.

Diane straightened, attempting to pull her hand away. And couldn't. Cold fire ran up the length of her arm, tingling into her shoulders, down into her breasts, deep into her stomach. Black spots danced before her eyes and her breath came in great labored gasps.

She was asleep and she was dreaming and there were pins and needles in her arm and she was going to wake up.

Except
 …

Except that she was awake.

Diane dropped the knife, gripped her right wrist with her left hand and pulled. But it was firmly stuck, fingers splayed … and yet she could only remember touching the glass with her forefinger.

There was a rational explanation for this …

There was …

No rational …

Her hand was becoming warm, pleasantly so. The warmth rushed up through her arm—she could actually feel the movement—across her shoulders, down into her chest, into her belly, through her groin, along her thighs and into the soles of her feet. She shuddered, abruptly conscious of the weight of her breasts, her nipples hard against the smooth fabric of her T-shirt, the buzzing tingle in her groin. Another shudder rippled through her, and she felt her legs grow tremulous. She dropped to her knees, her hand still stuck to the glass as another spasm rippled through her body, more intense than any orgasm. This was pleasure so intense it was almost painful.

And then ice-cool flesh touched her hand.

The scream caught in her throat as she attempted to stagger to her feet, hauling herself upright, using her trapped hand as leverage.

There was flesh beneath that hand. Soft, rounded flesh, like … like a woman's breast.

She could barely catch her breath now, and her heart was pounding so hard her ribs were vibrating.

The shimmering in the glass had become almost frantic in its intensity … and then Diane realized it was throbbing in time to the beating of her heart. As she watched, the coiling, throbbing threads coalesced into a face, smoky, intangible, the planes of jaw and forehead and cheeks moving, sliding together into a pale mask. A dark circle appeared for a mouth, two more for eyes. The mouth opened, smoke coiling from the maw, matching the wreathing steam that took the place of hair.

Diane reached for the knife on the floor by her side, fingers sliding across the cold metal before catching the wooden handle. The figure in the glass copied her, holding a knife of its own. Mesmerized, Diane moved the knife from left to right in a slow sweeping movement. The figure copied her every move … and then with a sickening revelation, Diane discovered that her arm was mimicking the movement of the figure in the glass. She was no longer in control. Her arm was being dragged left and right, up and down …

The image in the glass raised its knife and Diane's arm jerked upwards. She attempted to scream, but her throat was clenched tight. Struggling to resist, she tried, and failed, to pull her arm away from her face.

Diane felt the tip of the knife touch the soft flesh of her left cheek, lightly twisting and turning, tracing the length of her cheek bone, until it stopped abruptly. Then the tip pierced the skin. A ruby of blood gathered, trembled, then ran down her face. There was no pain. Not yet. Her fingers clenched around the knife's wooden base, knuckles white, as she attempted to jerk the knife away. The blade dug deeper. Then the vaporous image in the glass pulled the knife downwards and the blade in her hand mimicked the movement. The blade slid down the side of her cheekbone parting the tender skin underneath.

The pain was exquisite.

And it brought release. Suddenly she found her voice. The scream that tore from her throat was audible even up at the house.

And in the mirror, the mouth shape opened wider and wider … and then a second face appeared within the black gaping maw, smaller, the features sharper, clearer because of its tiny size.

And it was Tony Farren.

Tony: mouth and eyes wide in terror or pain.

Tony: older than she had ever seen him, lines etched into his forehead, skin like parchment, eyes filled with blood …

The knife in her hand sliced her throat open, slowly, carefully, deliberately moving from left to right cutting through muscle, nerves, the trachea, eventually severing the jugular vein. Dark crimson spurted onto the mirror, spraying across the glass with every pulsing heartbeat.

There was no pain now.

There was just an icy coolness seeping out from the glass, up along her arm and across her throat.

She focused on the glass, trying to make sense of the shape within the mirror. She needed to know what—or who—was killing her. But there was nothing, other than the vague shape, the outline of eyes and mouth and gossamer hair. Diane gulped for air, her body jerking uncontrollably as she slumped, hand still stuck to the glass, cheek pressed to the mirror as she slid downwards. Her body continued to twitch and spasm until the last drops of blood leaked from her torn throat. Finally, when she had nothing left to give, her hand released from the glass and her lifeless body slid to the ground at the base of the mirror.

 

12

P
OWER.

Raw coursing strength.

Confusion, pain, anguish. It had felt these before, but these sensations were stronger, much stronger now. This was no animal. This was a human. A human soul in mortal agony.

The colors in the Otherworld now were bright. Sharp, clear, clean colors slicing through the grayness.

The quickening was upon it. The past was returning, memories of promises made, oaths sworn and broken.

For ever and ever.