The Crow Behind the Mirror_Book One of the Mirror Wars
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THE CROW BEHIND THE MIRROR
The Mirror Wars, Book One
SEAN M. HOGAN
The Crow Behind the Mirror
Copyright © 2018 by Sean M. Hogan.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For information contact:
http://seanmichaelhogan.weebly.com/
Book Formatting Template by Derek Murphy @Creativindie
Cover design by Erica petit Illustrations
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ISBN:
ASIN: B073NFQCYK
First Edition: March 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
THE CROW BEHIND THE MIRROR
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
PART TWO
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
PART THREE
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
A HALLOWEEN CAROL
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
EMAIL LIST
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART ONE
Haunted
CHAPTER 1
The Barbarian and the Boy
THE BOY WAS DEAD—his lips blue, his eyes placid, and his skin egg white. The snow and ice had claimed him days ago, to sit by Ordin’s side in the Great Hall of Eternal Dreams, where all lost children must go. From the suffering of cold, toward the warmth of light. The final reward.
At last this boy knew peace. And yet his exposed naked heart still beat.
***
The men had regressed into chanting, thrusting their spears and swords and axes into the cold night air. The men of the Western clans. Eric should have been one of them. He had seen forty harsh winters pass and this winter marked his twenty-eighth as a warrior. Yet he did not share their drunken enthusiasm or their blind courage. He already knew the outcome of tomorrow’s war. The North would be victorious. The West would fall. The big fish would swallow the little one. These men marched to their deaths, and Eric’s fate marched with them.
Eric slipped away from the ranks unnoticed, without regrets, without looking back.
The winds howled. The hail pelted. Eric raised his arm and fur cloak and pushed on.
He would have passed the snow-entrenched road none the wiser, if not for two shimmering lights piercing the darkness. Two crystals, one blue and the other red, reflected the moonlight in a brilliant haze. They called to Eric, beckoned him with a siren’s candlelight. And Eric pursued, chasing the flame into the void as all moths do. To the bitter end.
When he came upon the crystals, he fell to his knees and brushed aside the snow. He took them into the palm of his hand and reveled in their glory. Their light reflected in his blue eyes and basked his face with warmth. Then he noticed the chain. The crystals were attached to an exquisite gold necklace. What luck, he thought, the gods surely blessed me with riches tonight. He tugged and found resistance. He tugged harder. Still the chain did not budge. This time he pulled with all his strength and unearthed the boy.
Eric stumbled backward, fell on his ass, and fought back the urge to scream. Once composed, Eric studied him—this young boy with raven black hair and olive-colored eyes. The tail end of his purple cape, made of the finest fabric Eric had ever seen or felt, flapped in the wind. He was bundled up in it—a silent caterpillar cocooned for all time.
Eric slowly unraveled him. Resting on the boy’s breast was a large book, bound in blood-red leather and clutched tightly in small, dead, frostbitten hands. On the cover three circles overlapped—one red, one blue, and one black. He peeled back the boy’s fingers and took the book, exposing a gaping hole in the boy’s chest, his heart beating like a furious drum.
Staring into dead eyes, Eric reached for the heart. He held the boy’s life in his hand. Beyond reason and logic, life still pumped through this boy.
The gods had a hand in this no doubt. Fate deemed our paths should cross.
The boy lived, but could he be saved? Eric scooped the boy into his arms and headed into the blizzard to find the answer.
***
Shadows cast from the flames of the fireplace danced across the boy’s face. His eyes fluttered open. Bloody bandages lay a few feet from the boy’s bed, fresh ones wrapped around his waist and chest. He scanned the den of the primitive cabin built of clay, straw, and wood. The stale air tasted of sweat and ash. A large figure draped in animal furs hunched over a red book—a hooded barbarian with a thick black beard—and flipped through the pages feverishly, devouring each one after the other. The boy smiled at his first reader. He attempted to rise but sharp seething pain shot through him and he only managed sitting up.
The boy’s groan alerted the barbarian and his eyes rose from the book. Eric pulled back his hood, exposing his weathered face.
“I should warn you,” the boy said with much weakness. “There is a price for that knowledge you hold in your hands. A price that must be paid in blood.”
Eric studied the boy for a quiet moment. Finally, with caution, he spoke. “Your wounds healed themselves in one night. Are you man or god?”
The boy shot him a hearty smirk. “I’ve killed far too many to be called a man.”
Eric searched for the right words and failed in finding them. “Surely you jest. You’re but a boy. A child.”
“A child older than the oldest mountains.”
“Yes.” Eric returned to the book. “The one called Able. Ruler of a world beyond the mirrors. Beyond the stars. So, your book says.” He rose from his chair and handed back Able’s book.
Able glanced down at the book. “You don’t believe my words?”
“Books lie as much as men do. Children even more.”
“But I am neither man nor child.”
“What are you then?” Eric forced the next question out. “A demon?”
“Many have called me that. Among others. Prince of Crosses. Lord of Lashes. Emperor of Skulls. So many titles it’s hard to keep track.”
“Then you are like our Demon of the North. A would-be conqueror.”
Able relaxed against his pillow. “He sounds fun.”
“He invades the Western lands as we speak. As he did with the others.” Eric took his battle-ax in his hands, hoping it would imbue him with courage. “But he shall find our wills not so easily broken.”
“Why did you save me, barbarian?�
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“Ordin rewards those who do good deeds. And saving children is the grandest act one can perform in this life.”
Able’s eyelids narrowed. “So, it’s a reward you’re after?”
Eric put his ax down and sat in his chair. “In this life or the next.”
“Well, I know nothing of the next. But if it’s a reward you want, perhaps I can be of service. After all, I owe you my life.” Able flipped through the pages, searching for the right one. “It’s only fitting I be the one to reward you personally.”
“Save your gold.” Eric waved Able’s offer away like smoke. He did not want to sully his deed. “The dead and the dying have no need of wealth. Tomorrow I will go to war. I cannot hide from my fate forever. Soon the North will break through our frontlines. Then they will come here. Better to die among kin with honor than be butchered on the run like a stray dog.” He poured himself a mug of mead. “Pray for me instead.”
Able raised an eyebrow. “And whom shall I pray to?”
“Ordin and the Seven Maidens. That my everlasting dreams be pleasant ones.” Eric downed his mead.
“You believe this Ordin to be a god? How amusing.”
Eric wiped his mustache clean with his sleeve. “It is not wise to mock the gods.”
“I mock nothing. Ordin died long ago. He had his chance at godhood—yes—but he threw it all away.”
“He resisted temptation.” Eric poured himself another drink. “He chose the eternal dream over this waking life. Even now he resides in the Dreamtime. Waiting for our return.”
“The dead wait for nothing.”
Eric stopped mid-sip and slammed his mug down on the table. His hand shook as much as the mead. “And how are your dreams, boy?”
Able laughed. When his laughter died, his voice grew calm and callous. “Horrifying—as I suspect yours are. Oh, the sweet irony. I have nothing to look forward to in the next. While you have everything. Well, pleasant dreams at least. But you’re trembling. And I am simply bored. Why is that? I always thought humans invented religion to ease such fears. Yet here you are. So full of faith and yet so full of doubt.”
Eric calmed himself with a few deep breaths and averted his eyes. “Even Ordin had doubts.”
“Not doubts. Choices.” Able ripped out a page from his book. “A choice.” He folded the pure white paper and tossed it into Eric’s lap. “Would you like the same?”
CHAPTER 2
The Crow
CLOUDS BLEW BY as a jet-black crow rode on the currents of the autumn winds. The crow glided through the crystal blue sky and over a sea of modern suburban homes. The wind gushed past the trees and stripped them bare of orange and yellow leaves. The dying leaves hurled into the wind, dancing the way schools of multicolored fish swim in elegant formations while the crow speared on through. He tilted his sleek feathered head to the side and blinked his oil black eyes, scanning the scenery below to observe the orderly chaos of the civilized. Honking cars waded through congested traffic. Fashionably dressed people watered perfect little gardens. Designer dogs defecated on symmetrically carved lawns. A world in and of itself concerned only with its self. The American dream. A world the crow possessed little concern for. For he, unlike them, had a destination.
The ring of a school bell ensnared the crow’s attention. He circled the school. A noisy flood of gray-uniformed girls spilled out from the building, swarming like frantic gray ants over the yellow lunch tables. He glided in, swooping down to a gentle perch on a telephone wire. The crow peered at the busy students, his gaze zooming in on one empty lunch table, devoid of occupants save for one lone girl.
Sharon Ashcraft ate alone. It was better this way. Best to avoid conflict with the other girls for now. After all, teenage girls can be more vicious than a troop of crazed chimpanzees—ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness. Any girl unlucky enough to get bullied will testify to this fact. And Sharon was at a disadvantage today. She was the dreaded new kid. At an all-girls’ Catholic school, no less. Stuck in one of those humiliating skirts pop-singers wear to fake the appearance of innocence and chastity. But the color. Her uniform’s color made it unbearable. Gray. The depressing shade of gray that steals your very soul and identity. The kind of gray that makes little orphan sweatshop workers chew off their own fingers so they don’t have to sew another damn uniform. Sharon wondered if there was the word conform written in secret on the back of her shirt. Maybe if she had a pair of special alien-exposing sunglasses like from that old eighties movie They Live she would be able to read it. The horrid color made her appear even paler than she already looked. And with her long raven black hair cascading down her slender shoulders she might as well scream Goth at the top of her lungs. She looked around. Goth didn’t seem to be in this year.
Sharon swallowed another spoonful of blueberry yogurt. She closed her blue eyes and fantasized about having friends. Other girls her age sitting across from her, talking, laughing, gossiping about cute boys and even hotter guys. Hell, they could be talking about stamps for all she cared. Ironic that the solution to her problem was so simple.
Just get up, she told herself, just stand up and walk over to the nearest table full of smiling happy well-adjusted girls. Introduce yourself. Talk. Tell a joke. Laugh at theirs. And talk... just talk damn it.
She was sweating now. Drops formed from the pores of her forehead. Her hands clammed up. The nape of her neck cooled to a chill. Her knees threatened to buckle. Her stomach knotted to a nauseating rat’s nest. Another attack.
Sharon tried calming her racing heart—to slow the frantic beats with controlled, paced, and rhythmic breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Good. That’s good. She was back in control now, freeing her up for another round of self-loathing.
Sharon Ashcraft is a pathetic pitiful creature, she berated herself, a coward beyond all measure.
She dug her nails into her thighs. Sharon hated being this way. Hated being “shy”. Shy: another word for anxiety-ridden. Irrational crippling fear. Why even bother trying? She knew what would happen. She’d freeze up. Fumble her words. Speak so softly no one would understand. Become a deer caught in the blinding beams of oncoming traffic. Social road kill.
Sharon wished she was back at her old home in California, back at her old school where she had one friend at least. Sarah Herman, Sharon’s partner in petty crimes and misdemeanors. Her sole social circle—if you can call one friend a circle. Truth was Sharon had never actually made a friend, Sarah made her, doing all the hard work for her back in second grade. Simpler times. Sharon knew the reason for her suffering. It boiled down to science, as everything usually does. She had missed that critical window of adolescent brain development. Where the skill of making friends, like language and reading human faces, imprinted itself. Sharon was socially blind the way feral children raised by dogs can never truly comprehend complex language. She might as well have been Jane Goodall and the other girls: chimps wearing lipstick and mascara. No matter how hard she tried, socializing would always be awkward and foreign. Pretending to be was never the same as just being. No matter how much she observed and imitated, she could never be one of them, one of the happy, well-adjusted troop. Sharon felt like she was always carrying around a large scarlet letter B sown to her chest. B for broken.
Three shadows descended on Sharon and swallowed up her sun. Sharon gave a quick sly glance over her shoulder. She spotted three girls horde around her like a pack of hungry dogs sniffing out a foreigner intruding on their territory.
“So, you’re the new girl?”
Sharon gave no response.
One of the girls sat down next to her. Too close. Invading Sharon’s personal space and rubbing her shoulder against hers. A clear display of dominance. Sharon had watched far too many nature documentaries on the Discovery Channel to miss this. The girl brushed back her blonde hair from her eyes and smirked at Sharon. Another power play. She wanted Sharon to know she was in control. Fearless. Of course, she was fearless. She had back up and h
ome field advantage. Lucky her.
“My name’s Alice Gordon. You’ve probably heard of me. I’m the cheer squad leader and class president. My father’s a senator, Charles Gordon. I know you’ve heard of him.” Alice snatched up one of Sharon’s French fries from her plate and bit the top half off like a hen chomping the head off a caterpillar.
A shining portrait of American teen superficiality. Alice Gordon and her two friends came jam-packed with glittered bracelets, too much makeup, and overpriced earrings. Anything to standout in this sea of gray uniforms.
“And you are?” she asked, cutting Sharon short before she could muster up an answer. “Well, it doesn’t really matter who you are. All that matters is that you understand the rules.”
Sharon just ignored her and continued eating her meal, hoping Alice would just get bored and go pester someone else. She didn’t.
“I’ll cut to the point,” she said growing irritated in Sharon’s lack of response. “Do you know what the rules are here?” Her question hung in the uncomfortable silent air. Alice’s face tightened as she gritted her teeth. No one ignores a Gordon. “I guess not. Because if you did you would know this is where we eat. F.Y.I. no freaks or emo-bitches. This means you.”
Alice plucked Sharon’s soda can up into the air as if her hand was a metal claw hunting for cute fluffy stuffed victims in a vending machine. She poured soda all over Sharon’s food, soaking her fries and chicken sandwich in a pool of black bubbly carbonation. Alice was marking her territory. Her friends covered their mouths, a halfhearted attempt at containing a brew of wicked giggles. They were self-esteem vampires, the lot of them, thriving off the misery of others. Vultures feasting off Sharon’s suffering and delighting in her eternal torment.
Sharon shot up from her seat and stared down a smug Alice, her fists clenching and nostrils snorting out furious air. Alice took her time standing up, bolstering unapologetic and unwavering eye contact. She was daring Sharon to do something, to act on her emotions.