Mirror Image: Shattered Mirror Prophecies Book 1

by Bailey James

  Copyright © 2021 by Bailey James. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover designed by MiblArt.

  Dedication

  For my family

  Part One

  “Before Alice got to wonderland, she had to fall pretty hard down a deep hole.”

  ~Author Unknown

  Chapter One

  My name drifts to me from a distance and echoes as if from underwater. I don’t want to answer—I want to sleep—but other sounds interrupt my slumber, groaning metal, the popping of cracking glass. Frigid water laps at my chest as I shiver.

  My eyes are stuck shut; no matter how hard I try to pry them open, I can’t. I see only darkness. Something’s wrong with my other senses, too, as I begin to notice the taste and smell of something metallic, maybe even rusty.

  “Lily, I’m here,” a voice speaks in my ear.

  Who are you?

  The voice is deep and smooth, silky, reminding me of the wine my mother let me taste at New Year’s.

  As I float closer and closer to awareness through the fog in my mind, the icy water no longer abates the pain that seizes my body. Distantly, I know I should care—that this is bad, really bad—but I can’t summon the strength.

  “Lily? I need you to stay awake, beautiful. I am going to help you, but it’s going to hurt. A lot. Do you understand me?”

  “Yeah.” Muddy water floods into my mouth, choking me.

  A seatbelt clicks and a strong pair of arms wrap around my waist and tug. A bright-red flash of pain screams through my body, forcing my eyes and mouth wide in a wail screechy enough to put a banshee to shame.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” I gasp, inhaling water again. Choking and sputtering, I struggle against the still unseen person behind me, but it doesn’t do anything except sap my already exhausted energy level. He continues dragging me through what can only be the chilled water of a spring-fed lake like my struggles are nothing. When he reaches land, the rocks and sand scrape every exposed area of my skin, and I let out a string of curses.

  Good thing Mom’s not here to hear me.

  “Lily? Where are you hurt?”

  I sense the stranger leaning over me, but I’m in too much pain to do anything more than lie there, staring up at the starless sky.

  “I don’t know.” Everything hurts. I can’t pinpoint just one spot.

  He probes my body—down my legs, around my head, then my arms.

  “Shit!” I shoot up, turning the air blue with curses when he squeezes my right one. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I hold my arm against my body. It’s like he’d tried ripping it off.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I glare into a pair of sparkling emerald eyes. Even through the haze of pain blurring my vision, I realize that the guy kneeling next to me is gorgeous. His hair is short and black or a dark brown; it’s hard to tell in the dark and with it dripping water onto his shoulders. A large scar cuts across his face, starting above his left eyebrow and zigzagging over his eyelid to end below his left eye.

  His wet clothes cling to him like a second skin, showing off long, lean muscles. I swallow hard as I fight the need to remove his shirt and run my fingers over every dip and curve. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about that when my arm hurts so much, and I have no clue who he is or where I’ve seen him before. Even though I know he’s a stranger, he seems so familiar.

  He must notice me checking him out because he gives me a quick smile, and a dimple flashes on the right side of his face. Despite the pain and the severity of the situation, my heart flutters at the sight.

  Trying to focus on anything but what he’s doing to me, I ask, “How do you know my name?”

  I fight against a suddenly fuzzy head and my throbbing body, both of which threaten to pull me back into unconsciousness.

  His thumb swipes above my right eyebrow, his hand brushing down my cheek, leaving a trail of warmth where his skin touches mine before he gently pushes me back to a lying position. “I know everything about you.”

  Tingles of panic make my heart trip in my chest. “How?” I demand, but my voice is weak, making the demand feeble. My eyelids are being pulled shut by what feels like tiny weights.

  An ambulance screams toward us as warm lips press against mine. The stranger’s scent—a peculiar mix of chlorine, pepper, citrus, and bergamot—fills my nose, instantly calming any hint of panic I have, soothing me with that feeling of safety and tenderness again.

  “They’re coming now. You’ll be safe,” he says, relief evident in his words.

  He stands and steps away, his feet crunching on the gravel.

  “Wait!” I struggle to open my eyes and sit up.

  He immediately kneels next to me and nudges my left shoulder with one hand and cups the side of my face with his other. His thumb caresses my bottom lip.

  “Relax. It’ll be fine. You’ll be okay. We’ll see each other again.” A soft smile crosses his lips.

  “What’s your name?” I lean into his palm and gaze into his eyes.

  He hesitates. “Jackson. My name is Jackson.” He looks up at the embankment, which rises behind us. “I have to go. You’ll be all right now. I’ll be watching out for you.”

  He kisses my lips, barely a brush of his against mine. Despite the fatigue and pain, a tremor of pleasure surprises me and sets my stomach aflutter. Before I can stop him again, he’s gone.

  Voices call in the distance, but I’ve used all my energy talking with Jackson. I can’t answer. But I have to try.

  “I’m here,” I call, my voice scratchy from the filthy lake water and I feel a bit like Rose from Titanic. “I’m here.”

  Footsteps crunch on the gravel and the sound of talking rings in my ears before exhaustion finally overtakes me.

  Pain in my right arm wakes me, but that means I’m alive. Pain, in this circumstance, is a good thing. A great thing. A fantastic thing.

  Opening my eyes, I focus on the dull blue walls of a hospital room. Why can’t these places be cheerier? What’s wrong with a bright yellow or any other color than blue, white, or gray?

  At first, I’m confused as to why I’m here, but then it hits me.

  The accident.

  I had driven home from a day at the beach with my friends. When I’d glanced into the rearview mirror, there’d been eyes staring back at me. At least, I thought there’d been.

  But that couldn’t be. I’d been the only one in the car. Then another thought passes through my mind as the seriousness of what happened hits me; thank goodness I’d been alone in the car.

  My aching right arm feels heavy. Peering down, I sigh; it’s in a frickin’ cast—from my fingers to my elbow.

  Damn it! Figures I’d break my arm during summer break.

  The rest of me appears unscathed as far as I can tell, minus the pounding in my head.

  The large window showcases the tall, angular glass and metal buildings, which symbolize the artistry of the biggest tourist trap in Florida. Mom stands at the window, her hand pressed to the glass.

  “Mom?”

  She spins around. “Lily!” She crosses the tile floor in three large steps before embracing me in a hug that pushes the breath from my lungs and brings my aching ribs into sharp relief. The familiar scent of her Chanel perfume fills
my nose, but a small moan escapes me.

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.” She releases me, but not much. “I thought I lost you.” She presses a kiss to each cheek, leaving a smudge of her signature peach lipstick behind, I’m sure.

  “How long has it been?” I don’t really want to know, but I’m going to find out; I might as well get it out of the way now. I brace myself and close my eyes, all but holding my breath.

  “Only a few…hours.”

  Air escapes me in an almost whistle as my eyes pop open. A few hours? That’s so much better than the coma my mind was trying to tell me I’d been in. People in car accidents always end up in comas in the soaps I watch with Mom.

  Good thing my life isn’t a soap opera.

  “Great. So, when can I get out of here?” I try adjusting my sheets.

  Mom brushes my hands away and straightens them out for me. “You have a severe concussion, honey. And a broken arm. The doctor will release you once he’s cleared you. After he makes sure nothing more serious has happened.” She then rearranges all the wires and tubes neatly on top of the blankets.

  I smile and chuckle to myself as I recognize her tidying up as her defense mechanism against her worry and fear. I do the same thing.

  “Oh. Okay.” A concussion isn’t bad. I’ve had them before. I’d been a cheerleader. No one realizes that cheerleading is even more dangerous than football, and we didn’t get to have all the pads or helmets.

  “How are you feeling? Are you in pain?” Her eyes run over my face as if my answer would be written there.

  The ache in my arm flares as if it’s on fire. “My arm aches a little.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She takes off down the hall.

  “Mom, wait, they have a…” But she is already gone.

  Silly woman, buttons are for nurses.

  A few minutes slip by as I twiddle with the cords for my monitors before Mom bustles in with a whip-thin nurse behind her. The nurse smiles as she approaches my bed. She takes my vitals and then gives me something in my IV to help with the pain. She speaks with Mom in a hushed voice, gesturing to me every so often.

  I reign in the frustration at being talked about like I’m not here, but then another thought comes to me as it finally dawns on me—it’s just Mom and me here.

  “Mom, where is everyone else?” I ask when the nurse leaves the room. “Where is Ty? Leah?”

  “Ty doesn’t know, honey. We’ve tried reaching him, but his phone’s off. And we couldn’t get a hold of Leah, either. We left messages, but they haven’t called back. Your father, Alder, and Rose went back home to get some sleep. We’ve all been here all night.”

  Typical. Neither my best friend nor my boyfriend ever seemed to know the purpose of a phone.

  “What time is it?” I glance around, trying to find a clock.

  “Three in the afternoon.”

  I do the math in my head. “Sixteen hours!” I screech. “I’ve been unconscious for sixteen hours! I thought you said it was only a few hours.”

  She hurries to take my hand. “Calm down, Lily. Please. The concussion made you sleepy, and then they ran a bunch of tests. I said a few hours so you wouldn’t worry.”

  Like that makes me feel better. “Why did they let me sleep? I thought if someone has a concussion, they weren’t supposed to sleep.”

  “That’s a myth, Lily. Just a myth. Besides, the nurses came in every few hours to wake you and take your vitals.” She hugs me, her arms tightening to the point of pain around my body.

  A knock on the door has us both turning toward it. A man, who I assume is the doctor, steps in. He’s tall, has a Middle Eastern complexion, and reminds me of an oversized teddy bear. He flashes a penlight in my eyes, feels around my head, and then checks each and every one of my reflexes before he makes me stand up and walk around the room, dragging my IV pole along for the ride.

  He is quiet the entire time, aside from his instructions, and there are a few times I become frustrated with him. If the head injury is no big deal—like he said—then why am I being paraded around like the main event in a dog and pony show?

  I’m just about to ask him that when he finally looks up from his clipboard. “Good, good. Well, Ms. Baker, you are doing remarkably well for someone in such a bad collision. You sustained quite the head injury.”

  I narrow my eyes at Mom, who won’t look at me.

  He pats my shoulder. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll get one more CT scan. If it still looks good, we’ll send you home.”

  He leaves, whistling. At least he didn’t talk to Mom like I didn’t exist.

  When he disappears behind the closed door, I turn to face Mom, but she still refuses to meet my eyes.

  “See? You’ll be fine.” Mom pulls out her phone. “I’ll call your father and let everybody know how you’re doing.” She pauses as she lifts the phone to her ear. “Do you want me to try Ty again first?”

  I sigh, knowing it won’t be worth confronting her about her little fib, and nod, wincing when the movement makes my head spin. “Yeah.”

  After dialing, she holds the phone to my ear. I exhale when I get Ty’s voicemail message and hang up. I’m a little pissed he isn’t answering his phone, but I’m not going to tell him on his voicemail I almost died last night.

  Mom takes the phone back and dials Dad. They talk for a few minutes before she hands me the phone with a sad smile. I speak with him and then my older brother and sister, who are home from college for the summer.

  When my sister starts crying, I claim exhaustion, not wanting to deal with her overemotional-ness right now. I hand Mom the phone back and then lower the bed and pretend to go back to sleep while she finishes her conversation, and I, at last, do fall asleep.

  I sleep fitfully all that day. By the time morning rolls around again, I’m anxious to get the hell out of here. After a CT scan, I pick at an awful breakfast of dry pancakes and fake orange juice.

  This is Florida for crying out loud. Can’t they get real OJ?

  I thought drowning the pancakes in syrup would help, but it just makes them soggy. Thankfully the doctor shows up, and I can give up on the disgusting meal.

  He performs one more exam before saying, “Well, Ms. Baker, everything looks splendid. I’ll sign the discharge paperwork and get you out of here.”

  I’ve never been so relieved to hear something in my life. If I wasn’t practically strapped to the bed with wires and IV lines, I would jump up and do a happy snoopy dance. The doctor chuckles before leaving the room while Mom spreads the word through text.

  Within a few hours, I’m settled in Mom’s car and on the way home. I resist the urge to call Ty again. I’ve tried several times this morning, but he still has his phone off, and Leah has been no better.

  What’s the point of having cell phones if you aren’t going to answer them? Gah!

  A little tweak of jealousy tickles my stomach. While I trust them both, I can’t help the thought that I’d left both of them (and our other friends) alone with alcohol and a hotel room. Maybe they’re not answering because something happened between them.

  Thankfully, Mom babbles the whole way while I watch out the window, trying to erase the thought from my mind. When we pass the spot where the accident happened, I squeeze my eyes shut. The memories are in my head, though, and I still see flashes of what happened behind my lids. But when my thoughts land on the boy who saved my life, my heart pounds a little faster.

  “Mom?” I ask, carefully turning toward her. “Did a boy stop by the hospital?”

  “A boy?” She frowns at me. “You mean like a boy from school?”

  “No. A boy I’ve never met before.”

  She laughs but gives me a concerned look from the corner of her eye. “If you’ve never met him before, why would he come to the hospital?”

  “Because he saved my life.”

&nb
sp; She shoots me another look. “Who did?”

  I hiss out a breath. “The boy I’m talking about,” I said, my voice filled with exasperation. “He had short brown or black hair and green eyes. A scar cut over his left eye. He had a deep voice.” The memory of the sound gives me goosebumps along my arms. I’ve always been a sucker for deep voices. I gesture to a few inches above my own arm. “Muscles out to here.”

  She shakes her head. “No one like that came.”

  “Oh.” I try not to let my disappointment show. He promised we’d see each other again, but that didn’t mean he’d come to the hospital. “Did the police at least get his last name? I’d like to thank him.”

  Her face clouds with confusion. “There was no one at the scene, not even the other driver. A witness driving by called it in, but the police didn’t give me a name for them. We can ask them to see if that’s your young man.”

  But I know she doesn’t think it was. I try to look back at the accident site as if the answers lie there, but my stiff body protests the action. “I guess he didn’t talk to the police…”

  “Are you sure he was really there?” she asks, not looking over at me this time.

  I huff out a breath and resist the urge to yell at her. “Yes. How else would I have gotten out of the car?”

  She glances over quickly before focusing on the road again. “You got yourself out.”

  “No. The boy did. He undid my seatbelt. I remember because it hurt like hell.” Mom gives me her, “Don’t swear, Lily,” look, while I ignore it and rub my thigh in memory of the pain. “He dragged me from the car and through the water.” Hadn’t he?

  “From what the police told me when they came to the hospital last night, it was probably a drunk driver who’d lost control of his vehicle and slammed into yours. You got pushed through a guardrail, and the car rolled down the embankment. A witness called it in. Which was a darn good thing, because the driver kept going.” She looks at me with fear in her eyes. I can’t tell if she’s worried about upsetting me, or concerned I don’t seem to know what she’s talking about. “Don’t you remember, sweetie?”