by Karalynn Lee
“Who do you think made the lock?” Tiras returned with a wry smile.
“This won’t get you in trouble?”
“You’re accompanying an angel. I’m sure it’s for a good cause. You are helping her, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” Kenan assured him.
“Good.” Tiras nodded firmly. “Besides, when could I deny you anything?”
It was an old flirtation, ever since they had met on the road to Hellsgate. Tiras was one of the few Kenan considered a friend.
“Because you know it’ll make for a good story,” Kenan said with a grin. Tiras loved a good tale almost more than anything else. “I’ll tell it to you over an ale later.”
“If it would not distress her too much. Angeliki,” he said to Jahel with a respectful nod.
She seemed more embarrassed than anything else by his attention. As soon as they were outside, she asked Kenan, “What is a good man doing in Hellsgate? He’s the only one who hasn’t looked as though he wanted to spit on me.”
“He’s one of the lost ones,” he said.
“He was a demon?”
“He was an angel.”
“And he’s living in Hellsgate?” Her voice climbed in disbelief.
Tiras had told his own tale to Kenan once. “He loved a mortal, who has since died. Afterward, he did some things he’s not proud of, and coming here was a self-imposed penance at first. But he’s come to like Hellsgate, I think. He practices a useful trade here, and he’s more comfortable among people who accept all manner of strange folk.”
“Except angels,” she said. “He could have settled in Heavensgate.”
“Oh? How would they look upon an angel who shed his wings?”
“I don’t know,” she said after a pause.
“He doesn’t speak much of his origins, anyway,” Kenan said, wishing now that he had coaxed more out of the locksmith, so that he could better understand Jahel. “But I don’t think he misses Heaven. Curiosity drew him away from there as much as anything else, and there’s plenty happening here.”
It actually made him wonder. Tiras couldn’t bear a locked door—thus his profession—and Kenan would not have put it past him to sneak a look at the guarded prophecies in Heaven. What could be more tempting than knowledge of the world’s end? He was a mortal now, but how long might the breach have gone unnoticed? The angels might not have checked the scrolls for a long while, assuming they were safe.
It wasn’t a speculation to voice in front of Jahel, and he didn’t know if it was worth confronting Tiras.
Distracted, he nearly walked past their destination, but Jahel said, “Is that it?”
The Hall of Mirrors was a grandiose building, seemingly built of gleaming obsidian, with towers at each corner. The door was tall enough for a giant, and a single hole was set in its center.
The key fit smoothly into the lock. He turned it precisely halfway, then back, and the door clicked. He pulled it open and they stepped inside.
It was full of light even though the only windows were tiny and set high up in each corner, for the mirrors that lined the walls were angled so that they picked up their light and threw it to the next set of mirrors.
“How will we know which one it is?” Jahel asked, shading her eyes and surveying the hall. A dozen Jahels turned as she did.
“These are just mirrors,” he said. “The demons prefer higher chambers, where there are windows, and so views of the city to reflect.”
“How can we go higher?”
He pushed on one side of a corner panel, causing the light to shift all around them, and it pivoted to reveal a staircase.
“Stairs,” she sighed, but she followed him.
The first few rooms were empty of mirrors, although they held other furnishings. Stone statues graced one, their poses caught at just the right point in the arc of motion that they seemed to be on the cusp of coming to life—or having been snuffed from it. The next held a glass ball that began rolling toward them until Kenan backed away with a quick apology.
“Was that a mirror-demon?” Jahel asked.
“Yes. That’s one of their most common shapes. The one we’re looking for will be trapped into one shape, though, whatever form it holds in the mortal plane.”
In the highest chamber of the tower, a gold-framed full-length mirror was set upon the wall opposite the window. “That one,” Jahel said. “That’s what it looked like.”
The mirror-demon was opaque. Kenan cleared his throat and it flickered once before reflecting his face back at him.
“What?” his reflection said, although Kenan had not moved his lips.
“We’re seeking the mirrored one who serves a mortal queen,” Kenan said.
The mirror-demon hissed. “I am trapped by such a one, yes.”
“We seek her downfall.”
“She does, as well?” And it was Jahel’s image speaking to him, but with a mocking cast to her mouth that did not fit the angel’s face.
“Do you not see the collar? She is mine.” And he thought, I wish she were. And not simply her soul or body. The realization was like a clawed hand sinking into his belly and slowly rising toward his heart. That face meant more to him than a potential conquest.
He was relieved when the mirror returned to his visage. “Say on,” the mirror said in his voice. “What would you have befall this jailer-queen?”
Kenan focused on the bargaining at hand. “I will take her soul.”
“Fitting,” mirror-Kenan said. “But not enough.”
“What more, then?”
“She must break me,” the mirror said. “Then I’ll be free from her.”
“I’ll make her angry with you,” Kenan said. “I can’t promise anything beyond that.”
The mirror considered this. Finally it said, “She will be coming soon. Step through.” And it changed to show a lavishly appointed bedchamber with velvet drapes, a canopied bed, and richly dyed tapestries on the walls.
Kenan started toward that scene, but Jahel took a step along with him, and he turned to her in surprise.
“You’re coming with me?”
She sounded resigned. “I must witness what I brought about.”
Her damned honor. He wouldn’t be able to talk her out of this. “You can watch from this side,” he said.
“I won’t interfere,” she said.
He wasn’t so sure that she would be able to restrain herself, but that wasn’t his concern. Mortals had trouble seeing angels, but a witch might be able to tell, and more to the point, he would know she was there. He didn’t think he could conduct a seduction with her actually present in the room.
He couldn’t tell her the real reason, so he drew her aside and said in a low voice, “I don’t trust the mirror-demon. Stay here, and make sure it doesn’t close the way back against me.”
“How?”
“Something hard and sharp,” he suggested. “Or that sweet tongue of yours.”
She gave him a flat look, then crossed her arms. “All right, I’ll stay here.”
He smiled his relief and stepped through the mirror.
His timing was perfect—the queen had just entered the chamber and turned to close the door behind her when he came through. She turned back and saw him.
She was beautiful indeed, with sun-gold hair and cheekbones that would make a sculptor proud. Kenan rather thought that marble would suit her better than flesh. There were no signs of past laughter or softness on that face.
“Who are you?” she asked sharply. Her face held no fear, only an imperious expression.
He bowed deeply. “Your fair visage drew me from the glass,” he said.
“You’re the mirror-demon?” Her eyes slid down his form. “You’re not as I expected.” She did not sound as though the surprise was unpleasant.
He smiled and came closer. “I hope I am as your majesty desires,” he murmured.
“My desire was to have you affixed on that wall and obedient to my bidding,” she said. “Why
are you here?”
“Upon the wall, I can only answer as you ask,” he said. “But there is something I would tell you.”
“Speak.”
He took her hand and brushed his lips across the back of it. “As your majesty commands,” he said. “You are even lovelier without the glass between us.” He turned over her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist.
She was amused now. “That is what you have to say?” But he could feel her pulse speed a touch under his lips.
“Do you know that you torment me?” he said suddenly, releasing her hand.
Her eyes narrowed. “I have placed you in useful service. I ask but one question each day, and leave you be otherwise. Is that overly taxing?”
“It is not the service I object to, your majesty.” He stiffened his back. “It is that you hang me on the wall of your bedchamber. Each night I must watch you disrobe, and lie upon a mattress so fortunate as to press against your exquisite body.”
“A mirror-demon feels desire?”
He knew how to bring about a reaction. He thought of that sight of Jahel’s back, then took the queen’s hand again and pressed it against his hardness. “Your majesty can tell me.”
She drew her hand away, but with a slow upward caress against his erection. “The king is old,” she murmured. “Not even my body can stir him some nights.”
“Then he has grown blind,” Kenan said, letting his gaze roam over her. “Modesty doesn’t become you, your majesty. Not when you have freely shown yourself to me before.”
She dragged a finger along her neckline. “And if I show myself to you as I have before…”
He kept his eyes on that finger. “I will tell you how fair you are.”
The queen smiled an invitation. He stepped forward, but she turned her back to him. “You may help undress me,” she said.
“You are generous,” he murmured.
He couldn’t help glancing toward the mirror. He saw nothing but the expected reflection, but he knew that Jahel was watching them through it. It was more difficult than he’d expected, conducting a seduction under the eyes of an angel.
He loosened the ties of the queen’s dress and buried his face in the juncture between her neck and shoulder, unwilling to look at the mirror any longer. He kissed the skin there, remembering how he had wanted to do the same to Jahel.
It was a practiced series of motions that brought them to the bed, the queen naked and he still clothed—she was the type of woman who preferred being pleasured over enjoying her partner’s body. When she was finally gasping and writhing under him, he leaned close to her ear.
“The princess is still alive,” he said.
She stilled. “What?”
He plunged two fingers into her and twisted, watching her body twist in response. “You sent a mortal huntsman to slay her,” he said. “A man with frail resolve. I know a hellhound who could take up her scent. Such dogs never stop until they bring down their prey.”
“So I must bind a hellhound to me?”
“I would harness it for you,” he reassured her.
“You?”
He didn’t like her derisive laugh, so he shoved another finger into her and bent over her to suckle her breast, making her body arch upward. Only then did he say, “You’re right, your majesty. Nothing I could offer would interest it.” He moved to the other nipple and pulled it into his mouth.
After a moment she asked in a blurred voice, “What do hellhounds want?”
“Souls.”
“It can have the girl’s.”
“It will demand a price to start the hunt.”
“Why not your own, if you’re so devoted a servant?”
“Demons have no souls,” he said easily. It was a common misconception among mortals.
He could see her, even in the throes of her pleasure, trying to determine if she could command any of her underlings to give up their soul for her, then discarding the notion.
“Will I change?”
“You can only become more powerful with a hellhound to do your bidding.”
That appealed to her, he could tell. “How is this done?”
He brushed his lips along her throat. “Tell me your real name,” he coaxed her.
“Marrah Storm Iroon.” Her voice remained strong. “My soul is yours.”
And with that he had her. He knew the name of her soul, and with reflexive ease, he called it to him in a form he could hold. On her next exhalation, he felt it turn solid in his hand. He slipped the coin into his belt pouch and rose.
The queen sat up. “You’re leaving me?” she asked, disbelieving.
He turned back to her. She was magnificent naked, with full breasts still rising to the rhythm of her rapid breaths, but his appraisal was dispassionate. “Even if your stepdaughter dies, there will be one far lovelier than you,” he said. “In burlap and ashes, she would be fairer. If I took you, your majesty, and fell to slumber by your side, I would dream of her. You are nothing in a world with her.”
She screamed in rage. He turned and flung his body toward the mirror, trusting that it would open for him. A rush of air behind him told him that the queen was coming toward him—
The brightness of the Hall of Mirrors, and the sound of glass breaking.
Jahel had broken Kenan’s fall, and she was still pinned under him. For a moment he couldn’t focus at all, and then his senses sharpened and it seemed as though he could feel the texture of her skin even through their clothes. Her wings were outspread beneath her, so that it seemed they were on a carpet of feathers. He’d only just been in bed with an attractive woman, going through all the movements of lovemaking and feeling nothing but disgust. He had only to press against this one, and he was ablaze with need.
“Ouch,” she said.
He immediately rolled off of her and offered her a hand. She ignored it and came to her feet on her own, looking at the mirror-demon behind him.
He turned to face his reflection in the mirror.
The mirror-demon sighed languorously. Its surface was marred by a hundred cracks, but as Kenan stood and watched, those cracks moved until they outlined his face. Then his reflection leaned forward and broke away from the mirror-back.
“Choose another shape,” Kenan demanded.
“Consider it gratitude. You’re the one who freed me.” The glassy Kenan smiled at him. Its skin was gaining texture in place of its telltale sheen. A few more minutes, and it would be a true twin rather than a mirrored image. “And your form seems useful, if women yield to it so.”
“Choose another,” Kenan said. “I would not have us mistaken.”
The mirror-demon shook its head, still grinning. It reached out and traced a line down his cheek. Its nail was sharp, and drew blood. “Now we look different.”
Kenan struck out, but despite its appearance of flesh, the mirror-demon’s body was smooth and hard. His fist glanced off without any harm except to his own bruised knuckles.
It never stopped smiling, as though that expression had frozen upon its face. “You think you can break me? You, of a single fragile shape?”
Kenan was well aware of the limitations of his human form. He usually avoided physical confrontations because of it, and so all he had with him was a belt knife. He pulled it out now, knowing it would avail him little. The mirror-demon laughed and closed in.
“Run!” Jahel called.
“And let it go loose with its mischief to be blamed on me?” He circled his mirror-self. He swiped at it, but the blade only whined against that unnatural skin.
“You’ve scratched me,” the mirror-demon said, inspecting the line marring its arm.
“Are we even, then?”
“I’ve decided that it will be easier to pass as you if you are gone,” it announced.
Kenan sprang back just in time to avoid being hit by that deadly hand. He nearly stumbled into Jahel. “Get away,” he snapped.
“It’ll never pass as you,” she said urgently. “Let’s go.”
He hit a lower rib instead, but there was the satisfying sound of glass cracking. It was odd to see a fracture in what looked to be the fabric of the mirror-demon’s tunic. He was distracted enough by the sight that when the other roared and lashed out at him, he was hit by that hard arm and swept to the floor.
Jahel stepped in front of him.
“Jahel!” He scrambled to his feet and tried to grab her arm, but her wings spread wide, blocking him. He darted around her and saw that she was empty-handed. The mirror-demon was grinning as it reached toward her. But before he could do anything, she lifted her face as though she could see Heaven above her.
Jahel sang.
The sheer power of her voice checked both him and the mirror-demon. And then Kenan was caught by the beauty of the music, the purity of the note.
Her voice lilted upwards until the mirror-demon began to tremble. She held that note effortlessly until it seemed to wrap around them, echoing against the walls and filling the air. And Kenan’s mirror-self couldn’t help shaking with ever-increasing strength, even as it stretched its arm toward her.
Just when it would have touched her, the mirror-demon shattered.
Kenan had crouched low just in time, his arms covering his face. He felt the sting of a hundred tiny cuts as slivers of glass struck him, and heard them shower the walls and ground. When it was quiet again, he looked up.
Jahel had shielded herself with her wings. She lowered them now. Before she could take a step forward, he remembered that she would never have needed to avoid trodding on glass before.
“Careful,” he said. His voice sounded dull and rough-hewn after the glory of hers. “You don’t want to step on any pieces. They could go right through your shoes.”
She turned around and snapped her wings open, then beat them a few times. A wind swept through the chamber and scattered the glass fragments to the walls, leaving the floor clear.