It winds its way onward, and I keep following it. On and on, until at last I see where it ends—a single mirror, shining in the darkness. This isn't the only tentacle that seems to be growing from that mirror, either. I count eight of them in total, stretching from the single mirror off into the darkness. Perhaps each branches off to reveal other individual mirrors, thinning as it grows outward, revealing each person's moment of true death. Eight?
Maybe I don't want to look in that mirror. In fact, I know I don't. But the urgent need to know fills me as much as the dread of what I might find. Nervous, I take one step toward that terrible mirror. And another. Each step is an exercise of will, but I'm here for a reason. I don't know if this is even a vision, actually—it doesn't feel like the rest. Vision or not, though, it's presenting itself to me for a reason, and I must know what it is.
When I stand on the black backside of that single, central mirror, and it's only a foot away, I do finally stop. I have to look, but I can't. My feet may as well be rooted in place as the fear is at last greater than this overwhelming urge to know.
Taking deep breaths, I steel myself, square my shoulders, close my eyes, and finally, I step around the mirror to its front side and force myself to look.
There in the mirror, I see the back side of a man I know very well. My worst fear realized. It's Talon's mirror. The eight thigh-thick tendrils I saw enter the backside of this mirror merge together just beyond the threshold on the other side, before extending up to the back of Talon's head. It's actually thicker than his head, at first glance, but when I look closer I see that it narrows down to a single, pencil-thin tentacle for maybe half an inch before connecting to him.
More odd, though, is a new, single tentacle I suddenly see, which extends from the top of his head. This one isn't the disgusting, sickly green color. Rather, it's brown like bark. As I look at it, though, I see this tentacle has little patches of green, too, but a different shade of green. Perhaps that was its color, before Talon got drained and ill? The green color of healthy trees, like our forest, shows here and there all down the visible length of his tentacle.
It occurs to me just what they are in truth. What I see spreading from him aren't tentacles. They're more like roots, each one a person's connection to life, and in my bones I know they belong there. These roots are only a part of the order of the universe, rooting individuals to this time and place in the world, for however long theirs is Fated to remain stretched between the living and the dead. Roots... As natural as the forest where Talon and I first came together in that way that changed my world forever.
Unlike on that day, though, I hate these roots. They wither, they die, they get cut short. It's not fair, dammit! And the ones growing from Talon shouldn't exist. I'm as certain of that as I am of the sun rising each morning, a truth, a simple law of nature.
Now I know the horrible truth. Talon is connected to not just the depot we thought we destroyed, but others as well. And, I see why that is—he's the power source. He's the reason all the Revenants are still alive.
And in the mirror, playing over and over, Talon's animated GIF-like death clearly shows. There's an explosion, and it kills him rather gruesomely. Unlike the others' scenes, though, his plays on for a bit before repeating—just long enough to see that, with his death, all of Dawson’s zombies die, too.
Including Luka.
I just got to watch a future where I lose both Talon and Luka in the same terrible moment.
I don't even bother wiping away the tears welling up in my eyes at the realization. With their deaths, everything I've seen and done, everything we've all been through... Why have we even bothered? It was all as pointless as caring about a few tears, so to hell with it, I let them fall.
Why do you cry, my child, over the inevitable death that comes to all their kind?
A man's voice, one I don't recognize, whispers through my mind, so softly I have to strain to catch the words as though from a great distance, and yet they echo in my mind before finally fading to silence.
Startled, I spin around, but it came from nowhere and everywhere. I see nothing new, no one else. I'm alone—or am I? The darkness in the distance seems to move, one spot shifting. I blink to clear my eyes, but when I open them, it's still an indistinct patch of darkness-within-darkness, but it's closer.
As I strain to see it better, my eyes dry, adding a new sting to that of the salty tears that were there moments ago. Now, I can see what looks like an indistinct outline of a person, and as I watch, it grows closer still with every blink. In the back of my mind, fear begins to form. Whatever or whoever this is, it's getting closer, and if it's in this place, it surely doesn't mean me well. This is not a happy place.
Of course, there's only so long I can keep my eyes pried open before my own body betrays me and forces my eyelids to slam shut. The relief it brings is bittersweet. When I open them again, the thing is closer still. Now, I see it's the silhouette of a man.
"Who the hell are you?"
A faint chuckle echoes inside my mind. "You know very well who I am. You've always known."
"I don't. Stay back, I'm warning you."
The man doesn't slow his inexorable pace, however. He grows larger as he gets closer, and the black-in-black gives way first to indistinct features like a nose, darker spots for eyes. Then, high cheekbones become clear. Eyes a familiar shape are the clearest thing about him, but he has high cheekbones I recognize, too. His strong jawline reveals itself from the darkness next. As his features emerge with each step closer, I see his hair is the same color as mine.
"You do know. You only resist that knowledge. You know what this place of mine is, too, though you resist that knowledge as well. Why resist it? Truth merely is, no matter what you wish it to be."
He's wrong, though, this so-familiar looking man. I have no idea what this place of death is—
"Yes," he says from smiling lips. "That's exactly right."
Death... "That's impossible."
"Is it?" His expression reminds me of when Mom would tell me things I insisted were impossible. Patient, even caring, but also full of resolve. "Does this feel like any other vision you've conjured?"
Anger flares within me, and before I can consider whether it's wise, I snap at him. "I don't conjure those damned visions. Don't you dare put that on me. They've ruined my life, and ended others. They're a curse. You take that back, or leave me alone."
I stare into his familiar eyes, chin up, pretending a courage I sure don't feel. My gut tells me emphatically that this man could end me if he wished, at least while I'm here in this place. Ha, the place of death. The place of Death? No, that can't be. Death isn't a person.
"And yet, here we are and here I stand before you." His lips tick upward at one corner as an eyebrow rises slightly.
I hate his bemused expression. "Don't talk to me like that."
"Like what, my child?"
"You know damn well I'm no child, so don't talk down to me like one. And don't call me that."
His other eyebrow rises too, joining the other. "Oh? Has it been so long, then? I hadn't realized. Here, you appear to me as you see yourself, not just as you are. You always did think you were older than your years, and when one has been around as long as I have, it becomes very hard to tell someone's true age."
Involuntarily, I take a step back as I reply, blinking in surprise. "How long is ‘so long’?"
Anger and fear brews together in my gut. This freak has been watching me? For how long? Long enough to think he knows I'm older than my years.
Abruptly, he’s standing right beside me, leaning in so that his face is inches away from my ear. "Not forever, but for a very long time, my child."
I flinch involuntarily from the whispered words, feeling his breath hot on my cheek as he speaks.
"Why are you afraid? You needn't fear me. It seems the living always do, but you shouldn't. You know who I am, even if you won't admit it to yourself."
I spin to face my antagonist, only
he's no longer there. He's behind me, I realize with a start. But this time, when I spin on him, he doesn't move away.
Face-to-face, I force myself not to step back. "I'm really damn tired of this game, mister. Whoever you are, wherever we are, you'd better send me back to the real world. Now."
"Or what?" The man cranes his neck, stretching, and takes a single step back.
He's still in striking distance, so I don't relax my guard, but I do feel a bit better without this guy right in my face.
"That's hurtful," he says, his tone matter-of-fact. "But from what I've seen, children often speak like that to their—"
"Shut up. You are not my father. I know who my dad is."
What is wrong with this freak? More like, a freak of nature. But crazy people can be dangerous, so the familiar weight of my daggers in their hiding places is reassuring.
"You may lie to me if you wish, but it isn't necessary. You have your doubts about him, as you should."
I stare into the man’s eyes like a samurai squaring off with an opponent, but... he's right. That doubt in the back of my mind rises like a phoenix, hard to ignore, and then I find myself unable to meet his gaze.
But if my dad isn't Dad, then it's Kasik, and that's not possible because Talon and I—
"Love is a funny thing," he says, breaking my train of thought. "It blinds mortals so often, and yet, it's just as often the source of their greatest strength when times are difficult."
"The mortals aren't the only ones who—"
"Not 'Mortals,' but mortals. Our kind dally with love from time to time, but after the first few hundred years, we usually find it more annoying than overwhelming. I like to think of it as 'perspective,' not callousness. Though in truth, some do get rather callous."
"I guess I should ask whether you're a Shade or a Wraith." I already know he's not either of those, but I might learn something from his reply.
"Another game I grow weary of watching. Shades, Wraiths... They're all the same, at heart and in blood—though in hindsight, giving them some of ours might have been a mistake. Time will tell, ultimately, whether that was wise or not. But as I said, those first few hundred years sometimes get our kind into trouble with 'love.' Not always, but often enough to keep their kind powered up with the Gift."
I stand, shocked and staring at this man. This thing, because if he's not crazy, he's not even human. Am I human, though? That thought hits me like a hammer. He's hinted he's more than some stranger, and how often has a Wraith said no one else has a gift like mine? The possibilities that raises make me momentarily dizzy, my head spinning with what-ifs.
Right on cue, the man laughs, this time a hearty, genuine one. "Yes, now you're coming to the inescapable truth, aren't you? You're right, of course. Your gift is different, because you are different. Otherwise, you could not exist in this place. It isn't meant for them."
"Mortals?"
He nods. He says nothing, but watches me closely, like he's waiting for something. Expecting something.
"I'm not mortal, else I couldn't be here... Is this hell? Or heaven? I see no clouds and harps, so that rules out one of those options." Again, fishing for clues.
He laughs again, eyes suddenly twinkling with mirth. "Interesting conclusion. But this is neither. Those places are for the dead, if they exist. This place is for death. Did you not notice the mirrors and what they show? Not their lives, not what comes after death—if anything—but only that moment. They all show the same thing."
Suddenly, more mirrors surround me. Maybe I only recognize them now? Either way, they stretch away in every direction, as far as I can see, fading into the distant blackness. They're perfectly spaced, so much so that I think if I had a level, I'd find them lain out laser-straight. I'm reminded of a picture I once saw of Arlington National Cemetery. "That's ironic."
His response is immediate. "Because death itself often happens amidst chaos. Yes, I suppose you're right, in a way."
"But?" I stop looking at the thousands or millions of death-mirrors lined up around us and face him, curious as to what he will say.
"But the universe operates with mathematical precision. Physics is all math, after all. Everything alive will eventually die, and that's just part of how the universe operates."
"So, while dying is messy, death itself isn't?" Actually, that makes me feel a bit better, though I don't really understand why. Luka's and Talon's inevitable synchronized dying is coming soon, but it's just the math of the universe.
That doesn't help as much as I'd like.
"Events are messy, but the physics behind them are not. If they were chaotic and unpredictable, mortals wouldn't have even the limited understanding of the universe they now enjoy."
"But where does this hall of mirrors fit in, and where do you fit into this whole thing?"
He sweeps his hand to indicate everything in sight. "This place is where death is managed. Without it, I don't know what would happen. Would everyone live forever? What a horrid thought."
"What? How can you say that? Imagine the pain and suffering that could be avoided if no one had to die—"
"Imagine a world where every person who ever lived still did."
"Like Einstein and Beethoven?"
"They'd still be here, but so would hundreds of billions of others. Only so much food grows on the planet, and eternal starvation doesn't sound like much of a life to me."
I shudder at the thought. "Maybe you have a point."
He shrugs. "It’s moot, though. Everyone does die."
Even the people I love. Especially the people I love. I take a deep breath and push those agonizing thoughts away. "I also asked who you are, and you neatly avoided answering that by dragging me into a futile argument."
He gives me a wan smile, then purses his lips. I don’t like his expression as he replies, "Enough games. You know who I am. But deep inside, you also know what I am, not to the world, but to you personally."
My heartbeat speeds up and the room feels hotter. I both do and do not want him to confirm what I already suspect. My mind races to find something to refute what I think is coming. "You lie." Stall...
But then a thought occurs to me that changes everything. My pulse slows, and suddenly, I can breathe normally instead of gasping for breath. "It doesn't matter. Whoever you are, whatever you are, there's one thing you are not, and never can be."
"Oh?"
"Yes." A smile creeps into my expression. "I know who my dad is. I don't know you at all."
I expect an argument or at least some counterpoints from this seemingly unflappable demon, or whatever he is. Instead, he brings both hands up before him and begins a slow, soft clap. "Bravo. Good for you, standing up for the man who raised you. You're right, of course—I'll never be your 'dad.' But I am your father, no matter who raised you."
My brief previous calm vanishes, and I envision punching him in that smug face of his. "My dad is the man who was there when I skinned my knee learning to ride a bike. He's the one who stayed up all night with Mom the time I had Strep throat. He helped me with my math, and he's the only man I missed when I left home. Not only that, but my Gift runs in my family on both sides—his included. So you tell me, are you my father? What's the end-game here? What is it you're trying to get out of me with this whole show you put on?"
I barely manage to say all that in one breath, but surprisingly, he doesn’t interrupt at all.
He watches me intently, but instead of flinching from his gaze as before, I now feel only the challenge. I raise my chin and level my own gaze right back at him. "What? Say something or send me home. I'm bored."
Ha. I can't believe I said that. The woman I was a few months ago would probably die of shock if she saw me now.
"Irrelevant. I didn't bring you here for a hug and an I-forgive-you-Daddy moment. You think your Gift runs in your family, but does it really? Oh, there have been other death oracles, clairvoyants, and so on. I picked my daughter's lineage very carefully, after centuries of research and ob
servation. I needed one with more than a potent bloodline. I needed one with luck, and no Gift accounts for that. No amount of research can show which lines are lucky and which just got lucky once, if you see the difference."
A laugh builds deep inside me, difficult to snuff out. This is hardly the time or place for laughter, and somehow it'd be disrespectful to the deaths playing over and over all around me. With all the somberness I can muster, I reply, "Then you're either unlucky, stupid, or blind. My family is anything but lucky. We're cursed, more like. I guess the joke's on you, then."
He doesn't bat an eyelash. "You're alive when the odds have been pretty solidly in favor of you dying. Moreover, your friends are alive, despite the hazards they face for you and with you."
"So it's not me who's lucky, then."
"They live because you need them to stay alive. Whether you believe in luck, or that you're lucky, is unimportant, though."
This guy is officially irritating me, now, but I probably need him to get out of here. "Fine, I'm lucky. But you were looking for death seers when you picked my family, or so you say. Tell me why, and what that has to do with me personally."
"Simple. You can do more than just foretell a person's method of demise. Am I right?" A smirk slowly spreads across his face.
"What?" How can he know that? I think back—who have I told?
He touches my arm, brushing fingertips across it. "You can worry all you like about who told me, but it changes nothing. No one told me. I'm your father, and because of that, I gave you a gift."
"Some gift. I wanted a pony."
For a moment, silence stretches between us as he studies me, his smirk fading away. "The truth is far grander than a pony, petulant young woman."
My lip twitches as I struggle the abrupt urge to throttle him and ask the question he so clearly wants me to ask. "Very well, then. What is this great truth, this gift you've given me?"
Only the corner of his mouth ticking upward into a half-smile betrays any emotion in him at all as, with a voice tight and flat, he says, "You are my daughter, and I've given you a great power. You can do more than merely see a person's coming doom, my child. You wield the power to control death itself. Use it wisely."
Cursed Seer Page 14