The Dickens Mirror

by Ilsa J. Bick

  Returning his key to his pocket, he withdrew Battle’s pouch. In the light, the iron and brass keys inside gave off an almost nacreous glow. Finger-walking the many loops, he found the inspector’s room key, then felt for the room number: 4-2-1-b.

  Fourth floor? Odd. He could’ve sworn Battle’s room was on the first. In fact, he knew that the station wasn’t at full capacity, and only the first three floors of the dorm were occupied. He double-checked by angling the key into the light. No mistake. Battle lived on the fourth floor, in number twenty-one. The b signified that he occupied the rooms on the right side of the hall. All this meant that Battle had virtually the run of the fourth floor, if he chose. Doyle massaged the engraved numbers with the ball of his thumb. Very strange.

  To his right, the orange glow wrinkled. Startled, he tossed an instinctive look and then had to clap his hand over his mouth to keep in the scream.

  The desk sergeant was there, another lantern in hand, peering out into the snow. Doyle was sure he wasn’t visible. Even if he had been … what stood there, framed in orange light, couldn’t possibly see him.

  Because the sergeant’s face was blank. Completely. Totally. No eyes, no nose, which made that frill of wiry ginger whiskers all the more ghastly, because there was also no mouth or chin. The sergeant’s face was as flat as unformed clay.

  I don’t see this. But he couldn’t look away. This isn’t real. This is Kramer. This can’t be.

  Above and from inside came a burr of sound that Doyle recognized, belatedly, as laughter. Transfixed, he watched the desk sergeant’s shoulders convulse and that clay-blank of a face rock back. There was a flash of tin at his throat, and Doyle realized that he—it—was laughing. It’s laughing, but it’s got no mouth, no eyes, how can it …

  Steady, darling, steady. Black Dog nuzzled his ear. This is Kramer and his drug, nothing more nor less … unless it’s not.

  “Whatsat mean?” Without waiting for Black Dog to reply, he wheeled about, lurching away from the light. In another minute, he was across the courtyard and into the dormitory. Slivers fired under many of the doors, and he heard the occasional rumble of conversation. But he didn’t stop, and for all sorts of reasons, he prayed to God he wouldn’t meet anyone either.

  2

  A BALL OF cool air sighed past as he pushed into 421b, which was at the very end of a long hall. Pulling the door shut, he stood a moment as the darkness, thick as wool, settled. The room was still and chilly but not frigid. Battle’s rooms were a corner suite that faced a narrow, blank-walled alley. If the suite’s layout was similar to his own rooms, he now stood in the parlor. That meant the windows were to his right. Dead ahead would be a second door leading into Battle’s bedroom.

  Turning to his left, he cautiously unbuttoned his coat. Warm air, smelling of singed tin from his bull’s-eye, wafted out, and he was absurdly grateful. You’re real; I smell that. Still facing left to avoid the windows, he unbuckled the lantern, then slid the panel aside a half inch, enough that light dashed out in a bright ribbon. Sweeping right but keeping the angle low, he picked out only spare furnishings: a table and two chairs, a mahogany writing desk with a great many drawers, and a standing wardrobe. No pictures on the walls, no decorations, nothing personal on the table, and the desk was immaculate. To his extreme right, very dark, thick curtains were drawn tightly over the room’s windows. He felt his shoulders relax. Certainly not in danger of anyone seeing in.

  Crossing to the desk, he played his light over the surface. The stained quill nib was dry. Of course, the pen drawer was locked. Take a look inside? He chewed his mustache. Might be papers, case notes, some clue where the bodies were. Yes, but best to look around first, and wasn’t he there to light a lamp? Steady, Doyle; don’t get distracted. Straightening, he looked up and across the room and into Battle’s bedroom.

  Someone was there, watching him.

  “Guh!” His scream might have been louder if his throat hadn’t frozen. He jumped, and across the room, he saw light dancing a fantastic jig. Then he realized: he’d been frightened by his own reflection in Battle’s bedroom mirror.

  Touch on edge, aren’t we? Black Dog glided into view, which was to say that the reflection of its eyes, red as hellfire, glistered in the mirror by Doyle’s reflection.

  He knew better than to look down on this side of that mirror. Black Dog would not be there. (Was it progress that the hound was in the mirror? Probably not. Christ, he needed a proper drink.) He stood there a full ten seconds waiting for his heart to slow. Across the room—in Battle’s bedroom—the other Doyle stood with a hand over his chest and a wild look on his face as a huge black death hound with bloodred eyes showed its fangs in a grin. What a damned bad place for a mirror. He couldn’t paw through the man’s desk with someone, even his own reflection, looking on. Swallowing, he took up his lantern and crossed to close the door. At the threshold, he could see the whole of Battle’s bedroom. The inspector’s bed, neatly made, was tucked below two windows. A bedside commode squatted nearby. An odd placement for both because of the cold spilling through the windows, even with the shades drawn. Two floors below, he’d moved his bed to an inside wall for warmth. But along Battle’s inside wall, there was a large standing wardrobe, a mat with another set of shoes and boots, and a hefty shaving stand with a basin and picture.

  What a bizarre arrangement. Doyle stood there a good few seconds, sorting it out, then crossed to the wardrobe and pulled open the doors. Inside were trousers, a few suit jackets, two vests. Ties on hooks. No mirror, though. If Battle wanted to check his tie, he either had to step back to his shaving stand or cross all the way to the far wall and that mirror. So why not move the mirror alongside the wardrobe? There was plenty of room.

  “What are you getting your knickers in a twist about, Doyle?” he muttered. So what if Battle’s personal habits were a little odd? Did he care that Battle bared his arse cheeks to the winter wind? No. But this is just so … off.

  It wasn’t until he got closer to the mirror, an ordinary oval set in a wood stand, that he realized it was much warmer here, and the scent of wood smoke was stronger. What? He pressed a palm to the wall alongside the mirror. By his side, he heard Black Dog snuffling with interest. Glass wasn’t toasty but not freezing either. And that ought to be an outside wall. Unless there were other rooms behind this one? Possible; he’d never been up here. But then who was Battle’s neighbor? The hall had been completely dark.

  “Strange.” Lifting his lantern, he examined the mirror. The wood stand was a reddish-orange wood, teak or light oak, and carved: flowers, vines, bizarre symbols.

  The symbols, dear. Black Dog nudged. Look at them. See something familiar?

  Black Dog was right. Leaning forward, he squinted at a design along the right-hand side of the mirror that he recognized: three interlocking circles. Setting his lantern on the floor, he withdrew Battle’s pouch of skeletons and searched until he found what he was looking for. Unhooking the brass key from its fabric loop, he held it before his bull’s-eye. Same design. It was also the key Battle’s finger kept straying toward. What had he said? They weren’t in the morgue because … “Too cold,” he said.

  Yes, and the wall is warm, poppet. So what if …

  “The mirror’s really a door, or masks a door.” There would be no reason in the world for anyone to check unless he had the key. Opening his lantern all the way, he aimed the beam. The light washed shadows flat, but he saw that the symbol was raised a touch higher than its background. Either more deeply incised or … “It’s a flap, like what you use for a Judas hole.” Or in this case … “No, it can’t be this easy,” he said, even as he used the tip of a finger to lever the flap out of the way and expose the keyhole hidden beneath. Socking in the key, he gave it a twist. Deep in the mirror, he heard the tongue slide and the lock disengage. The mirror popped out, enough to hook his hand around an edge.

  Be very sure, my dear. Black Dog’s voice held an edge of warning. Once you cross through the looking glass, this
can’t be undone.

  “Ya joking? I’ve murdered a man,” he said. “I’m already committed.”

  He slipped inside, with Black Dog close behind.

  3

  THERE WAS ONLY one window, cracked to allow for ventilation, and a corner hearth in which the remains of a fire were beginning to burn low. The room was close and comfortably warm. The only furniture was three low cots over which sheets were drawn.

  My God. He felt all the hairs on his body bristle. Moving slowly, he fanned his dark lantern over each cot and saw how the body beneath tended the sheet. Two seemed roughly the same size, though one was a bit slighter than the other—a woman or a thin boy, he just wasn’t sure. The other was small. A child, he thought.

  He stood at the foot of the cots, turning his lantern from one to the other. “What were you doing, Battle? What are you hiding here?” It was strange hearing his voice.

  Go on. Black Dog nosed his left hand. This is what you came for, after all. Pick a card, any card. Don’t you want to see, poppet, don’t you?

  The child, he wasn’t ready for. So he selected the one on the left, which was the slighter of the two adults. Heart throbbing, he lifted the sheet.

  4

  WHAT HE SAW was bad enough that if he hadn’t jammed his knuckles between his teeth, he would have surely screamed. Yet that still wasn’t the worst of it.

  The worst of it was when it opened its eyes.

  PART FIVE

  BEDLAM

  EMMA

  The Liquid Dark

  STEPPING AWAY FROM the down cellar prison she’d made for Elizabeth, Emma opened her eyes to find herself where she’d first come to: huddled on a lumpy mattress in darkness as inky as the bottom of a mine shaft. Formless sounds threaded through the air like a continuous loop from a grade-B horror movie. That weird, wavering, rippling air teased gooseflesh from her skin. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought she was in a movie special effect, something science fiction-y where the heroine wandered into a crackling plasma field. Weird. Like fingers kneading her skin.

  Wobbling to her feet sent a bolt of nausea surging up her throat. Gulping, she swayed on lumpy mattress as the liquid dark sloshed from side to side. Her chest grabbed again, and she started to hack, grunting and tucking in her elbows. Pain sliced her ribs. Rusty-tasting fluid splashed into her mouth and made her gag. Coughing hard, she staggered, lost her balance on the uneven mattress, and tumbled back onto her butt.

  “God.” Her hand was all gluey and … were those clots? Or was she bringing up something worse? Hunks of lung, maybe? Shuddering, she ran her bloody palm over her skirt. She wished she had something to spit into. She snuffled against another nosebleed. Her lungs felt congested. Every breath gurgled.

  “I think there’s something really wrong with you, Elizabeth.” Her mouth tasted like a crushed can: flat beer and old aluminum. That shivery, weak feeling was seeping through her limbs again, and her joints ached. “Like you’re sick-sick.” Jesus, what if Elizabeth had something terminal, like TB or cancer or something?

  Well, I sure as hell can’t be here if she dies. She armed away sweat from her face. It bothered her a little that she didn’t feel guilty about that thought either.

  Maybe eating something would help. Had they left her something? What if no one had? Then what? Shout until someone came? Could be why everyone down here was screaming. She had visions of patients trapped like flies between windowpanes. Shouting probably wouldn’t help either. From what she remembered, all this was a faraway gabble on the main floors, only so much aural mist steaming up through iron grates. But shouldn’t someone have checked on her by now? Or even before? Didn’t they care about sick patients?

  Maybe they don’t do rounds down here. You know, out of sight, out of mind. That brought on another wave of panic. Calm down. Your hair’s still damp. She touched a finger to her bandaged forehead. Only a dime-sized crust of blood. You haven’t been here that long. Or someone might have come in while she was out of it to get her cleaned up, check her dressings. Would they leave food or water?

  Squatting, she reached to her right where her head had been when she woke up and began carefully walking her hands over rough, lumpy fabric to a seam. As she moved, the fabric seemed to undulate under her hands the same way the air wavered. After what seemed like a long time but was probably no more than a half minute, her fingers butted another mattress set on a perpendicular to the one she was on. Right; you’d expect that in a padded cell. Finger-walking to her right, she found the vertical seam of a corner and another mattress. Using an index and forefinger, she cored into the seam. Her finger sank to the second knuckle before her nail ticked against …

  Not brick. “Rock? Like a cave?” She held her finger there a minute, feeling how the rock also seemed to … well, not give exactly, but deform ever so slightly. “You know what this reminds me of? Down cellar, when I first touched the square.” That had felt icy and had burned, but the minute give was similar. What kind of place was this? She thought back to the whisper-man’s prison: a black-mirror cave, an energy sink constructed of odd volcanic glass. Could explain why Kramer took the cynosure. He’s really afraid I could use it down here. Which meant that wavery, undulating sensation she felt, the way the air seemed to move was free energy?

  Wow. What if she was in a Peculiar? It was possible. Kramer had panops, but it was Meredith who used them and understood about energy sinks and Peculiars; she’d made them. So Kramer knew Meredith, or maybe both McDermotts?

  Moving to her left now, she inched forward, fingers quivering like antennae. They’d done some unit on the juvenile justice system in a sociology class once, and she remembered that most of the prison doors had slots and peepholes and … Ah. Her hands brushed cold, rough iron. She couldn’t feel all the way to the top of the door, but that was all right. Lifting her arms, she walked her hands slowly right and then left, searching the door as methodically as she could, mapping out the grid in her mind. Perhaps two inches above her left eye, her hand brushed a round disk soldered in place. There was a small, quarter-sized depression in the center. When she stuck her finger through, the tip bumped up against more metal.

  Bet that’s a peephole. She was tempted to look through, but Elizabeth was too short. Besides—an eerie frisson tickled her neck—she’d always been a little afraid of peepholes. In movies, when people looked through to check out which bad guy might be waiting, she always wondered why no one put a stiletto through …

  Something rustled off her right shoulder. Shit. That had been behind her. Small hairs prickling, she turned a very slow half circle, held her breath, and listened. Nothing … nothing … that strangely turgid air bunched and gathered … and nothing … nothing. Her pulse was starting to thump now … and noth—

  A rustle. Again. Very light, but very definitely there and closer … And now another very fast flick as something—a finger, a hand—whisked along her neck.

  “Guh!” Her heart rocketed into her skull, and then she was wheeling away from the door, turning a crazy, drunken one-eighty that was way too fast. Gulping, she steadied herself. I heard something, I felt that. But what had it been? What if it was a rat? This was an underground cell, for God’s sake; rats and all sorts of things lived in the dark, in sewers and tunnels and … Stop it, stop it, stop … But something had touched her, twice. Unless it’s just this weird space, something about the air. Maybe it’s not clear; could there be fog down here, or mist? Or spiderwebs?

  Cut it out. Next thing you know, tarantulas will drop from the ceiling. That was also just too damn close to Bode and those scorpions. Her mind kept looping back to energy waves, energy waves, careful, careful; don’t make something happen; don’t jinx yourself. But she couldn’t assume anything. If there really was someone or something in here, then it wasn’t crawling or slithering around. It’s tall. It touched me on the neck, the cheek. The darkness felt as if it had changed somehow, too. More … solid?

  Yeah, like when you wander into a roo
m and you feel the bureau or bed before you run into it. Raising both arms and reaching with both hands, she took a cautious, sliding step forward and then a second, and a third. So I might be sensing furniture or another wall or …

  Something eeled from the liquid dark and closed around her wrists.

  ELIZABETH

  Second Room

  1

  EMMA’S DOWN CELLAR prison was both a spectacular bore and quite singular. The walls were a kind of lumpy gray brick she’d never seen. Some twenty-five paces wide and as long, the room turned out to be bare of anything other than a squat mechanical contraption with a profusion of square metal pipes, perhaps a foot across, running away into the walls. A few feet away, there hunkered two white cubes—again, both metal and with hinged doors. The air inside one smelled a touch mildewed, like damp wool. The other released a puff of scorched linen.

  Interesting detail. Elizabeth let the smells roll on her tongue. Emma really has left quite a lot of herself here. Quite a bit of personality. Holding that strange blue spiral candle aloft, she turned a circle. “I need a way out, Emma,” she murmured, her gaze touching on that squat contraption with metal tentacles and those two cubes, then drifting on. “Show me a …”

  The far wall was no longer solid—and now, there was a second room.

  “Oh, Emma, what is this place? What are you up to?” Elizabeth took a few hesitant steps toward the inky square of an opening, then gasped as a raft of thick, gelid air sighed out to raise the hackles on her neck. In her hand, that steady yellow flame suddenly bent nearly horizontal, as if some giant had decided to blow it out. She quickly shielded it, worried that if the flame went out this time, it wouldn’t spring back.