Mirror Image

by Michael Scott

  “A magical child,” the woman whispered, watching the mirror over her shoulder. And then she had crouched lower over Dee, pressing her full breasts against his thin chest. “Husband: I believe this night you have impregnated me.”

  He didn’t need to ask her how she knew; her natural magic would surely have told her. And later, when he worked out the birthdate of the child, he discovered that it was due around the midwinter solstice. Truly, a magical child.

  Now when she came to the mirror, heavy with her babe, her breasts and belly swollen, he found he could still watch her with the same satisfaction, feel the same desire. Unselfconsciously, she squatted on the floor before the tall glass and proceeded to arouse herself with her fingers and a carved wooden stick. Colors flowed down the glass, images flickered in rapid succession … but one image in particular kept recurring … that of a knife rising and falling … rising and falling … silver when it fell, red with gore when it rose.

  He had no idea what it meant.

  72

  … A KNIFE rising and falling, rising and falling, silver when it fell, red with gore when it rose.

  Jonathan Frazer came awake with a scream. He sat up in the tiny foul-smelling room and rubbed his face with his hands, feeling his stubble scratch against his skin. He felt—and looked—like shit. Swinging both feet out of the bed, he rested his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands. How had he gotten himself into this situation, he wondered dully.

  How?

  Why?

  Why had he run away? He raised his head and looked into the speckled mirror on the battered dresser beside the filthy sink. He almost did not recognize the face that stared back at him. He looked like a junkie, his eyes sunk deep into his head, flesh tight across his cheekbones, his expression haunted.

  He’d run away because he was close—so damned close—to solving the secret of the glass. He couldn’t afford to be put in jail or taken in for questioning. Not now, not when the answers were within reach.

  He wasn’t finished with Celia just yet.

  And then there was the image. He’d made a promise to her.

  Feed me.

  Free me.

  And he couldn’t do that in jail. So what was he supposed to do? Go up to that bitch of a detective and say to her, look, don’t put me in behind bars at the moment, I’ve just discovered through my magical mirror that my wife’s having an affair, and by the way, I’ve also discovered that there’s some woman—some creature—trapped within the mirror?

  Oh sure, she’d like that, and she’d believe him. She already suspected him of conspiracy or whatever; she’d use any excuse to haul him in, and then use whatever influence she could to keep him in.

  They were probably looking for him now. They might even suspect that he had something to do with Talbott’s death.

  And what was he going to tell them when they finally caught up with him? He’d heard a crash of glass and come down to see his daughter lying naked beneath Edmund Talbott who looked like a piece of meat on a butcher’s slab?

  And how did the glass get there, Mr. Frazer?

  Oh, the mirror broke of its own accord and the glass flew through the air at him.

  Tell us the truth, Mr. Frazer?

  Well, actually, I believe the woman trapped in the mirror sensed the danger to my daughter and was protecting her the only way it knew.

  And you believe that, Mr. Frazer?

  Absolutely. Why, less than an hour previously, I’d watched my wife in bed with another man. I scratched her face through the glass. Go and ask her if she’s fucking her skiing instructor, and while you’re there, see if she has scratches on her face.

  Yes, he was sure they’d believe that, too.

  So he’d made up the simple story of Talbott raping Manny. It was plausible enough to be true. He was raping her, she struck him a lucky blow that immobilized him and then Manny had dropped the mirror on him. He’d didn’t think they’d investigate too closely; Talbott’s death tied things up neatly and it would all be over.

  Later, when he discovered the police officer posted outside his bedroom door, he knew he had a problem. They were going to take him in, and neither his nor Manny’s stories would stand up to serious questioning.

  Getting out of the bedroom was simplicity itself. The large double windows opened out onto a small balcony which was positioned directly over the sloping sunroom. The only problem he’d had was making sure he didn’t put his foot through the glass panels of the roof. Keeping in the shadows, he’d crept to the furthest point of the garden, scaled the fencing and landed in the neighbor’s yard. Staying in the bushes he made his way carefully to the street, then simply walked briskly down the road, away from the house. Dawn hadn’t broken yet and the house was full of police activity. So now he was on the run. That brought a smile to his face.

  He looked at his reflection in the glass. He was forty-five years old, and his only previous encounters with the police had been for the occasional parking fine, and now here he was a suspect in a murder. He had five hundred dollars cash in his wallet, his credit cards, and his cell phone. He’d used an ATM machine to take out the cash, all in twenties, but he knew if he used his cards again the police would be able to trace him. Also, he couldn’t use his cell phone again. He turned it off, and then pulled out the battery; he’d read somewhere that police couldn’t track phones that were powered down. He’d already spent twenty-five dollars on a cab and then seventy-five dollars for the night in some seedy motel on Vermont Avenue. So far this evening he’d had three women of various ages and conditions knocking on his door asking him if he was looking for any company.

  What he needed now was a plan. Running away had been spur of the moment, now he needed to do something more constructive, more longterm. Obviously, he was going to have to clear his name. He’d need to talk to Detective Haaren, make her listen to sense.

  And he needed to get back to the mirror again. He wanted to see the image again.

  Feed Me.

  Free Me.

  Yes, and he was going to have to work out some way of freeing her, releasing her spirit. Talbott would have known … but he was beginning to wonder if everything Talbott had told him had been the truth. Maybe Talbott knew of the existence of the woman in the glass and wanted to keep her for himself. He nodded fiercely. Talbott wanted the woman for himself; that’s why he wanted the mirror.

  Jonathan Frazer stood and crossed the room, swaying slightly, suddenly realizing that he hadn’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours. He searched through his jacket pocket, looking for a slip of paper, and a pen, finally finding his twenty-two karat gold Cross pen and two theatre ticket stubs: Les Miserables, the last time he and Celia had been out together. He smiled, remembering. It had been a good night. The smile faded as he turned the ticket stubs around in his hand. Unfortunately, there had been far too few good nights in the last few years of their marriage. He stood looking at the stubs for a moment, before he returned to the bed—there was no chair in the room—and sat down.

  On the back of one of the tickets he began to list his imperatives.

  Clear my name. Clearing his name meant going to Detective Haaren and talking to her, but she wasn’t likely to believe him without evidence. And what evidence had he got? He couldn’t exactly bring the mirror to her, could he?

  And why not?

  Why not bring her to the mirror, let her see for herself. His hand was trembling so much now that he could hardly write. It was so obvious. So simple.

  Return to the mirror.

  He needed to feed it some blood again. It would be hungry soon; he could almost feel its craving. He needed to get back to the mirror to have another “look” at what his dear wife was up to. And he wanted—needed—to see the image.

  Getting back into the house might prove to be difficult; the police would undoubtedly be watching it. But he didn’t need to go back to the house. He could go directly to the guesthouse. Surely they wouldn’t be watching the guesthouse?
And with Talbott dead would they even be watching the house?

  Blood.

  He was going to need some blood. He rolled up his sleeve and looked at his left arm. The flesh was still darkly bruised and tender, and he didn’t fancy trying the same trick with the other arm. Maybe that was another reason he was feeling dizzy.

  What about animal blood?

  That didn’t feel right. Surely it would be wrong to feed the glass with the blood of one of the lower creatures? Was it possible to buy blood, he suddenly wondered, staring blankly at the gaudy drapes. Hadn’t he read that you could buy anything on the internet? But he didn’t have a computer. Maybe he’d have to kidnap somebody? Or maybe he could buy some from a street person. Were there hemoglobin pushers and plasma junkies?

  He began to giggle at the idea.

  And what was the going rate for a pint of blood? Was there a set rate dependent on its purity and age, and did the price go up or down according to its age? Younger blood would be pricier.

  If one of the street girls cost sixty dollars for an hour and there was eight pints of blood in the human body, did that not work out to seven dollars and fifty cents per pint?

  He started giggling again. He loved the very thought of going up to a girl and saying, “Excuse me, could I buy a pint of your blood?” The smile faded from his lips. What was the first thing she was going to do … run to the nearest cop and say she’d been approached by some freak. The newspapers would have a field day with that, Vampire on the Streets of Los Angeles.

  Nonononono. This was going to be done subtly. He wondered if it was possible to work out some way to get blood from a body without the person knowing. That might be an idea: there had to be some way. How did hospitals take blood? He knew how they took blood, the donors were awake, but they could just as easily be asleep. So, he was going to have to put his donors to sleep. Drink? Drugs?

  Celia had sleeping pills back in the house: shit, she had a whole pharmacy in the bathroom!

  OK, so he’d get these sleeping pills, administer them to his donor, in a drink presumably, and then when she fell asleep he’d take a pint of blood. He’d be gone by the time she woke up, and if he did it properly she’d never even know what he’d done.

  He glared at his expression in the mirror opposite. Of course she’d know what he’d done. She’d have a fucking big hole in her arm! The face in the mirror was fierce, twisted, the warped glass giving him a depraved expression. And maybe the sleeping tablets wouldn’t have any effect, maybe the pain would bring them awake. And what then?

  Why was he giving himself all this grief; why the fuck didn’t he just kill one of the sluts? Who was going to miss them? Wasn’t as if they were important. Dirty, diseased whores. Spreading their filth, sapping the vitality of honest men like himself. Why not make them serve a higher cause? The bitches should be honored to feed the image.

  Jonathan Frazer began to shudder. He pressed both hands to his head, feeling the pressure, the pounding deep in his skull, sure it was going to burst. Not enough sleep, not enough food. He was going crazy, thinking like a crazy man.

  … A knife rising and falling, rising and falling, silver when it fell, red with gore when it rose …

  He barely made it to the sink before he retched up a thin bile. He stayed, crouched over the sink, feeling his stomach churn as sickening images and vile thoughts crowded at his mind, pushing their way in, insinuating themselves into his consciousness.

  He was tired and hungry, emotionally exhausted. Staggering back to the bed, he flopped on it. He’d sleep. He’d feel better when he awoke.

  * * *

  THE NIGHTMARES WERE terrifying and erotic, dark fantasies of blood and pain. He knew he was sleeping, was aware that he was dreaming, and was conscious of his heart beating, beating, beating.

  Feed me.

  Free me.

  * * *

  IT WAS LATE in the night when he awoke again. There was no longer traffic on the street outside, or in the corridor outside his door. He turned over on the soft, sagging bed, and found himself staring into the pale oval of the dressing-table mirror. As he watched a pale flickering oval appeared, not quite a face, twisted, misshapen, ugly. It cleared once—for a single heartbeat—and the mouth worked.

  Feed me.

  Free me.

  73

  DOCTOR JOHN Dee moved through the filthy streets, watching the people part before him, acknowledging him on some deep subconscious level as their superior. He could feel the power flowing out of him now, could almost see it. He lifted his left hand and peeled off the leather glove. Yes, his pale flesh was surrounded by a pale bronze aura, shot through with particles of red. He saw one of the women standing in an alley, her ankles exposed, staring openly at him. He glared at her, his thick eyebrows drawing into a straight line across his forehead, drawing his lips back from his teeth in a sneer and she quickly looked away. How easily these animals were controlled.

  They were cattle, to be led, to be used.

  What visions he had seen in the mirror, what sights. Mysteries beyond comprehension, carriages without horses, birds of metal, boats without sails, glass and crystal buildings standing impossibly tall.

  But he was astute; he recognized that what he was seeing was some future tomorrow. Even now, in the Golden Age of Elizabeth, he could see the precursors of those fabulous articles all around him. If he were clever, he would be able to invest in the correct properties, the proper stocks and shares. And that income would allow him to continue his experiments. He had all the time in the world. By feeding the glass he was becoming immortal, he knew that. Already he felt stronger, sharper. He had seen his aura turned from the color of mud to bronze, when it turned gold he would be undying.

  And then, of course, there was the image.

  Once he had freed her he would have everything he wanted, everything he needed.

  One more should do it … well, one or two.

  74

  FRAZER NEEDED blood again.

  His mistress hungered.

  It was late now, after midnight certainly, but the streets of Los Angeles were unusually busy, and there were no decent people on the streets at this time. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking; lately time had ceased to have any real meaning for him, and he knew that by feeding the glass he was becoming immortal. Did the ever-living appreciate the passage of time? Mankind was intimately aware of time because each passing day brought them closer to death. But if one did not die, then time lost its sting. He stopped suddenly, pleased with the proposition.

  His mistress hungered.

  He was aware of her hunger as an almost physical ache, and he knew that if he didn’t appease it soon, then that hunger would grow into an all-consuming ravening need.

  It had been raining all day and the streets were shining and slick, the air cold and crisp. Many of the professional hookers had gone for the night, knowing the weather would keep their customers inside. Those few who remained were likely the ones desperate to make a few more dollars to support their drug habit. They had to be riddled with disease, their blood thin and poisoned.

  He turned into a side street just as the woman came out of the squalid club. She was younger than most, mid-twenties he would guess, and pretty in a vulgar sort of way. And drunk.

  “How much?” he asked directly, taking her arm, maneuvering her down the street into the shadows. He’d do her the first opportunity he got, some dark alley.

  “Hey dude, not so rough, gimme a moment will you?”

  He could smell the liquor on her breath, mingled with an underlying stink of unwashed flesh and the sourer scents of sex. “How much?” he repeated.

  “Whatcha want, a hand job, blow job, or the works?” The woman took a deep breath, unsteadily placing her hands on her hips. “You look like you could do with the works, and that’ll be sixty bucks for you.”

  He laughed. “Sixty bucks?”

  “Make it seventy hon, and you can stay the night. My place is just around the c
orner.”

  It would be good to work indoors, out of this teeming rain which might wash some of the precious blood away. “Seventy bucks it is then,” he agreed, and then asked, “is there a mirror in your room?”

  She looked up at him blearily, her eyes red-rimmed, bloodshot with the alcohol. “Why—you wanna watch us do it? Sure there’s a mirror there.”

  “Excellent.” He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. Fresh blood spilt directly onto the glass, what images would he see then, what visions?

  75

  IT REMEMBERED that time.

  It had been a time of strength and power. It had been strong then, so strong, feeding on the emotions of the men and the blood of the women. Curious that it should have remembered that now when it had so many memories to call upon.

  They were crowding closer now, all those bloody memories, the times of strength and power, the times of blood and killing.

  The memories were flowing out, into the servant.

  Teaching him.

  Showing him what he needed to do.

  76

  MANNY FRAZER stood naked before the mirror, combing her hair, a smile fixed on her face, her gaze vacant. She looked into the glass, idly wondering how long it had been since she’d last had hair to comb. Her tight haircut should have lasted through the holidays and into spring. But it had sprouted with extraordinary rapidity, until she now had what resembled a straightforward short haircut that not even her father could object to. Another couple of weeks at this rate and it would be flowing down her back. The young woman ran both hands through the hair, pulling it back off her face, noticing the way her cheekbones seemed more prominent, her eyes slightly sunken, her lips thicker.