Mirror Sight

“I am preparing form 2018A for acquisition of archival storage cabinets as you requested,” the man was saying.

Silk affected keen interest, eagerly asking about forms this and that, and debating the dimensions of cabinets. The other man, encouraged by Silk’s interest, eagerly supplied the dimensions and made recommendations for additional cabinets.

What if, Karigan wondered, Silk alerted the man to his predicament? She would kill both of them. A quick glance along the corridor showed only one or two other souls anywhere nearby. She would kill them all. It would be so easy to dart out of the shadows and take them by surprise. She was beginning to like this ruthless thing.

It was clear that Silk was stretching the conversation beyond its natural conclusion. He was trying to buy time, or possibly communicate to the man that he was in trouble. The man was so flattered by the attention of such an important personage that he seemed oblivious to Silk’s need for rescue and eagerly carried on the conversation.

Down the corridor a door opened, and another man poked his head out. “Tomkins! There you are, you laggard. Back to work now!”

Silk’s companion, Tomkins, grimaced. “I am sorry, sir, but duty calls.” He bowed and added, “It is an honor to know of your interest in the procurement of the cabinets.” He bowed again and left.

Silk watched after him with hunched shoulders, then continued forward at a reluctant pace on the course Karigan had set for him. He peered about as if looking for someone else to converse with.

It would not do.

When Karigan found an empty side corridor, she grabbed Silk and dragged him into it and snatched his specs off his face. He squinted and shielded his eyes even in the muted lighting.

“Give them back,” he said.

“You will not stop to talk to anyone,” she said. “If you do, I’ll break your specs.”

“I have other pairs, elsewhere,” he said.

She did not care. “Then I will break your eyes.” The idea grew on her as she stared into his eyes, of popping them, making them bleed . . .

“Your aura has browned,” he said.

“No more conversation,” she told him.

“I can’t help it if someone stops me.”

“You are Dr. Silk, son of the Adherent, Webster Silk. You are too important to talk to some low level bureaucrat. You are too busy. Dr. Silk would not pay the slightest attention to someone so lowly.”

“But—”

“You will do as any man of your rank would do.”

“Which is what, precisely?”

“Move on, dismiss them. Just act the way you normally would.”

“You are fortunate it is after hours,” he said, “or these corridors would be busier.” His broken mechanical hand twitched as if he were trying to make it work. No doubt he wished to strangle her.

She smiled. Just try it. Just give me an excuse.

“If I don’t have my specs, people will notice.”

“And I won’t hesitate to break them if need be.”

“Oh, I believe you, Miss G’ladheon, but you must know this can’t end well for you.”

“No. I don’t know that,” she replied. “In any case, I’ve nothing to lose if I fail.”

Silk did not have an answer for that.

“And it is Rider G’ladheon,” she reminded him. “Do not forget it.”

She gave him his specs back, and they set off once again. Karigan flitted from column to column, relishing the dark that no longer hung on the fringes of her mind but ate inward. Using her ability became an ever increasing burden, her head hurting from its use, but she embraced the pain. It would get her through this, and it was balanced by the unburdening of her usual restraint against violence. She distracted herself from the pain by imagining how she’d rip Silk’s eyes out.

A small voice within her tried to shout, This isn’t me! But it was smothered by the darkness and the intoxication of being free to do anything she felt necessary.

The etherea is tainted, her inner voice protested, but she dismissed it the way Silk would a petty bureaucrat.

UNLEASHING THE WITCH

As chains and manacles fell away from the witch, including the tiny spiked ones that ringed each finger, she stood taller, not slack, not weak. She did not check the injuries of her body as anyone else would. She did not weep or even cry out in relief. She did tug loose the threads that stitched her mouth shut. Tugged, and pulled them out.

Starling knelt at her feet, which were impaled with stakes bolted in the floor. He looked up at the Guardian. “Now what?”

“Pull the bolts.” It was not the Guardian who spoke, but the witch in her broken voice.

Starling had to pry beneath her feet to pull out the bolts that held the stakes in place. Though Cade had not eaten in who-knew-how-long, his gut churned as he took in the black crust of blood surrounding the stakes on her feet, and imagined the damage done to bone and tissue. This could have been Karigan’s lot if Starling was to be believed.

Starling, whose line of work would have accustomed him to all sorts of torture and gore, did not even flinch as he pried the bolts out. When he finished, he once more gazed at the Guardian.

And again, it was not the Guardian who spoke, but the witch. “Draw the spikes out.”

“Do you really want me to do this?” Starling asked the Guardian. “Do you know what might happen if she is released? Once she leaves this cell, there is no controlling her.”

Was Starling just trying to manipulate their doubts again? Cade glanced anxiously at the Guardian, but there was no way to read his expression through his visor.