CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Excerpt from Wolves at the Door
Acknowledgements
Also by Robert J. Duperre
Copyright Page
BOY IN THE MIRROR
The Infinity Trials #1
Robert J. Duperre
For Legacy Nicole,
my not-so-little girl, and the reason this book exists.
PROLOGUE
Thirteen-year-old Cole Mafee sprinted through the dense foliage beneath a blackened sky, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.
Denny, I’m sorry!
It wasn’t his fault, it just wasn’t. It was supposed to have been an innocent prank. “Let’s climb to the top,” he’d told his friend as they stood in front of the decrepit old sawmill just outside Lake Salem, Vermont. Denny hadn’t wanted to go, just like he hadn’t wanted to smoke the cigarettes Cole swiped from his father, but as usual, he eventual caved. Together they’d climbed to the top of the loft and stepped to the mill’s collapsed wall, gazing with macabre wonder at the rusty old machinery surrounding them, items with scary-looking blades that looked like they’d come straight out of the slasher movies Cole’s brother Carl loved so much.
Denny had been fearful, his eyes wide and shimmering, his hands shaking. Cole crept up behind him. “Don’t fall,” he whispered to his friend.
The joke ended there.
It was a light push, meant only to make Denny flinch, but in his surprise, he’d lurched forward and pinwheeled his arms. Cole’s laughter died when Denny lost his balance and fell. One second he was there, the next he was gone. His terrified shriek was followed by a crunch, then silence.
“Denny?” he’d whispered.
His friend was twenty feet below, a rusty metal spike from a derelict scale ramp protruding from his chest. Blood coated Denny’s t-shirt, bubbled from his mouth. Cole’s heart thrummed out of control, his body frozen in disbelief. He watched from above as his friend gawped up at him, mouth trying to form words, until he finally fell still.
Denny Birchright, his best friend, was dead.
So Cole had run, disappearing into the thick woods. It was a decision made in panic; not exactly the smartest choice he could’ve made.
The path he now took through the mountainous Vermont wilderness was overgrown, crushing in on him from either side as a billion insects chirped their nighttime songs. Sweat poured down his forehead, made his clothes a dampened mess. Cole stopped, ran his hands through his hair. He didn’t know how long he’d been running, or where he was going. All he knew was that he had to get away as fast as he could. Denny was dead; his mom wouldn’t bake him birthday cakes, his dad wouldn’t fish with him, he and his brother wouldn’t play catch in the fields across from their trailer. Cole’s emotions bubbled over. He didn’t know what to do. Finally, he thought of something Carl had said when he’d talked about robbing a bank.
I’ll go to Canada. Follow one of the dirt roads in Newport until I’m not in America anymore.
Cole had no clue how to live in the woods by himself. He never even thought of the possibility of running across bears, moose, or coyotes. But none of that mattered, for Cole’s goal was simple: Just get away so no one can find you.
He turned off the narrow hunting trail, heading where he hoped was north. The thick canopy blocked out the moonlight, and the dried leaves crunching beneath his feet was eerily similar to the sound of his friend’s body hitting the old scale ramp. Cole saw Denny’s face in the corner of his vision as he worked his way through the blackened woods, eyes open, mouth drooping, expression slackened. “Please go away,” he pleaded to the darkness, tears running down his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
When the phantom of his dead friend refused to leave, his anger took over. Cole lashed out at a tree trunk, shredding his knuckles. He felt a snap in his hand, and pain rocketed through his arm. Holding the wounded appendage close to his chest and wailing, he scurried upward through the black. There was a glimmer of light ahead, and suddenly all that mattered was reaching that spot, and leaving the darkness—and Denny’s haunting visage—behind.
Cole took a rushed step as he neared the light, and suddenly there was no ground beneath his feet. He plummeted face-first to the ground, his brain rattling as he rolled down a steep decline. When he screamed, it seemed it didn’t come from the mouth of a thirteen-year-old boy, but from some savage creature a hundred miles away.
Eventually his roll ceased, and Cole blacked out. He awoke from a death-like sleep sometime later with a peculiar buzzing in his ears. His body no longer throbbed; his thoughts were no longer on Denny’s blood-soaked corpse. Instead, all he felt was peace. Calmness. Serenity.
He slowly rose to sitting, enthralled with the numbness that had overcome him. His injured hand prickled, and when he grabbed a thatch of his brown hair and pulled, a wave of pleasurable pins and needles washed over his scalp.
“Whoa,” he said, as if in a dream.
He took in his surroundings. He was at the bottom of a circular basin, sloping dirt walls surrounding him on all sides. Leaves covered the basin floor. For the first time since he’d fled into the woods he had a clear view of the night sky. Millions of twinkling stars and the glowing full moon shone down on him. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled, but Cole wasn’t scared. The weird pulsations undulated through him, made him feel indestructible.
Something shifted beneath his hand, and just off to his right smoke burped up from the carpet of nettles and dead leaves. Cole gawked at the strange, gyrating gas. The moonlight created a rainbow of color across the constantly moving, almost liquid sheen. The effect was hypnotic.
“Pretty.”
The smoke spiraled toward him, roiling over his fingers, his hand, his wrist. It didn’t feel like smoke, but Vaseline or something. The smoke slowly enveloped him, making him numb wherever it touched. The sensation was pleasurable, and he closed his eyes.
The smoke worked its way to his shoulder, and soon it was as if he had no arm at all. It then surged across his chest and began to whirl around the nape of his neck. Cole leaned back on the hand he could still feel and giggled. All his pain, doubt, and shame was being left behind, and there was nothing he wanted more than that.
Cole’s chin became numb, and he opened his mouth. The living smoke rolled over his lips and billowed
into his throat, anesthetizing him from the inside out. Then a single bolt of agony struck him in the gut, and Cole’s eyes snapped open. The pain worked its way through his bowels, infecting him, devouring him. His euphoria disappeared, and Cole thrashed about, becoming one with anguish as the invader corrupted his circulatory system, his nervous system, every part of him.
A voice spoke in the recesses of his mind, a malevolent voice that had no business being there. Cole lost use of his eyes, of his organs, his extremities. His thoughts weren’t his own any longer; all that made Cole who he was slowly dripped into the back of his subconscious, entrapped by a prison of distorted, randomly firing neurons. In this new prison, the Cole Mafee of old screamed youthful terror into the vast nothingness, while the body he had once controlled stood up and cracked its neck.
The new occupant opened his eyes and stared at human hands, enraptured. Alive, this new being thought. Alive again. He drank in every emotion his new body offered, all the fear, sadness, and desperation that leaked from its every pore. These were the cherished emotions that allowed it to reach through the timeless abyss and draw the shell to itself. It had been centuries since he’d truly lived, and as concepts such as thought and emotion came back to him, so did the remembrance of his name, his purpose.
“I am the Prophet,” he said using Cole Mafee’s lips.
But he wasn’t truly alive, not yet. The Prophet glanced down at his small, frail body. This was a borrowed vessel, a faulty incubator inside which his true form would grow, until he could be reborn into perfection.
He only had to find his mate, the one whose blood would sanctify his revival.
The Prophet turned to the south, toward his destination, the forest’s bountiful hidden life-forms glowing red in his vision. Saliva, black and oily, dribbled down his borrowed chin. Despite the insect-like wailing of the body’s former inhabitant, despite the pangs of hunger caused by his gestation, the Prophet could only think of her. The first trial, he thought with a grin. He spoke her name. It was like blood on his lips.
“Gorgon.”
CHAPTER 1
The bible was open in Jacqueline Talbot’s lap, but she wasn’t reading it. She forced her vision to go all glossy, and the words on the page melted into a series of thin black smears. She wanted no part of sitting there with that book, but she was forced to read scripture in the living room for three hours a day, every day. Papa Gelick told her it was because she was fifteen and nearing womanhood, and getting closer to God would help wash away the sin that had tainted her last five years.
But the only thing Jacqueline had ever learned from scripture was that God could be a great big prick, and He tended to make great big pricks of those who loved Him most.
The doorbell rang, startling her. The bible slipped between her legs, thudded on the floor. She hurriedly picked it up, leaned back against the soft couch cushions, and looked around. The only eyes on her were those of Jesus, who gazed down from His portrait on the far wall. Clinking and clanking sounds came from the kitchen as Papa and Mrs. Gelick prepared for dinner.
The doorbell rang a second time.
“Jackie, can you get that?” Papa Gelick shouted, his tone cheery and sickly sweet as usual. It made Jacqueline’s skin crawl. She closed the bible and placed it on the coffee table in front of her just as her foster father appeared from around the corner. He was in his late thirties, but his eyes looked much older—tired, even—as they stared down with faux niceness.
“I said can you get that?” he said again while wringing a dishrag in his hands. She nodded, stood up, and walked out the room as quickly as she could. Papa Gelick hated sluggishness as much as surprise guests, and Jacqueline didn’t want to irritate him. If she did, she might be forced to clean the entire house again. Anything was preferable to slaving away beneath Mrs. Gelick’s critical eye.
Someone rapidly tapped their foot on the front stoop once she arrived at the door, and Jacqueline managed to pull it open before the bell rang a third time.
A stunning older woman stood in the breezeway, her hair long, black, and wavy. Her hazel eyes sparkled like gemstones. Her features mirrored Jacqueline’s own, from the slightly hitched nose, to the high cheekbones, to the light brown East Indian skin tone and upward-arching eyebrows. She carried herself with confidence and pride, which made her entirely out of place in such a backward town as Colebrook, New Hampshire.
“You must be Jacqueline,” the woman said, her voice raspy yet sweet.
Jacqueline nodded. “How’d you know my name?”
The woman smiled wide and placed a hand on Jacqueline’s cheek. Her palm was warm and silky.
“I came to see you,” she said. “Why else?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“Oh.”
They stood there in silence for a few moments, examining each other. Jacqueline felt lost in the woman’s eyes, which reminded her of her father’s.
“Oh, silly me,” the woman said with a laugh. “I never introduced myself. I’m Mitzy Sarin, but you can call me Aunt Mitzy.”
The woman held her out her free hand—she had a plate covered with tin foil in the other—and Jacqueline tentatively shook it. “You’re my aunt?” she asked.
“Yes. Your mother’s sister, actually. I met you at her funeral. You were really young, though. You don’t remember me?”
Jacqueline shook her head.
When Aunt Mitzy withdrew her hand, Jacqueline felt a tingling sensation in her palm. She stared at her fingers. This was unreal. She’d never known her mother had a sister. She’d thought her whole family was dead.
Papa Gelick’s singsong voice called out from the other room. “Who’s there?”
Jacqueline winced.
“Would that be the man of the house?” Aunt Mitzy asked with a frown.
All Jacqueline could do was nod.
“Very well. Could you let him know I need to speak with him?” She gestured to the tray resting atop her arm. “I brought snacks.”
“Okay.”
Jacqueline turned away. “Papa Gelick,” she said, raising her voice as much as she dared. “There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
Her heart began to pound.
Papa and Mrs. Gelick took the couch while Aunt Mitzy sat opposite them on the loveseat. Jacqueline placed the tray the woman had been carrying on the coffee table and removed the aluminum foil. The tray was stacked with cookies—chocolate chip, Jacqueline’s favorite.
“Can I?” Jacqueline asked.
“Of course. I brought them for everyone.” She nodded at Papa Gelick. “Go ahead.”
Jacqueline tenderly lifted a morsel and bit into it. Her mouth watered at the sweetness, and she smiled. “That’s good,” she said.
“Thank you,” Mitzy replied. “They’re extremely fattening, however. Tons of buttermilk and lard. It’s why they’re so moist.”
Jacqueline nodded absentmindedly while Mrs. Gelick swiftly withdrew her hand from the tray, cookie-less. “I’m on a diet,” she said as way of an apology.
“I’m not,” Papa Gelick said, picking up a treat of his own and taking a bite. “You weren’t kidding. These are quite good.”
“Thank you.”
The man raised an eyebrow at her. “I suppose this little visit has little to do with treats, though?”
Mitzy nodded before removing a file folder from her large purse. She flipped through the papers inside and handed one of them over to Papa Gelick.
“I’m actually here to claim my niece,” she said. “To bring her home.”
“Is that so?” Papa Gelick scanned the page. Jacqueline retreated to the wall behind the couch.
“So you see,” said Aunt Mitzy when Papa Gelick finally lifted his eyes, “it’s all pretty basic.”
Jacqueline stood there in rapt silence, unconsciously munching on her cookie. A nervous knot formed in her stomach. Roger “Papa” Gelick was the pastor of the local Baptist church, a somewhat handsome man with a head of feathe
red blond hair. The way he looked at Mitzy forced Jacqueline to stifle a shiver.
Papa Gelick placed the paper back down. “I don’t think I do. These documents aren’t notarized. How do I know you are who you say you are?” His tone was sweet as usual, but a familiar undercurrent of hostility snuck in.
“I agree,” Mrs. Gelick added. “Very suspicious.”
Aunt Mitzy didn’t flinch. “I assure you, Mr. Gelick, this is all quite official.” She reached down and pointed to one of the papers. “That there was stamped by the Connecticut DSS. And my license should be all the proof you need that I am who I say I am.”
Papa Gelick’s eyes narrowed. “It was the New Hampshire DSS that placed the girl in our care.” He slid the document across the table, sat back, folded one leg over the other. “And Jacqueline’s last name is Talbot, not Sarin.”
“I’m her mother’s sister,” Aunt Mitzy laughed, removing another document from her folder. “It says so right here.”
“I’m sure it does,” Papa Gelick said. He grabbed another cookie and casually munched it. “However, that begs the question of why it took you so long to try and reach out to the poor girl. She’s been in the system for five years now.”
Aunt Mitzy inclined her head. “Unfortunately, my sister died long ago, and her husband and daughter disappeared soon after. So you can imagine how surprised I was when I saw his face on the news. After that, I hired an investigative firm to find my niece. It’s not as easy as it sounds.” She spread her arms out wide and grinned in Jacqueline’s direction. “But here I am.”
Jacqueline swallowed the last of her cookie. Her nervousness disappeared, replaced by a warm feeling that spread through her abdomen. She stepped toward the coffee table, eyeing her aunt and then the tray.
“Can I have another?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Aunt Mitzy. “Cookies are for eating.”
“Don’t eat too much, Jackie,” Papa Gelick said. “Gluttony is a sin.”
“And you don’t want to get fat,” added Mrs. Gelick.
Jacqueline rolled her eyes.
“Don’t you ever roll your eyes at your mother,” Papa Gelick said, sternly. Jacqueline was taken aback. She’d never heard the man sound angry before. Usually his threats were measured in heightened levels of sweetness.
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