Mirrored Time (A Time Archivist Novel Book 1)

by J. D. Faulkner

  “You probably activated the mirror by your touch. When it started to pull you through, your panic triggered your own power. Then, since you were thinking about me,” he winked, “that’s where your power took you.”

  “How is that possible? I thought the compass activates my power?”

  “Not necessarily. Just like the temple mirror doesn’t control my power. Think of it more as a conduit. Your power is, and has always been, a part of you. The compass can help you control your power. Without it, you would still be able to travel. Your jumps just might not be as accurate.”

  “If I’ve always had this power, why am I only finding out about it now?”

  “It may have always been a part of you. It just needed to be triggered. Stress will do it. There are a lot of young children who activate their power by accident. Adults are too limited by what they think is possible. The older you are, the more likely you will need an outside stressor to force the power from you. Children are less restricted by their beliefs. Luckily, instinct brings most of them back home again, full of stories their parents will never believe.”

  “Is that what happened to you?”

  Rafe shook his head. “Now that is a story for a different day, young lady. Besides, I thought we were supposed to be practicing.” He stood, offering his hand and pulling her upright. “You pick next.”

  His change in topic hadn’t fooled her. In her excitement to continue practicing, she was willing to drop the subject. She closed her eyes and thought of her next destination, but not before making a mental note to ask him again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SHE WAS A SMALL CHILD standing in front of a large mirror. Her reflection stared back at her, but something wasn’t right. The bright green eyes were the same shade, although not as round; the brows above them darker and heavier; the lips less full; the chin not as soft. Yet when she smiled and waved at the reflection, after the smallest of delays, the mirrored image waved back.

  When she tried to speak, a thin fissure ran up the middle of the mirror, spidery cracks snaking out to the edges of the frame. She felt her own eyes widening in surprise. The reflection didn’t react.

  More flaws appeared. The image in the mirror rippled and distorted becoming a tall indistinct figure.

  Flinching, she stepped back. It reminded her of something—something she would rather forget. As more fissures broke across the mirror, the figure continued to twist and writhe, looking more and more like the smoky figure was wracked with torturous pain.

  Then the cracks in the mirror began to bleed. And in a thousand refracted images, it was only her panicked reflection staring back at her.

  In gushing rivers, the blood streamed out of the mirror and hit the ground with a sickening splash, lapping in frothy red waves at her feet. Her head spun, and the far off sound of screaming made her ears buzz.

  The puddle became endless, and she fell, kicking and screaming, against the weight pulling her down farther and farther. All she could see was red; all she could taste was coppery, thick blood. She fought, but she only sunk deeper, the color around her turning a deep burgundy.

  Her heart ready to burst, she took a huge painful gulp and screamed into the airless sea of red.

  Gwen jerked awake. She stood in front of the office, her hand resting on the glass next to Alistair’s name. Swallowing, she fought the nausea rising in the back of her throat. The sleepwalking was worse, so much worse. How did I get to the Archives?

  Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the cool glass. She could still taste blood on her tongue, and her lungs burned from lack of air. Each detail from her dream replayed itself in vivid color. She recognized the mirror in the dream and the smoky black figure who staggered towards her, even if it was an image she had been trying to forget since the test.

  A groan escaped her lips. The link could no longer be ignored. At first, the nightmares and sleepwalking could be explained by the stress of a new job. But this time she had made it all the way to the Archives. And her dreams kept borrowing images from her test, using them in new and horrible ways.

  It was time to accept the truth. Her dreams had to do with the Archives. She needed help. Alistair might be surprised to find his assistant knocking on his door so early, but she knew he wouldn’t turn her away.

  The decision of telling Alistair about her dreams had a weight falling from her shoulders. She was about to go inside when a squeak drew her attention. In the dim light of the hallway, she could see someone approaching. It was the hunched figure of the courthouse janitor, his eyes too large behind his glasses.

  Realizing how she must look, standing in the hallway in old sweats, she raised her hand in what she hoped was a nonchalant wave. He didn’t answer her, and Gwen wondered if he couldn’t see her. Is his vision that bad?

  The fluorescent light gleamed off the thick lenses of his glasses. Instead of making any acknowledgement of her presence, the janitor continued to shuffle by her. He passed by her before Gwen spoke up. “Hello?”

  He stopped and swiveled his head so his pale eyes were focused on her. She yelped when his cold fingers shot out and clamped around her arm.

  “What are you—” She never got the chance to finish before everything went dark.

  Seymour stared at the unconscious girl in front of him. The thrill of it filled his blood. It had been so very easy to get her into his grasp. So very right.

  There had been other times when he could have taken the girl. Something inside of him had always cautioned him that the moment wasn’t right. His master in the black mirror trusted him enough to share with him the plans involving Gwen’s dreams. So to find the girl in the Archives, deserted and alone, as she was waking from a nightmare? Well then, it was too lucky a chance to give up. After all, his master first found him in dreams. It was right that Seymour begin his plan after Gwen experienced one of the dreams his master crafted for her.

  Waiting for the girl to wake up, he puttered around the small utility closet he called home. With nervous hands, he touched the scattered knickknacks; some he stroked with a fingertip, others he moved slightly. They weren’t much, but they were the only real things he valued. My trophies.

  The Guardians hadn’t seen it fit to test the prematurely white-haired young man he had been when he had first discovered his powers. Instead, they mocked his pathetic gifts and consigned him to a life trapped in one universe. If the Guardians had only given him access to the time gateways, Seymour knew he would have experienced fantastic and varied lives. Because of them, he was stuck. In one pitiful universe. His dismissal by the Guardians ignited a fire of loathing, which, decades later, still burned in his chest.

  If the Guardians forced him to one mundane life, then he did his best to make up for it. With a touch, his gift allowed him to make people misremember, or even make them forget. Perhaps not for long, although he had grown adept at using what little power he had been granted by the gods.

  In the beginning, it was petty crimes: missing watches, wallets, even robbed homes. No one thought to connect the odd young man with crimes no one could remember happening. Then common thievery hadn’t been enough, and he had grown bolder.

  At first, he amused himself by playing with people’s memories. He enjoyed seeing how the small gaps he could put in someone’s memory affected their lives. Like ripples spreading on the surface of a lake.

  Even that hadn’t been enough, not for a person born for greatness—as Seymour knew he was. The first time it happened, he blamed it on the Guardians. If they had recognized the flame of glory burning in his eyes, then he would never have done it. He would never have stooped so low.

  But soon there was no need for excuses; he enjoyed it far too much. There was never the need for an alibi, not when no one ever remembered him in the first place. He could still taste the fear of each of his victims, the fear of those last moments when they recognized him for what he was. Whatever limitations there were to his powers, it was still pathetically easy to end a human l
ife.

  The girl moaned, and he moved to peer at her. He was disappointed when she stayed unconscious. He wished she would wake up soon so he could begin. It had been too long since he enjoyed using his gift. Most people were too weak, too easy to manipulate.

  In Gwen, he knew he had found a worthy opponent. His master had told him how important she would be. He preened with the knowledge that his gift would help realize this outcome. Even now, his master was using Gwen’s dreams to manipulate her into bringing about his freedom, although the goal couldn’t be achieved without Seymour. He was given the important task of separating the girl from the two men in the Archives by destroying the thin bond of trust that was growing between the three of them.

  Seymour’s smile was a twisted thing. To see the Archives fall and burn. His master would extinguish the Guardians and their petty political constructs. He could think of nothing better than helping to unleash such a destructive force. The Guardians would soon regret their laughter, their hasty dismissal of his powers. Oh, how they would regret it.

  His impatience grew, and he walked over to face the girl. He touched her shoulder, first gingerly, and then he shook her with more force. Her eyes fluttered open, confusion and then horror dawned on her face.

  “What happened?” When she tried to move and found her arms constrained, she opened her mouth to scream.

  He put his hand on her cheek, and her green eyes went blank. Now for the fun part. “You won’t remember this. Forget this room. Forget my face. Forget my voice saying these words.” He put his other hand up so both of his hands framed her face—a perverse parody of an intimate embrace. “Remember this: You won’t trust Alistair. You won’t trust Rafe. And you will never tell them of your dreams. The dreams are a secret. If you tell them, they will leave you, abandon you, forget you.” He focused on making her remember the meaning behind the words.

  Gwen moaned and struggled against his hands. “No … please ….” A tear ran down her cheek and pooled up against his hand. He felt it burning his skin. “I won’t believe you.” In contrast to her brave words, her voice was weak.

  He smiled when he spoke. “Oh, you will.” His head started to ache, and he pushed through the pain. He wouldn’t fail his master. Seymour knew he was strong enough. “Alistair is cold and selfish. He cares only for your power. Rafe is weak and treacherous … a thief and a liar.”

  Whispering those words and more, he wove threads of distrust and pain around her. A web of words she wouldn’t remember, but would still snag on her unconscious mind. He needed to be sure she wouldn’t go to either of the men with her dreams. They might see the trap before it snapped closed.

  And the relationship with Rafe must be tarnished. His master had whispered to him of the plans for the younger man, what Rafe needed to do and how the girl was the perfect tool to make him do it.

  She fought him, weak as the brush of butterfly wings in the back of his mind. So he pushed harder, weaving layer upon layer of lies and distrust. When a line of blood trickled out of her nose, he let go of her face. The vibrant color was beautiful, and he stared at it entranced. The red tempted him, but he moved away from the girl. She was too important to his master. The downfall of the Guardians was too important to Seymour.

  Fascinated, he watched as the drops collected on the front of the girl’s shirt. Had he done enough? Seymour thought of forcing more memories into her mind, but he didn’t want to damage the girl. So, instead, he began the process of untying her, pleased to see there were no permanent marks on her wrists. With a struggle, he grasped her under her arms and dragged her from the room.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  GWEN’S HEAD WAS killing her. Reaching up to her face, she pulled her hand away and stared at her red fingertips.

  “Here.” She took the offered starched handkerchief, pressing it to her nose and pinching to stop the flow of blood. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the janitor standing next to her. His pale eyes peered at her from behind his glasses. “Are you all right?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, only to shut it with an abrupt snap. Am I all right? The last thing she remembered was going to sleep. And now there was the persistent feeling she was forgetting something important. Something very important. Her head ached, and she squinted against the pain.

  The sleepwalking must be getting even worse if she made it all the way to the courthouse basement. “I’m fine, Mr. …?” Her voice sounded nasally, muffled behind the handkerchief.

  “Verbier, Seymour Verbier, miss.” He tugged at a lock of his flyaway white hair. “I came in this morning to get a start on cleaning the floors and found you sitting here, blood down your chin. You gave me a bit of a scare, you did.”

  He made her uneasy. She got to her feet. Pulling the piece of cloth away, she touched her nose and was relieved to find it had stopped bleeding. She balled the handkerchief up in her hand. “I’m sorry. I’ll get this cleaned for you.” Even as she spoke, she tried to reach the thought refusing to appear. It was as difficult to grasp as shifting smoke.

  “It’s no bother.” He waved his hands and continued to peer up at her.

  She took a nervous step backward, tripping on the stair behind her feet. She flushed when the old man recoiled back as if struck. The unease rolling through her stomach was too strong to ignore. “Well then, thank you.” She stepped up. “I guess I’ll see you later. Um, bye.” Not caring how rude she was being, she fled up the stairway, desperate to get away from his eerie gaze.

  At home, Gwen took a quick shower in the hope it would help relax her and dispel the lingering feeling of anxiety. Completely useless.

  A couple of aspirin and the cool air from her walk to the Archives also did little to soothe her aching head and queasy stomach. As she entered the office, all she wanted to do was lay her head on her desk and go to sleep.

  Instead, she walked into the middle of an argument. The men fell silent at her entrance, but the air was still thick with anger.

  Alistair stood stiffly behind his desk, arms crossed and jaw clenched. Two of the men wore similar gray cloaks with the hoods thrown back, both with the tonsured heads of medieval monks. Twins. Two pairs of cold eyes, the same color as their gray hair, stared at her. Their features were sharp, as if carved in granite.

  The third was much shorter. While he was young, he held himself in a way at odds with his apparent age. He was dressed in a short white tunic, and his legs, thin with youth, were covered with brown leggings.

  The final man towered over the others, even with his shoulders hunched in his gray trench coat and his hands jammed in his pocket. She stared at his red tie and his gray button-up shirt. In comparison to his companions, he was dressed so normally. He caught her staring and smiled, white teeth flashing against his dark skin.

  Thrown off by the smile after the cold hard stares of the other three, Gwen stood frozen. Her head pounded with the same beat as her racing heart.

  “So you’re the new traveler Alistair has risked so much for.” The adolescent’s high squeaky voice had an underlying tone of hatred that made a shiver run up her spine. Young as he was, he was the apparent leader of the group.

  “Leave her alone, Cassian. She is blameless in this.” Alistair growled.

  “Yet she is the reason—” One of the cloaked figures started the sentence, which was finished by the other without pause. “—you have chosen to defy us.”

  Gwen found her voice. “What’s going on?”

  “Surely you’ve heard of us?” The black man’s voice was thick with the sound of London.

  “Gwen, may I present to you the ambassadors of the Guardians.” The hostility in Alistair’s tone was thinly veiled by the formality of his words. He introduced each of the figures. “Cassian Augustine.” The youth gave a sharp nod. “Brothers Jacob and Joshua of the Franciscans.” In unison, the two monks folded their hands and bowed. “And …”

  He was interrupted when the final man pulled his hands from his pockets and shook Gwen’s hand, his
larger hand enveloping hers in a gentle grip. “Max.” His grin was light and genuine, and Gwen smiled back at him.

  “I’m not sure I understand the problem. You know about my existence and about the test. Alistair can vouch for my character. I promise I’m not a megalomaniac in disguise.” She tried for light-hearted, and Max grinned. Cassian was less appreciative of her attempts at humor.

  “Do not mock us, child.” In other circumstances, having a person who looked little older than twelve call her a child might have been amusing. In the face of Cassian’s icy rage, there was nothing humorous about it. “The rules exist to protect, and they become no less important because they prevent one man’s foolish rebellion.”

  The twins spoke, faces and voices calm even in the whirlwind of Cassian’s anger. “For ages we have administered the test … And for ages we have protected the streams from any force that would seek to harm it.” Again, they spoke as a single unit, one twin finishing what the other started.

  Cassian spoke again, gesturing in sharp movements. “Or have you forgotten the black mirror and the destruction rained down by the force within?”

  The shadow man’s laugh whispered through her mind. The image of the black mirror was seared on the back of her eyelids. Wrapping her arms around her body, Gwen willed herself to stay calm. No one could know about the dreams.

  Alistair was watching her with narrowed eyes. She ignored him. “The black mirror?” She was impressed with how calm her voice sounded.

  “See?” Cassian’s voice was loud and incredulous. “How can she be trusted if she doesn’t even know what the dangers are?” He tried to continue, but Max stepped forward, his large hands spread in supplication.

  “Perhaps this is a conversation better suited for a more amenable setting,” Max said. With his words, Cassian settled.

  Alistair nodded, although the gesture looked involuntary. “If you would follow me.”