Mirrored Time (A Time Archivist Novel Book 1)

by J. D. Faulkner

  The last thing Gwen needed was to lose Alistair. Without the Archivist, Gwen would fall right into the waiting hands of the Guardians. Rafe could imagine what they would accomplish with a new Locator, especially one as strong as her.

  Rafe’s features looked harsh and forbidding in the reflection. With a steady hand, he placed his palm flat against the mirror’s surface. In an instant, he was gone.

  The mirror flickered. Then with a loud crack, it shattered and went black.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE PHONE WAS RINGING. She ignored it—at least she mostly ignored it. Once Maggie’s cancer had come back, Gwen didn’t have the luxury of ever ignoring her phone. Instead, it sat constantly next to her, like a malignant toad. Every time it made the slightest noise, Gwen’s heart jumped. She always wondered if it would be bad news. Would be the worst news.

  So instead, as the phone did a dancing buzz across the tabletop, Gwen looked at the display screen. When she saw it was Alistair calling, she then proceeded to ignore it. Guiltily.

  She didn’t want to think about her job. About Alistair. Most of all, about Rafe. Because if she did, her heart would race and her head would pound. Worst of all would be the sly whispering voice in her ear.

  The longer she heard it, the more convinced she was of its foreignness—of its wrongness. Hearing voices, particularly voices that weren’t her own internal dialogue, was a sign of something wrong. So she chose ignorance.

  With one last look at her phone, she headed out for a run around her neighborhood. She took care, however, to take a path leading her in the opposite direction of the courthouse. With the music from her iPod blaring in her ears and her muscles warming, she could pretend she was relaxed, that was until she walked back into her apartment to her buzzing phone.

  Who am I kidding? Relaxed. Sure. With every fiber of her being, she wanted to pick up the phone. She wanted to apologize to Alistair and then find Rafe so she could apologize to him. She just couldn’t bring herself to go through with it. Or more accurately, the voice kept her from doing it.

  Liar… thief… you can’t trust them. Maybe she agreed with the voice, maybe she didn’t. Gwen was pretty certain she couldn’t trust herself most of all. With a sigh, she walked away from the phone. It made her stomach queasy. She would take a shower and get cleaned up. She would feel better after that.

  She didn’t feel any better. Of course not. Instead, she felt hyperaware of the phone. It sat silent and innocent on her coffee table. To Gwen, it screamed out an air raid signal. She took a step closer to her phone. The voice started muttering again in her ear. Lies …

  With an angry curse, she strode to the phone and picked it up. Three missed calls. One new voicemail. Punching the voicemail button, she placed the phone against her ear, holding her breath.

  Alistair’s voice sounded thin and worried. “Hello, Gwen … Miss Conway. Something’s happened, and I …” He cleared his throat and started again. “… I was hoping you had seen Rafe. He failed to show up for a meeting, and that’s unusual for him. I’m afraid …” There was a long pause and then a deep sigh. “If you could call me, I would appreciate it.” The phone clicked in her ear. To delete this message, press seven …

  Gwen put the phone down, not bothering to turn it off. To save it in the archives, press nine … She stood frozen, like a statue, eyes unseeing. Something had happened, and Alistair was afraid. Her stomach rolled. Something had happened, and Gwen hadn’t even bothered to pick up the phone.

  Something had happened, and Rafe was missing. Her legs started to shake, and she sunk to the ground. Liar … why do you care what happens to him? Thief! The words were followed by a wave of pain, and then another, so blinding and terrible she clenched her jaw to prevent from crying out.

  What was happening? She felt like everything was spinning out of control and she was powerless to do anything about it. Immobilized instead by a whispering voice inside her head. She blinked against the tears threatening to fall.

  With clarity, she recognized how erratic her behavior had become, how cruel she had been to Rafe, and how dismissive she had been with Alistair. All because of the unfamiliar voice and its terrible words.

  With a small whimper, she rested her aching head in her hands. Rafe was a thief. Wasn’t he? She had seen him steal. The key … right in front of you. Thief …

  The pain was so bad, bile rose in the back of her throat. But he had stolen the key for her, at Alistair’s request. The key she had used to take the test that had given her the compass. Her hand circled her empty neck.

  The compass that hung on the same necklace as the charms. She remembered Rafe’s face when he had given her the charms, the still moment between them in the hallway. And then she remembered a hundred other moments: his laughter, his surprising depth, his concern for her.

  And how had she repaid him? With scorn. With malice. Throwing words in his face to purposefully hurt him. She choked on her tears and curled up on the floor, her aching head resting against the cool wood. The voice was chanting now, screaming in her mind. You can’t trust him. You can’t trust anyone!

  With a frustrated sob, she slammed her fist into the floor. She didn’t understand what was happening. She knew she couldn’t hold out against the pain for much longer. It was too intense. And the voice was getting louder and more terrifying. She needed help.

  A spasm rocked her body, and she jerked on the floor. In that involuntary movement, her hand closed around a warm and comforting shape. The surprise distracted her from the pain, and she looked down at her compass. When she threw it off, it must have slid under her couch.

  Her mind felt fractured, divided. While one half was screaming at her not to trust anyone, the other half knew who would help. And then, it was decided. Even if the thought brought a pain so staggering it almost blinded her, Gwen knew what to do. Knew where to go.

  She closed her eyes against the pain, welcoming the darkness. Then she focused on the place she knew could help—the one person she knew would help.

  She stood in a large white space. It echoed around her, an absence of everything. It should have been terrifying to be surrounded by so much nothing. Instead, the absence was soothing. The voice and the pain were gone. What remained was a worrying blank, as if an inkblot stained her memory.

  “Hello?” Her voice echoed around the empty space. She blinked, and she was no longer alone.

  Max stood next to her, hands tucked in his pockets. With a whistle, he surveyed the echoing whiteness around them. “Someone did a number on you, didn’t they?”

  The urbane coolness of his voice sent a spike of fear running through her, but when his gaze met hers, she calmed.

  “Why are you here?” The words themselves were an interrogation, but her voice was gentle.

  He smiled at her. “Alistair sent for me. He was a little, shall we say, upset by his assistant’s arrival in his living room.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Particularly when she was so, ah … distraught.”

  “What is this place?” She felt defensive.

  As Max scanned the endless white, a room started to form. It was hazy at first, although the details were becoming clearer. “Your mind, Gwen. Something happened, and we need to find out what.”

  As she began to recognize the room, or rather the hallway, unease made her heart race. Then the voice was back, muted, but still there. “I don’t want to be here.”

  His gaze met hers, and they were no longer brown. Instead, they were a shimmering gold. “You need to be here. Something happened, and you don’t remember it. You need to remember it.”

  Gwen shifted on the stained and cracked linoleum. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, and she shivered. “I didn’t forget anything.”

  His gold eyes didn’t waver. “You came to Alistair sobbing so hard you could barely speak. You told him about the voice, about the horrible things it said, and about the pain.”

  “No.” She shook her head in denial, feeling panicky.

  “And
then when the pain was too much, you collapsed. You were still coherent enough to tell Alistair about the night you couldn’t remember.”

  She shook her head again, and the light above her burned brighter.

  “You woke up here that night.”

  Gwen turned her back on Max, leaning her head against the cool glass of the office door. “Please …”

  “What happened, Gwen?” Max took her shoulders and forced her to look down the hall where it ended in darkness. “What did you see?”

  A small hunched figure appeared out of the dimness of the hallway. The light above Gwen’s head flashed off the man’s thick glasses. “Seymour …”

  And then, she remembered. Everything.

  Waking up in the Archives. The janitor’s shuffling walk as he moved towards her in the dark. Then waking again tied to the chair, the pressure on her wrists. Seymour’s twisted smile. She could remember his whispering voice in her ear, sneaking through her mind like a snake through grass. The same voice that had been hiding in her mind, sabotaging her thoughts, and making her say things that she didn’t believe.

  With a snap, the pressure in her mind released with a rush of pain. She fell to her knees, her vision going black.

  When it cleared, she was no longer in the hallway. Instead, she was in Alistair’s living room. Max crouched next to her, his hand touching her shoulder. Alistair stood before her, his face gray with worry.

  “Miss Conway …” He winced.

  She wasn’t sure why he was so upset until she felt the warmth trickle down her face. Pressing her sleeve against her nose, her voice came out muffled. “Could I have a tissue, please? I don’t want to bleed all over your carpet.”

  Max’s laugh filled the room, and the tension was diffused. Alistair moved to provide Gwen with a handkerchief, his face still tense. It got tenser as Gwen explained to the two men what she remembered.

  Max was the one to break the quiet when she finished speaking. “Whatever he did to her, it’s lucky you were able to sense something was going on. Either Seymour was a little too convinced of his powers or you proved to be stronger than he anticipated.”

  Alistair frowned. “Miss Conway, I owe you my sincerest apologies.” His gaze moved to focus over her shoulder, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I never would have predicted such a thing. My lack of foresight is inexcusable. What happened to you is inexcusable.”

  Max sighed, and Alistair continued to speak.

  “I am responsible for your well-being, Miss Conway. That such a thing would happen outside the Archives? And under my watch? Max, the Guardians must be told. My position here …” He stopped when he saw the vehement shake of her head.

  “No.” Gwen shook her head again. “Not the Guardians. I don’t trust them. And this isn’t your fault.” A shiver ran through her frame. Regardless of how warranted tears would be, she needed and wanted to be strong. “Max was here; he knows and he fixed it. I don’t want Cassian knowing about it.” Little weasel.

  Max spoke before Alistair could. “Your position in the Council is already unstable. Your assistant is right to suggest we don’t tell them. As she says, I know. I am, after all, a Guardian” He shrugged. “And while I can’t erase the horror of what happened, Gwen’s mind was not permanently affected.”

  There were so many questions to ask. Gwen picked the one that was bothering her most. “What did happen? Why would Seymour want me to not trust Rafe …” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes widened in horror. “Rafe. Where’s Rafe?”

  Alistair was grave. “I think perhaps it would be best if you were to rest. Max and I can handle—”

  She waved her hand. “I’m fine. Where’s Rafe?”

  Alistair didn’t respond. His jaw clenched.

  It was Max who swayed his decision. “I would tell Gwen, Alistair. It might help her if she was given a more active role.”

  Alistair’s gray eyes regarded Gwen. Then he nodded. “Come, there is something you should see.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  STARING AT THE WALL of broken mirrors, Gwen barely heard as Alistair told her all he knew about the mirrors. He was the first to admit he didn’t know very much. The frustration was clear in his voice, but Gwen couldn’t look away from the mirrors.

  Max’s offer to find out if the Guardians knew anything about the broken mirrors was only half registered. Clearing a space in the broken glass before her, she sunk to the floor. Rafe is in there? Because of me.

  The men continued to speak behind her. Eventually two voices were replaced with one and then one with silence. The cracking of the glass underneath Alistair’s footsteps was enough to tell her he was still in the room.

  Gwen frowned. Hopefully, Max would be able to get information without the rest of the Guardians finding out. The image of the crumbling city Max had shown her flashed in her mind. His own home had been destroyed, although he had hinted at the idea that the destruction wasn’t the absolute end.

  The Guardians preached any change in the time lines would lead to destruction, that it would cause time to collapse in on itself. Yet she thought of what Rafe had told her in the temple. He had spoken to her of a different theory, where instead of total destruction, changes in the time lines would create diverging paths. But something had destroyed that city and was now destroying the mirrors.

  Stupid. Now’s not the time for philosophical musings. Her brow furrowed. None of this helped her come any closer to finding Rafe. Alistair’s voice had been full of self-derision when he had explained that Rafe had gone through one of the broken mirrors, angry at himself for not predicting the younger man’s next movements. Gwen knew the fault was really her own. After all, hadn’t she been the one to call him useless and pathetic?

  She tried to shake off the guilt. It wasn’t helping her come up with any useful ideas. Focusing on her compass, and on Rafe, she willed it to warm against her skin. It remained cool, refusing to activate. She didn’t expect it to work; Alistair admitted to trying to activate the mirror, but he’d had no luck.

  Dipping her head, she stared at her compass. At the slight movement of her head, her gaze caught on a piece of glass. It was right underneath the mirror Alistair said Rafe had gone through.

  The memory of the cool liquid silver lapping up her arm the first time she had gone through the mirror was still crystal clear. Twirling the compass between her fingers, an idea formed in her mind. While revenge against Rafe had been on her mind, the mirror had been activated by her touch. Yet it was her own power that had brought her to the lake city.

  She glanced again at Alistair, this time from behind the curtain of her hair. He was still pacing back and forth, paying her no attention. Stretching out her leg, her foot touched the edge of the glass while her hand wrapped tighter around her compass.

  Alistair said there had been a connection still left in the mirror, although not one that was strong enough to make a jump. Maybe her power, in connection with the power in the mirror, would be enough to take her to Rafe.

  Another sidelong glance at Alistair. She had a distinct feeling that he would be less than pleased with her idea. Sending a silent apology his way, she closed her eyes and focused on Rafe, the compass and the mirror. Relief washed over her when her compass warmed in her hand.

  As the ground fell out beneath her, she disappeared from the room.

  The alleyway was dark and hemmed in on both sides by skyscrapers so tall they disappeared into heavy black clouds. A dismal rain fell, and Gwen shivered from the icy chill. A yell drew her attention to a group of men fighting at the mouth of the alleyway.

  She recognized one of them. With a shout, she rushed toward them. The group paid her no mind, and she lost sight of Rafe, whose face had stood out by the vibrant red running from his nose.

  The logical part of her brain tried to reason with her. And what are we going to do when we get to the fight? Stand up against three men? The lack of plan was dismissed. She needed to help Rafe. He was having no luck alone.

  Jus
t as she reached the end of the alley, the shortest man drew back his fist to hit Rafe, who struggled against the grip of the other two men. Cheater. Gwen aimed herself to grab hold of the man’s arm, only to tumble to the ground when she hurtled straight through his body. She scrambled to her feet, paying little mind to her palms scraped raw by their impact against the concrete.

  Closer, she was able to see the strange coloring of the men. Their skin; their clothes; everything about them was colored in different tones of gray. Another impact of fist against skin drew her from her thoughts. Regardless of what color the attackers were, Rafe’s blood was still bright red.

  “Hey, stop!” Her cries grew more frantic when the short man continued to pummel his fists into Rafe.

  She tried to swipe at one of the men holding him. Her eyes widened. Another half-hearted swipe. Her arm passed straight through the gray-skinned man. We’re not in Kansas, anymore.

  Admittedly, she knew what had happened the first time. Seeing her hand go through someone else’s body was just difficult to accept. Standing in the pouring rain, Gwen was at a loss. How did you stop a group of men who neither saw you nor felt you?

  At least they had stopped hitting Rafe. Now they were dragging his unconscious body along the road, the short man in the lead. With little else to do, she followed them, trying to think of a solution. The men dragged Rafe down the street and into a tall rundown building.

  I think we found competition for Bleak House. The majority of the windows were broken, and the crumbling brick mortar looked unstable. She followed the men up the creaking stairs, wincing as Rafe’s feet made dull thumps against each step.

  The men stopped at a warped wooden door, pounding on the door with angry shouts. A pale thin woman answered, her shaking hands fluttering around her like nervous birds. The two men released their hold on Rafe, and he dropped to his knees with a groan. He managed to catch himself on his hands right before his head made contact with the dirty floor.