by Cate Corvin
Cecily’s wide blue eyes stared at me with a lack of comprehension, and Eric stepped in, saving me from explaining myself. “We’ll find you a quiet place to sit and provide protection,” he said, his voice gentle. Those enormous blue eyes turned on him, much to my relief. I smiled at him gratefully as I prowled the layout.
I was thankful for Eric’s bedside manner with mortals. When confronted with powerful spirits, I found I lacked patience for human fallibility. Sometimes you just needed to go in hard and fast, and taking the time to explain my process was not my strong suit. Women tended to respond particularly well to my enormous servitor’s calm, protective demeanor… and his looks probably didn’t hurt.
I was no more immune than the rest of them.
“This might take a while,” he said. “Do you have any other mirrors in your house?”
She nodded slowly. “The bathroom.” Her eyes seemed to clear for a moment. “What are you going to do?” she asked. “I thought… usually on TV shows, they do a séance…”
I managed to hold back a laugh, putting on my professional mask instead. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know. “Typically, we would do a ritual to draw the spirits out or use an EVP device,” I said, checking my belt. A pouch on my left hip held coarse salt, and the pouch on my right contained iron coffin nails. I wasn’t going to tell her the rituals were all smoke and mirrors, because they were also my bread and butter, much as I disliked them. “But this entity is powerful enough to physically manifest itself in your home, and I’d rather lay it to rest without playing pointless games first.”
“How did you know?” Cecily asked, shivering as she returned her creepy gaze to me. I reached out, gently turning her arm. Livid purple and green bruises stood out over the freckles on her wrist and forearm, layering handprint over handprint.
Cecily pulled the sleeve of her cardigan down, not meeting my eyes. “It’s better if we just get it done, instead of antagonizing it first,” I said. I tried to be gentle, like Eric. I couldn’t imagine sharing the world with revenants and spirits and being unable to do anything about it. “I need a mirror, and I’ll appear to be in a trance state, possibly for several hours. That’s all you’ll see. And when I come out of it, the spirit will be gone, and you can move on with your life and never worry about it again.”
To my surprise Cecily laughed. A small one, but a laugh nonetheless. “I don’t know if I’ll ever not worry about it again,” she said with a shudder, but for a moment she seemed more alive, defiant of the spirit that had invaded her home.
She led me to the bathroom, where a pedestal sink stood beneath a spotless mirror, reflecting my own face back at me. “Perfect,” I said. “Now let’s handle the precautions.”
We had Cecily sit in a chair and poured a circle of salt and iron nails around her. The woman clutched a sprig of rowan in her bruised hands, fingers fluttering as though she were restraining herself from shredding it to pieces. Her fear-glazed eyes stared up at me as I completed the circle.
“She likes the kitchen best,” she whispered to me. The brief moment of defiance had left her, the fragile flame blown out. We left her alone in her circle of safety.
I slid into the bathroom behind Eric, who lit a large, white candle. The giant man, with his heavy tattoos and grim expression, looked completely incongruous in the pink-tiled bathroom, juxtaposed against the frilly lace shower curtain. He was too large and serious for this small, bright room.
“Promise you’ll be careful, Morena,” he said, looking down at me, his dark eyes intense. “Get out fast if anything seems wrong.” The room was small enough that my leg was pressed against his knee with both of us standing inside. He would stand behind my physical body as my spirit crossed into the deadside, his arms wrapped around me to hold the candle between my face and the mirror. The flame would be my lifeline, my beacon of safety, guiding my roaming spirit back to the land of the living.
It was much easier to handle in larger spaces. Having every inch of him pressed against me in such an enclosed space was an exercise in self-control.
“I already promised I’d be careful,” I said, trying to hold back the peevish tone- would he tell a fish to be careful of swimming? The bathroom was terribly cold, and the hostile presence emanated from the walls like a rotten scent. I wanted to cross to the deadside and finish this. “But yes, I promise again. I’m always careful. Honestly, Eric.”
Eric loomed over me as I stood in front of the mirror, one hand resting on my shoulder. His fingers squeezed for a moment before they relaxed again. He wrapped his other arm around me to hold the flickering candle between my chest and the mirror.
As always, it was hard to ignore the hard planes of his body pressed against my back. I swallowed hard as he pressed forward, the heavy bulge in the front of his jeans a little too close for my comfort. “Can you blame me for caring?” he asked, his breath warm against my ear. A pleasant shiver ran down my spine. I needed to get into the deadside before the closeness of his body distracted me much further.
Besides, he had a point. I softened up. “Of course not. Be back soon.”
I stared into my own eyes, the darkness of my pupils widening, expanding into dark pools-
I fell from my body and climbed through, gripping the edges of the mirror, placing one boot in the identical sink beyond the frame. I lowered myself to the tiled floor of the deadside carefully, silent as a whisper.
I didn’t need to turn to see what was behind me: the mirror would show my own corporeal body, gazing frozen into the deadside from the liveside, the candle flame flickering before me as a warm flutter in my chest. Eric would be embracing my immobile body for as long as this took, steadfastly holding that flame.
In the land of shadows, the deadside of the world, everything was shades of gray. The pink shower curtain was washed out into a froth of dull nothingness, the white walls flaking away and the floor was coated with dust.
Deep grooves were scratched into the dull wooden door. I drew the rowan sickle, the dark warmth of the wood and the polish of the silver a glaring contrast to the dingy landscape of Death.
Silence filled the air within the deadside. I eased the bathroom door open, stepping out into a dusty hallway identical to the one I’d left behind.
The hostility I’d felt on the liveside was even more concentrated here, the vague fuzziness of it now condensed to a single point. I stepped silently, leaving footprints in the dust, following the short hall to its end.
The living room was empty. I glanced first at the mirror over the mantelpiece, the reflected room even darker and more decrepit than this one. The tattered curtains were flung wide open, revealing a thick mist outside through the bay windows. Dark shapes flickered through the fog like fish in deep water, never coming close enough for me to catch a better glimpse.
I ignored the shapes. As long as the windows and doors were closed, they couldn’t come in, and thus posed no threat to me.
A loud clang rang out flatly, without an echo. A kitchen pot? I wheeled around, unconcerned about the window at my back, and maneuvered slowly to get a view of the kitchen.
For a startled moment I thought Cecily had somehow managed to get into the deadside, that she was standing naked and writhing in the middle of her kitchen.
Then the arms unfurled into a dozen twitching hands as the spirit stumbled around to face me.
Here we go.
2
I raised my sickle in defense, moving quickly to put the rickety kitchen table between myself and the spirit. It clutched a ragged bundle with several of the spidery hands.
Its face was warped in a twisted imitation of a woman. One eye blinked from her cheek, and her mouth split her neck in a ragged gash. Blood dripped over her naked chest as that travesty of a mouth worked.
The bundle she clutched was Dumpling, the calico fur stained scarlet. A haggard paw drooped as the spirit stepped forward, glaring at me.
Nausea roiled deep in my stomach as I scooped a handful of salt from my h
ip pocket. Poor Dumpling must have been locked in the house, unable to escape as the spirit pulled itself from a mirror. Now it would grow stronger from feeding on living blood.
“You are unwelcome in this house,” I said, tearing my eyes away from the cat. I felt the power of the words on my tongue, my exorcists’ compulsion woven into them. The spirit would be forced to heed my orders if I was the stronger of us. “Leave now and never return.”
As pale and ineffective as they would sound on the liveside, the commands carried a different weight within the deadside when spoken by a mirrorwalker. The spirit gurgled and writhed, spattering droplets of blood over my shirt, hunching over to protect its undeserved meal.
“Leave now,” I commanded again. I held out the palmful of salt, blowing it in a glittering cloud at the spirit.
The white crystals coated its skin, sparkling wherever they found purchase. Tiny tendrils of smoke rose as the spirit’s shrieks tore through the silence of the deadside, dropping the cat as it tried to desperately scrub away the purifying salt. Its hands skittered over its own skin, unable to touch it without burning.
The lopsided eyes glared at me as it dropped to the dusty floor, arms splayed out like a spider, and rushed at me on all fours.
I kicked hard, my boot connecting solidly with the spirit’s face. I had to resist the urge to shout in victory as it tumbled backwards, its entire body twisting as it scrabbled to right itself.
The spirit wasn’t quick enough. I stepped over it, one foot on either side of its body, and plunged the hook of the sickle through its chest, pinning it to the floor.
The revenant screamed, writhing around the length of rowan. Salt glimmered as her pale skin darkened in pinpricks where it burned her away, bit by bit. I knew I had the upper hand, my will subsuming her own.
Pain ripped through my leg as those sharp-nailed hands caught me. I grimaced as a gush of heat flowed down my leg and into my boot.
“You are unwanted. You are unwelcome. Leave now and never return.” The spirit stared at me as though marking my face, writhing and curling in on itself, darkening as it became ash and dust once more. I poured a handful of salt and coffin nails on the mound, cleansing whatever was left of the spirit.
I wiped the dust from the sickle’s blade and paused. A blot of misery emanated from where Dumpling’s body lay. I took a handful of salt, ready to cleanse its spirit to move on, but the tiny ribs moved with a labored breath. Dumpling was still alive, but just barely.
A prickle crept down my spine as I crouched over the injured cat, making my skin crawl all over.
The spirit had returned to ashes, but the deadside didn’t feel as empty as it should have. I scooped up the bloody animal and stood slowly, gazing around the mirror-image of Cecily’s house with my blade at the ready.
A dark shape flashed by the bay window, leaving the mist outside roiling with its disturbance. I backed away, angling for the hallway to the bathroom mirror. The candle flame anchor pulsed in my chest, drawing me towards it, back to the safety of the living.
I gasped as another dark shadow lurched forward, pressing towards the window as I crept back to my anchor. Something bright caught my eye, a vivid splash of color that hadn’t been there before, that couldn’t be there.
But it was.
On the liveside, the coffee table held a vase full of dead, dried flowers. Instead of black and broken stems, the vase now held a rose, as red as blood and bright as life, petals lush and velvet.
I was absolutely sure it hadn’t been there when I’d entered. There was no color that existed on its own on the deadside, only the gray of death. I would’ve seen it when I crossed, and I was sure I didn’t want to touch it and risk conjuring the spirit who had left it without being seen.
My mouth was suddenly drier than cotton. I felt the door at my back and slipped into the bathroom without looking away from the rose. It took every drop of self-control to calmly climb into the sink, still cradling Dumpling, and step through the mirror.
I blinked hard as I fell back into my own body, the colors of life around me almost shockingly bright. The candle flame went out as I dropped stiffly into the warmth of Eric’s arms.
On a good note, the miasma of hostility that had permeated Cecily’s house had popped like a bubble.
I straightened with a groan, replacing the sickle on my belt’s hook. “You’re hurt,” Eric said, his voice darkening as he took in the blood soaking my leg.
Any injury incurred in Death was always reflected on the mirrorwalker’s living body; he would have smelled the fresh blood but been unable to move without leaving my body or the candle unattended.
“Dumpling is still alive,” I said. “She needs you first.” Along with his premonitions, Eric knew a few charms for healing, a very desirable quality in a servitor even if it only worked for minor cuts and scrapes. Having a wand would have been better, but I had a feeling Dumpling might not survive long enough for us to find one. He’d have to do this the quick-and-dirty way and hope for the best.
“You’re my priority, Mor.”
I scowled and slumped against the wall, cradling the cat. “Please, Eric. I can’t let her die.”
His dark eyes glared at me, his teeth grinding, but he sighed and reached out for Dumpling. His entire right hand, knuckles and fingers, were tattooed with the alchemical elemental symbols and healing sigils. Those fingers ran over the cat’s bloody fur as he frowned, concentrating on the animal’s wounds.
His handsome face grew strained as he forced the cat’s injuries to heal themselves. I appreciated how he always ended up doing the right thing, even if he doubted himself or wanted to expend the energy on me first.
The cat finally let out a soft meow, and Eric released its tiny body, clenching and releasing his fingers as though they burned. “She’s not out of the woods yet,” he said. “That’s all I have in me.”
He reached out to help me up and I took his hand, allowing him to pull me straight. Without thinking, just wanting living warmth and comfort after the uncertain chill of Death, I reached out and touched his cheek, the soft brush of his stubble soft and prickly under my fingertips.
“Thanks, Eric.” The sable depths of his eyes were suddenly intense and burning, and I found myself leaning forward, running my thumb over the smooth line of his jaw. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Get in more trouble than you could reasonably handle?” He brushed back my spill of dark curls that had come loose from their braid, his fingers lingering on my bare shoulders.
“Sounds about right.” My hand dropped. I knew the rules; this was much too close. Any further and he’d just shut me out again, same as last time.
Eric followed me from the bathroom as I went to Cecily, who was cradling Dumpling.
She hadn’t left her salt circle, but she clutched the rowan sprig with white-knuckled fingers. “I felt it go!” Cecily gasped. “It’s gone! You saved Dumpling!”
She stroked the purring bundle of calico fluff, and Dumpling’s big green eyes stared at me, begging for help.
I stumbled, my leg collapsing under me, but Eric caught me, his muscular arms holding me upright as I hissed through my teeth. I looked down, holding onto Eric’s arm with a death-grip.
Clotting blood gleamed darkly through a rip in my jeans, soaking my calf. The spirit’s quick fingers had managed to land a good one on me. Concern and irritation were written all over Eric as his eyes moved from my bleeding leg, back to my face.
The blood was as red as the rose. I suppressed a shudder.
“I would advise cleaning your house again,” I said, becoming entirely too aware of the pain now. “Fill it with good energy. If you sense anything amiss, call us right away. And get that cat to a vet as soon as possible, she was badly hurt.”
I hated using terms like ‘positive vibes’ or ‘good energy’, but it was a good way to make humans understand. Spirits were less likely to enter places of happiness, not when sorrow and misery made a much more inv
iting doorway for the dead.
Eric glanced at Cecily and away again quickly. “Is it likely to come back?” she asked, brow knit. She must have sensed something was amiss between us.
I managed a smile, even though I felt the squelch of blood under the sole of my foot, and leaned on Eric to steady myself, trying not to think about how warm he was, or that it took getting my ass kicked to be able to hold him like this.
“I banished it,” I said, trying to sound confident. I had, after all, seen the dust and ashes it had become. But the blooming rose, and whatever presence had been lurking in the mist, had me more disturbed than I was willing to admit to Cecily. “So, no. But after a strong cleansing like that, there’s something of a spiritual void left behind, for lack of a better term. It’s empty in here. The sooner you can work some happy energy in, the better.”
It would be so much easier if mortals could create wards to prevent spirit incursion. On the other hand, I’d be out of a job if they could.
Cecily nodded frantically, ash-blonde hair falling from its bun. “Okay, I will. Thank you so much.”
She led us to the door, breathing a sigh of relief as we went down the steps, Eric supporting my weight as I hobbled. How hard would it be for mortals to at least pretend they weren’t afraid of me, especially when I risked my body and soul for them? Never mind that I did it for money as well; it wasn’t an easy job, no matter my motivation.
As soon as we were out of earshot, I heaved my own sigh. My hands were trembling from the rush of adrenaline. “Something was wrong in the deadside,” I said once we were out of earshot. Eric didn’t seem to mind how heavily I leaned on him, a limp setting in as the flow of blood slowed. It didn’t actually hurt all that much anymore, but just having his arm around my waist was like a form of torture that I never wanted to end, and he made no move to unhand me. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It shouldn’t even be possible. And I need more coffee so bad I would literally strangle a man with my bare hands for some.”
