Illusion (2 page)

“Jhara’s never helped anyone,” she sneered.

He smiled. “Of course, the search for immortality brings few friends. Draw it again for me.”

A surge of high magic wasn’t worth handing over her self-respect. She opened her mouth to tell him to shove it, but his brow lowered.

“Come now. I insist. Show me what you can do.” He inclined his head toward the mirror. “Don’t be stupid. You can’t win this one.”

A transparent ripple of magic cascaded over her body, insinuated itself beneath her skin, and jerked her forward. Her head whipped back so fast her neck cracked.

Her boot heels squealed on the tiles as she was dragged to the mirror. She overbalanced, pinwheeled, and fell against the sink with a rib-cracking smack. She stared up at Oxyhiayal in the mirror. One look at his smiling face and she knew he’d be happy to end it right now.

“Go ahead. Argue. I’ll be forced into something we’ll both regret,” he said. “Jhara’s keen to return and I don’t have time for niceties.” His voice was mild, but the muscles in his face twitched spasmodically. He put his hand into his cloak and pulled out a long boning knife. Magic shimmered between them.

A terrible feeling of fear mixed with self-disgust came over her. She placed the jagged end of the crayon on the mirror, and sketched a rough picture of a promontory fort she’d been dreaming about for months. On the top of a rampant she drew a heavily framed soldier and an oversize moon.

The flush blotching her neck reflected back in the mirror and she licked her dry lips.

She turned to Oxyhiayal. “Happy now?” Her voice trembled.

The waves of compulsion ended abruptly. She leaned against the sink in a boneless slump, gripping the steel edge to hold herself upright.

The stark lines of the picture cast back at them. Oxyhiayal’s face lit up as he floated over to the mirror and touched the drawing with two fingers.

“It’s true! Of all the gods. How could you know?” He sighed.

She couldn’t see the attraction herself. The creation was brutal and raw, thick wedges and squiggles that were jagged and ill formed.

The air pressure shifted, prickling the hairs on her nape. Smoke coiled over the ramparts, the thin trails wafting and bleeding into the surface, like blood on litmus paper. A spreading darkness filtered across the moon. The shape formed a triangular face with red pupils and a long snout. In horror she watched horns appear—flowing back from a high forehead. The creature’s eyes narrowed, tracking over her face, sly and malevolent. The animal issued the sweet scent of meat at the foul edge of decomposition.

She cried out and its face held a sort of vicious victory. It retreated, leaving spectral black stains on the mirror.

The surface rippled. Moonlight passed through from the other side. A light bulb popped, showering glass over the floor, and the room darkened. Another light flickered, blotching the mirror with writhing shadows.

Sweat slid down her neck into her T-shirt and she pushed away from the sink, quarter-turning to bolt.

Oxyhiayal seemed oblivious—too busy touching the mirror. The soldier—no, it was a warrior—had grown. He’d expanded in size, much larger than the original drawing, and was now fully composed. He had long dark hair, a hard jaw, and a long-muscled body. Black vines were wrapped around his arms. She leaned away and sucked in a breath.

Light flashed and the picture bulged as the warrior projected out of the flat landscape. His shadowy form sharpened and his coat rustled. He turned his head. Cold eyes examined her, roving over her face as if memorizing the details.

Holy freaking hell. She opened her mouth to let loose a full-throttled scream.

He threw something at her just as a crash of thunder hit the atmosphere. She jumped back, falling over her own feet, and landing with a thump on her backside. The mirror now leaned at an odd angle, so close to her face. She reached out reflexively to push it back and her hand sank into the glass, disappearing to the wrist. Pulpy cold liquid sucked at her fingers and she shuffled back just as a percussive boom lifted her off the floor.

Bang
. She fell in slow motion, tasting smoke and sweat and something else. She’d bitten her tongue.

The thunder faded and the warrior flattened. The mirror was back on the wall. No horns or oversize warriors, just a huge spotted moon above a fort. Perspiration trickled down her spine and she put her hand on her thumping heart. She scrabbled to her feet, backing away, and stared down at herself. Had the warrior tossed something? There was no evidence on her body. But it had looked like black stars. A sense of unreality washed over her. She looked down at her blackened fingers and trembling hands.

“Gods.” Oxyhiayal stared at the glass, his head thrown back and eyes wide in disbelief.

Grabbing the chance, she lurched forward and roundhoused him in the stomach.

He exhaled in a loud
oomph
of pain, and agony speared across his face as it contorted into a misshapen mess. His eyes bulged and his face purpled with effort. He fell against the counter and it cracked, peeling away from the tiled wall. The basin dangled from an exposed pipe, gushing a fountain of water over the mirror. Jhara must have realized he had a moment to regain control because the mage’s torso twisted and flailed against the counter like a bug caught on the head of a pin. He spun, cracking his spine against the mirror. The glass shattered, slivers raining onto the floor, one large hunk containing the moon hanging from the frame.

Jhara’s head lifted and his icy eyes glared back at her. She tugged the sleeves of her sweater up her arms and flicked a quick glimpse at the door.

His features contorted in a combination of terror and rage. He lifted his fist and backhanded her across the mouth. For a moment she went numb with incredulity, then a terrible ache rocketed through her jawbone.

Guess I won’t be getting paid in spells tonight.
She flexed her jaw to check if it was broken and bit back a cry.

He seized her hair with an iron fist and tossed her across the slimy floor. She skidded on her stomach straight into a cement pipe.

Excruciating pain flooded her skull, and the room revolved like the spinning horses on an old-fashioned merry-go-round. Scalp burning, she snatched a sliver of glass and scrambled to her feet, her heart jackhammering. The bastard had hit her—she couldn’t believe it. She squeezed her eyes, breathing in the pain, letting it flow over her.

Something splattered between her boots and she touched her burning face. A trail of blood dripped off her hand. Time slowed, and the floor wavered. Oh God, she was going to lose consciousness and then he’d rape her and dump her body in the river. Terror coursed through her.

“You stupid bitch, you let him in without a protective circle.” Jhara’s face was white. “I’ll strangle you with my bare hands.”

She forced herself to breathe and stand still. He scurried toward her. Ignoring the fresh agony on the back of her head, she flipped to the side and crouched low, snaking her leg out at the same time. He tripped over her boot. The momentum carried him into the bathroom wall. His head struck the tile with a resounding
crack
and he fell to the floor.

Tit for tat.
She smiled in grim satisfaction. With any luck his head hurt worse than hers. The whole experience was surreal, as if it was happening to someone other than herself. The world dissolved into the distance and time slowed to a drip, silent and withdrawn as an icy calm washed over her.

Jhara collected himself and turned toward her, blood leaking down his face where the pitted surface had broken skin. He muttered in Latin and jerked his fist as if tugging on a rope. She cried out as her body lifted and slammed against the wall. The sour smell of sweat erupted from her clothes.

Something flashed in the mirror, brightening the room, and Jhara swiveled. She dropped several inches to her feet and stumbled before recovering.

Using his distraction, she snatched the door handle with a wet palm and dashed out of the room. She ran down the corridor onto the factory floor. The door slammed open with a dull crash and Jhara’s boots pounded the cement behind her. She turned to face him and the factory shrank to the two of them.

Cold air flew from Jhara’s raised arm and whopped her in the stomach. She exhaled with a cough and doubled over before straightening.

The events of the evening replayed in a series of still pictures and her mind whirled, trying to make sense of it all. Had Jhara seen the mirror move, or was he embarrassed she’d witnessed his possession? Illegal magic would undercut Oxyhiayal’s syndicate. She had to be in the middle of a House war. Either way, Jhara would hunt her to the ends of the earth for the loss of face. Hindsight was a loathsome thing. She should have avoided the bastard, even if he produced the cheapest spells in town. The disappointment in her own stupidity and shock at underestimating him made her want to kick herself.

“Look, mage, I have no idea what’s going on, so don’t blame me.” She cradled her stomach in protection.

“Bullshit. This is your fault,” he spat. “You have no idea what you’ve done.” He raised his arm, wrist twisted to fling another spell, and started mumbling in Latin.

The action made her angrier still, and she flipped her wet hair back over straightened shoulders and beckoned him forward with one hand. The same hand clasping a shard of glass and dripping blood.

“Fine, let’s do this.”

She had nothing to lose; he was far more powerful than she, but if he killed her, there were witnesses. Someone would tattle if enough money passed hands. Jhara didn’t inspire loyalty. He seemed to realize the same thing because he stopped and glanced around the room as if noticing for the first time they had a large audience. Some looked on with curiosity, others with expectancy, but no one showed an interest in helping. A few humans stood together in a corner, riveted and wide-eyed, as if she was crazy.

The lights above sparked, dulling to a low glow. In her peripheral vision a large shape stepped from the bathroom corridor. Maybe she was losing it, but the scent of ozone and incense began to overshadow the stench of burned herbs.

“Get out, you spell-fucked skank. No pay, nothing. Just get out,” he snarled.

Relief erupted and she shuddered—forced herself to walk on wooden legs past him, ready to duck if he made a move. At the last moment she lifted her bag from the coat hook and slung it over her shoulder. As she opened the door, a movement of air rushed by.

“Why do you think I picked you? I knew how good you’d be at pushing spells on others,” he whispered over her shoulder.

She half turned, wishing she had a hex to lob at Jhara’s head. The only thing stopping her from striding onto dangerous ground was bad karma and a shortage of spells. Before she realized she had her hand raised, the fingers balled into a fist. Trembling with rage, she forced her arm back to her side.

Jhara watched her, his lips curled into a sneer, the glint in his gaze almost disappointed. “Don’t think this is over, girl. You’re a dead bitch walkin’. If Anu doesn’t get you, Horus surely will. And the Houses are your best bet. The other thing you’ve summoned will fuck you over for eternity.”

Resheph-wa-Khasis

The mournful wail of a taxi pod horn echoed between the dark buildings. The hairs on Maya’s body stood to attention and a shudder made a slow creep down her spine.

The pavement had lost the last of the day’s warmth. The wind picked up, whistling down an alley between Jhara’s building and a tall Victorian warehouse, maybe fifty feet away. She hated the dark, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. In thirty minutes, she’d be wheedling a free ride on the shuttle bus—if one turned up at all.

How she’d love to see the sky instead of filthy streets and blackened structures. Too bad illustrations and old photographic images were rare, holed up in libraries under guard. If she’d been born a few decades earlier—and if she’d kept her mouth shut and survived genocide—she might be painting color instead of using charcoal. Maybe she’d be living a comfortable life, painting trompe l’oeil landscapes in rich folks’ houses, instead of passing out half-assed medi-charms to people who couldn’t afford government-sanctioned spells.

The cold bench seeped through her clothes, freezing her backside, and her toes beat a staccato on the broken road. Her bottled anger died and her temperature dropped while sweat cooled on her skin. Digging into the pocket of her jeans, she found a used handkerchief and wrapped her hand to stanch the blood. She tucked the shard of glass from the mirror into her bag, hoping against hope the water in the factory bathroom would dilute the trail of blood. There was nothing to be done about that, but the mirror shard was soaked in her DNA—something Jhara would love to use in a ritual.

She cursed and peeled her sleeve from the cut on her arm. The coagulated blood tugged at the wound, and she winced. Blood patterned the front of her sweater and jeans—a gruesome reminder of her ex-boss’s temper. How the hell would she get enough coin to buy another box of charms? She’d expected to be paid tonight and now she’d have to break into her last savings to survive.

The overhead bulbs dimmed and sparked. One exploded and she jumped. It shattered glass onto several crates leaning against Jhara’s factory.

Bruised and weary, she pulled her legs up to her chest in a futile attempt to escape the wind. When she looked up, the world had taken on a wavy, distorted appearance. The warehouse doorways darkened. A sense of foreboding ran up her spine and she swiveled to the right. At the very edge of the light a great black shape rose from the ground. It swept along the pavement, its claws scrabbling on the verge.

Maya curled into the bench, alone against this awful delusion. A great mangled beast with a human face plunged to the pale edge of light, its mouth exhaling clouds of vapor. Mist smothered her along with the sour smell of rotting fish. She fell back, crying out in fear, and the whimper repeated back, an imitation, but not quite right, more like mimicry.

The visions were back and this was a bad one, a steep slide into madness.