Mirror Image (15 page)

His first shock came when he realized that the guesthouse was bigger than he'd first thought. There was no way he was going to be able to conduct anything like a proper search in the twenty or thirty minutes he'd allotted himself. He'd just have to count on striking it lucky.

He got his second shock when the key he'd taken wouldn't fit the lock fixed to the surprisingly crude-looking door. He stood, looking stupidly at the hasp padlock, and then turned the keys in his hand to read the names on their sides. None of them matched. Well, he hadn't come this far for nothing …

*   *   *

M
ANNY WAS SURPRISED
to find Robert back so quickly. “Get what you came for?”

He spread his hands in a typically French expression, his head tilted to one side. “I can't get in.” He held up the key ring. “None of the keys fit the lock.”

“Oh, he's given you the wrong key ring,” she laughed. “The locks were changed after … after the accident,” she added, the smile fading from her lips. “He's been so addled lately he's probably forgotten.” She plucked a key ring from its hook behind the door and handed it to him. “It's one of the new keys on that ring, but I'm not sure which, you may have to jiggle it a bit.”

“You are an angel,” he smiled, clutching the key ring and heading out the door, moving quickly now, eager to make up for the time he'd lost. Ten minutes; he'd give himself ten minutes and not a second longer. He was looking for small, highly portable items of worth. And, of course, the mirror. That was the prize.

 

27

T
HE THIRD
key on the ring opened the lock, and he stepped into the dim, musty interior of the guesthouse and pulled the door closed behind him.

Afternoon sunlight shafted in through the windows and the dusty skylights, catching the silently whirling dust motes, glinting off the wood and metal, glass and leather piled high around the room. There was a long workbench running along the length of one wall. Beaumont moved his way swiftly along it, figuring that this was where Tony Farren would have been working on pieces destined for the store in the immediate future. Valuable pieces. He was surprised at the disarray. He found nothing immediately. He looked around the room, large items of furniture placed at very odd angles. Where were the objets d'art, the pocketable expensive accessories?

“Merde,” he whispered.

He had been stupid, why had he thought that the guesthouse would have been laid out like the store, with everything on display? He should have taken the goods from there and now it was too late. Moving swiftly, he made his way down through the center aisle, but everything here was too big, chairs, tables, ugly ornaments, clear bags containing throws and cushions piled high on either side. There was obviously a fortune stored here, but none of it interested him. Where was the mirror he had heard Frazer talk about? At one point the center aisle had been blocked and he had to retrace his steps around by the walls back to the door. Standing with his back to the door he looked around the room for a last time, cursing at his own stupidity.

He had missed it the first time round, because he had turned right at the door to follow the bench, but there, directly in front of him was an opening into the center aisle. He could see a chaise … and the mirror.

Robert Beaumont wove his way through the piled up artifacts, realizing that this was what had blocked up the center aisle. A clearing had been created in the center of the room, a leather chaise placed facing the huge mirror. Beaumont walked right up to it and grinned, and his reflection, shabby, twisted, and distorted by the dirty glass, leered back at him. “Merde,” he whispered again. This was not his lucky day; there was no way he was sticking this mirror in his pocket. When Frazer and the detective had been talking about it, he had formed the impression that it was a small object, probably jeweled or something like that, but he'd never imagined this monster. Craning his head, he looked up, trying to gauge its height: no wonder it had killed Tony Farren when it had fallen on him, it must weigh a ton.

When he looked down again, Emmanuelle Frazer was standing behind him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she raised a finger to her lips, shaking her head. He was about to turn when she pointed her index finger at the dirty glass.

With a smug grin, he folded his hands across his chest, not thinking of his fine suit now, and he turned back to the glass, concentrating on the image in the mirror.

Without saying a word, Emmanuelle lifted the long T-shirt over her head, holding it in front of her body, barely covering her breasts and groin for a few tantalizing moments, before allowing it to fall to the floor.

Beaumont felt his breath catch in his throat.

She was even more beautiful than he remembered, and he felt himself becoming immediately aroused. He reached out and brushed his hand across the mirror, attempting to wipe it clean at face level—although her body was clearly reflected in the glass, her face was smudged and in shadow. Through the dirty glass, it looked as if Manny had a thick head of hair. His hand came away filthy, and he fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief, his eyes still locked on the glass, roving over the reflected woman's body. It had filled out a little since he had seen it last; her breasts were fuller, heavier, though her nipples seemed smaller than he remembered. Her stomach was slightly rounded too, and her groin was now covered in a thick mat of hair, whereas formerly she completely depilated her entire body, leaving her skin soft, silky, and smooth.

With his breath stuck somewhere at the back of his throat he watched Manny run her hands down her body, slowly caressing herself, catching and cupping her breasts, fingers pulling and tugging gently at her nipples. She brought her right arm across her body, her hand pressing itself flat to her left breast, her forearm across the nipple of her right breast. Her left hand moved down across her rounded belly, fingers splayed, fingers probing deep into the thick hair.

With his right hand, he reached for his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle. His left hand went to the mirror again, rubbing at the grimy, greasy surface with the handkerchief.…

The shock that lanced through his system was like an intense orgasm. His heart was pounding, his breathing ragged as he rubbed at the glass, almost
feeling
the touch of her skin beneath his fingers, moving down to brush the silk handkerchief across her reflected breasts.

It was a game now. An intensely erotic game, voyeurism taken to another degree. She was behind him, he could almost feel the heat radiating off her body, could smell the heavy musk of sex in the dry air. And yet he wouldn't touch—not yet anyway. That was part of the game.

He was stroking himself now, a faintly ridiculous figure with his pants down around his ankles, his eyes fixed on the mirror.

Manny's head was thrown back, the smooth column of her throat taut, nostrils flaring, lips wet and parted as her fingers worked deep inside her.

And still with no sound.

Beaumont was aware of his own harsh, ragged breathing, his rapid gasps as his own orgasm approached, but there was no other sound … no other sound. His concentration faltered … and the image flickered. For one brief moment the woman behind his back was not Manny Frazer, but another, older woman, full-bodied, long-haired … long-haired … long … hair …

His hand slowed its pumping as the realization struck home. It wasn't Manny Frazer standing behind him. He was almost afraid now to turn around while behind him the woman continued to arouse herself with complete abandon. He leaned forward, resting his forehead head against the cool glass, supporting himself with his left hand …

And screamed!

Agony tore through his body, lancing across his face and up through his hand. There was fire before his eyes … inches before his eyes.

Fire in the glass.

Fire
on
the glass.

The glass was burning.

His flesh bubbled, blistered, scorched, and then cracked. It fell in blackened strips from his hand, flesh and fat bubbling in the intense heat. His hair crisped, then ignited, the styling gel running in boiling liquid strips down his back. The silk suit melted onto his body as the flesh burnt off his face and neck, his eyes sizzling, boiling in their sockets, tongue shriveling in his mouth. He sucked in breath to scream—and swallowed flame—and his shout was accompanied by a vomited ball of fire.

And his last conscious thought before the agony totally consumed him was the sudden jerking throb of ecstasy as his orgasm took him.

 

28

T
HE HOWL
of triumph ripped through the Otherworld.

Raw power, naked energy, bright coruscating colors rippled across the gray landscape, the vibrations taking a long time to die away.

Another soul, trembling, afraid, and in agony had been dragged into its trap.

It savored the pain. It fed off the agony. It drew strength from the terror.

It had taken the creature's death, accepted it as its due.

It was close now, so very close.

It needed a little more sustenance.

It craved blood. For blood was the life.

Just a little more.

 

29

T
HE SMELL
brought Manny running. The sickening, cloying, foul smell of burnt meat and leaves, of dried wood and leather. Oily black smoke was curling from the guesthouse, twisting in the still afternoon air.

She couldn't imagine what Robert had done, probably dropped a cigarette onto an expensive upholstered chair. But he hadn't smoked when she'd known him, well not the ordinary kind.

She slowed down when she reached the guesthouse, the nauseous smell troubling her already delicate stomach. She felt her gorge rise. The greasy smoke coiled around her, making her eyes water, clinging to her T-shirt, adhering to her skin, coating her lips, her mouth.

“Robert? Robert? Are you there, Robert?”

Where the fuck was he?

“ROBERT!”

Ducking beneath the billowing smoke, she ran to the nearest window and, pressing her face close to the glass and cupping her hands over her eyes, she peered inside. The thick white smoke blanketed everything, but she could see no flames. Nor was there any sign of Robert. Maybe he'd been overcome by the smoke …

Manny ran back to the house, heart pounding as she picked up the phone, fingers trembling as she punched in the numbers.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

Manny looked out the back door of the kitchen as the smoke thickened and intensified. Her words, breathless, “Smoke, fire, there's a fire.”

“Ma'am, I need you to calm down, what is your location?”

Manny ran back towards the guesthouse, the phone clenched in her right hand.

“Ma'am, are you still there?”

Manny reached the door of the guesthouse, breathless, and cracked it open, the air sucked out billowing smoke, engulfing her face, making her cough and splutter.

“Ma'am…”

“Robert, where the fuck are you, ROBERT!” She held the phone back to her ear and blurted out the words before dropping the phone. “You need to hurry.”

She ran back to the outdoor cold-water tap hidden in amongst the bushes at the edge of the path. There was the curl of a green hose half hidden in the bushes. Turning on the tap, she attempted to drag the hose towards the guesthouse, but the hose was kinked and a dribble of water leaked from the head. She tried to rip a strip off her T-shirt, but the material refused to tear and she ended up soaking the hem of the shirt with water, then bringing it up across her mouth and nose. Then, squeezing her eyes almost shut against the smoke, she ducked inside the guesthouse.

The smoke was everywhere, thick and white at eye-level, dark and slick closer to the floor. It twisted and curled like fog, but she found if she stood to one side of the door, it was possible to make out a little detail.

“ROBERT!” Her voice, muffled by the wet T-shirt, was lost in the swirling smoke. Rubbing her streaming eyes, blinking away the tears that clung to her long eyelashes, outlining everything in glistening rainbows, she pressed forward, looking for the source of the fire. Goddammit: where were the fire extinguishers? As far as she could recall, they were somewhere close to the workbench which ran along the wall. Her father had refused to install a sprinkler system, saying that if there ever was a fire—which was extremely unlikely—the water would probably do more damage than the flames.

She scraped her bare shins on the side of a chair and hopped back, swearing, tears of pain springing to her eyes. Where the fuck was Beaumont?

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned quickly, moving forward. The smoke twisted up, thicker now. “Robert?” she mumbled, moving closer.

The fire was around here somewhere. The smoke was thick and cloying, the stench appalling. She swallowed hard, bitterly regretting the amount she'd drunk and smoked the previous night.

Again the movement … a flicker … a face?

“Robert?”

The smoke cleared and Manny screamed! She staggered back, heart pounding, legs beginning to tremble with reaction. Then, realizing what she'd seen, she attempted to laugh, but the sound caught at the back of her throat: she had been looking at herself in the mirror. She hadn't recognized herself in that sudden, brief glimpse of a pale-faced, wide-eyed, semi-naked woman.

The smoke seemed to be coming from directly in front of the mirror. She stepped forward, frowning. There was a pile of smoldering rags on the floor.

Manny stooped to look closer at them.

On some deep subconscious level, she had already recognized the incinerated man-like shape on the floor, but refused to accept what she was seeing. She poked at the seared cloth with her forefinger, cinders spiraling upwards to dance briefly in the air. Metal glinted, gold against the blackened mess and she touched it, hooking it out of the ash.