Jeremy Robinson - MirrorWorld

“Some,” he says. “But most are like Maya, locked in a permanent state of catatonic terror. Much of our testimonial evidence came from you, before the…” He points at his head. “I should have never let you do it.”

I’m not at all interested in hearing more about that past decision. “What kind of evidence? Had I seen them?”

“Most of the physical descriptions we have came from you. The Dread kept trying to frighten you, but couldn’t. The more they failed, the more persistent they became, revealing themselves to you nearly completely while attempting to send their fear into your fearless mind. In all the years I’ve studied the mirror world, you were the first person to corroborate what I believed was there and was observing mathematically and electronically.” He stops by the lab doors. Swipes his key card. The light flashes green. “Not that you’re the only person to have seen the Dread. Ever heard of the Mothman?” He pulls open the door.

Before I can answer, we’re inside the lab where several familiar faces wait. Allenby is there, a look of relief in her eyes. She takes my hand and gives it a pat but says nothing. Next is Cobb. After abducting him, forcing him to care for my kidnapped patient, and putting him in danger, I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. Most men would have run the other way. But here he is, sitting in a chair, eyes on the floor. Not that he looks happy about it. He’s so pale it looks like Dracula had a go at him, but I suspect he’s just been told the truth. Then there is Katzman, the Dread Squad leader who managed to corner and capture me. I can’t remember if that’s ever been done before, but it still impresses me. He’s all business, leaning against a counter. He offers a professional nod. I think my victorious return has earned a little respect. That will probably change when I tell them about the pugs, but I don’t care. Behind Katzman, but towering over him—in scale more than presence—is a new face. Standing at least fifteen inches taller than Katzman, the man’s shaggy face is easy to see, despite his best attempt to not make eye contact. He’s young, lanky, and dressed like it’s still the ’90s—jeans, T-shirt, open plaid flannel. The way his brown eyes dart everywhere but toward me says that he’s like Cobb and doesn’t really belong in this group. Looks more like he should be playing video games than discussing monsters that live just beyond our perception. I decide to spare him some social discomfort and not introduce myself just yet.

Last in the line is Winters, the CIA overseer and my former… what? The tightness of her scowl matches her crossed arms.

“Not happy to see me?” I ask her.

She huffs. “You knocked me out, gagged me, and cuffed me to a bed.”

“The gentlest way I know how,” I say. “And you did try to kick me in the face. And tase me. Do they know why you’re really upset at me?” I motion to the others.

A circle of confused eyes stare at me. Except for Winters. She looks something close to mortified. I think. I can recognize fear, but the subtleties of it are hard for me to pick out. But she definitely looks uncomfortable.

“Was it after Maya lost her mind, or before?” I ask Winters.

Her eyes slowly widen. She’s trying to tell me to shut my mouth without making it too obvious. But the implications aren’t hard to miss. Even the new guy gets it. He’s folding in on himself, trying to disappear.

“ Josef, ” Allenby says, shaking her head.

“Do you remember?” Lyons asks. He either knew already or doesn’t care.

I shake my head. “She didn’t flinch when I groped her breast.”

“You didn’t ?” Allenby says to me, covering her mouth with her hand.

“I lack impulse control,” I say.

Winters pounds her fist into a desktop. “We’re not here to discuss the past.”

“It was just a few days ago that—”

“Josef!” Winters’s use of my real first name somehow confirms that we once had a relationship of some kind.

“The transgressions of your past are not why we’re here,” Lyons says, though I can see he’s not thrilled about the development, either. He might even be hiding his reaction so I don’t learn that we’re family.

I hold up my hands to Winters and offer a peace-treaty smile. “It’s ancient history, right?”

She forces a grin that says it isn’t, but we both move on.

I approach Cobb. “So, did they blow your mind?”

He looks up at me. “You could say that.”

“Still up to being a paramedic?”

His slow nod doesn’t exude confidence, but he’s here, and I trust him. “Great. Paramed me.” I pull off my T-shirt to gasps of surprise. My stomach and back are bruising from impacts with the bull and the tree.

Cobb stands, the cobwebs of confusion cleared. “Medical supplies?”

Allenby points to a tall cabinet. “There.”

Lyons leans in close, inspecting the purple skin. “What did this?”

“The Dread bull.”

He reels back. “It touched you?”

“Hard,” I say. “Is that unusual?”

“It’s rare,” he says, deep in thought. “But it’s not unheard of. Despite their ability to move between frequencies, they seem to avoid moving fully into our perceptual realm. We think it makes them uncomfortable. It might even be painful. It must have fully understood the threat you present. That is, unless…”

I know what he’s thinking and nod. “We weren’t here.”

Lyons seems both surprised and pleased. But he stays quiet, letting Cobb do his job.

Cobb throws a sheet over an operating table. One by one, he squishes four instant ice packs, mixing the chemicals inside. Then he lays them out on the sheet. “Lay down on these. Fifteen minutes.”

I climb on the table and lay down. The ice packs are frigid against my back but hurt far less than the bruising will if it goes unchecked. Once I’m down, Cobb hovers over me, crushing two more of the flat ice packs. He lays them on my stomach and ribs, which makes me flinch a bit, but the discomfort is all but forgotten when Lyons stands over me.

“Know your enemy,” he says. “I assume that’s not a concept that’s lost on you.”

I nod. “But isn’t the second part of that quote to know thyself?”

“The only self you need to be concerned about is the one capable of defeating our enemy. The rest is background noise that you can worry about if we survive.”

It seems like a harsh point for Lyons to make, but I can’t say I disagree. Distraction is dangerous, and in this case not knowing myself might be the best thing.

Lyons steps back and motions to the newcomer, who’s leaning so hard against the wall that I think he’s trying to shove himself through, one molecule at a time. “This is Jonathan Dearborn. He’s an expert in mythology, both ancient and modern, as well as history and anthropology.”

Dearborn closes the distance between us with one long stride and extends his hand, rigid and fluid at the same time. “I specialize in differentiating history from mythology. In this case, identifying which myths bear enough resemblance to known Dread variants to be considered witness testimony rather than conjured tale or misguided belief.”

“To what end?” I ask.

“Knowing the enemy,” Lyons says. “Looking for patterns. Identifying goals. Hot zones. Potential targets. He’s helped us identify colony locations and has provided a comprehensive study of the Dread’s influence on human affairs.” He swivels his head toward Dearborn. “Start with Mothman.”

“Mothman, right,” he says. “Reports of the… creature were common in parts of West Virginia during 1966 and 1967. All black. Red eyes. Large wings. Those who saw it, only briefly, were terrified. There are many theories about what it was, including a giant crane. A folklorist named Brunvand came closest to getting it right. He believed the details present in the Mothman sightings were so similar to older folk tales that he’d cataloged and studied that the creature wasn’t something new, but something old being seen by a fresh audience.”