Caitlin Kittredge - The Mirrored Shard

“We all dreamed,” the woman mumbled. “All the folk in Arkham, the same thing, night after night. The arrival, the things on the shore, crawling through our houses and through our heads.” She shuddered, dirty hair the color of muddy snow flying away from her face. “And then the men came and took us off. Said it was for our safety. Never is. Never, never is.”

“Do you know anything about the house on the hill?” I whispered. My father’s home could have easily been looted, or torn through by Proctors, and if they found some of the things I knew were there, my father was in certain danger, not to mention Valentina, Conrad and my friends.

The woman’s eyes fairly bugged out of her skull. The cat snarled at her, and I felt my heartbeat accelerate. “Oh, I see you now,” she hissed at me, baring her teeth. “Shoulda known you was one of them, those that live behind those walls.”

She made a move for me, and I didn’t hesitate any longer. I ran, and her ragged nails only tangled themselves in my hair, ripping strands free and leaving a stinging patch on my scalp.

“Demon!” the woman howled. “Go back to hell, where ya came from!”

My breath rattled, and I broke for the gates, stumbling through a welter of glass and furniture in the street, smashed dishes and toys and all the other remnants of someone’s life.

I didn’t stop. That was the most important thing when you were running; I’d learned that long ago, as a child other children loved to torment. Run until your lungs burn and your legs give out. Don’t stop, because if you can just run long enough, your tormentors will give up, get tired and find someone else to throw rocks and chant names at.

The gates let me out of the village proper and I cut through the gardens of a few outlying cottages until I found the back path, the steep rocky trail up the hill to Graystone.

Before, I’d had some idea of what I’d find when I got there—empty house, cold bed, possibly a stray raccoon or two that’d made themselves at home.

Now, I had no idea. If the government, Proctors or not, had come to Arkham and evacuated it, my home could have been burned to the ground. And if that old woman wasn’t crazy, and people in Arkham were having the same dreams I’d been having before I’d had to go back to the Thorn Land, then everyone in this valley—in the Iron Land—was in much worse trouble than I could imagine.

I was chilled, by both the wind and my thoughts. Only the small purring form of the cat, tucked in my sweater, kept me warm as I climbed up and up, into the mist that obscured the valley below.

THE VIEW OF Graystone would never stop startling me. It was a vast place—carved from rough-hewn granite, massive blocks twice my height stacked atop one another to form the bulk of the main house, wings flying off the sides and back like those of a desiccated bird lying on the ground. Twin turrets sprouted from the ridgeline, the blank blue glass reflecting the empty stare of the clouds and mist.

The gate was ajar. That was bad. I strapped my bag across my chest—wouldn’t do to lose it after I’d managed to bring it all the way from Thorn—and soothed the cat into silence. I crept forward one step after another. I wasn’t the type to rush in, like Dean or Conrad. I took my time. I’d wanted to be an engineer, and being meticulous was part of my makeup.

It was also what had kept me alive thus far.

The one time I’d been impulsive, had flown by my instincts, didn’t bear talking about. The fallout from that choice was all around me, in the absolute silence of the woods around Graystone, the ever-present fog that hadn’t burned away even though it was close to midday, the strange dreams of the populace.

I couldn’t clearly remember what had happened in that place on top of the world, just flashes and fragments, but I knew I’d unleashed something. I’d opened a door so long shut that it had been forgotten by everyone except me and a few beings so ancient they didn’t even have names.

The door of Graystone bore a knocker the size of my head. It was the face of a wolf, grinning at me with bronze teeth and a black iron tongue.

I raised it and let it fall once, twice, three times.

The crows were even more prevalent here. They clustered in the oak trees leading up to the gates, on the rim of the turrets and on windowsills, while hundreds more swooped and dove overhead, cawing so loudly their cries echoed off the stone walls, rolling back on my ears like a wave.

Just as I was about to go around to the back gardens and see if I could get in through the kitchen or a window, the door opened. I heard the creak of clockwork, felt it inside my skull, the low, secret place where the Weird lived. It reacted with iron and machines as well as the Gates between worlds, sensing its likeness forged from metal rather than human flesh.

“Hello?” I called, sticking my head inside. The air was dank and musty, much as it had been the first time I’d come here, looking for my father.

That time, he’d disappeared. I’d been alone, beset by the Fae.

I prayed that this time it’d be different, that I could find what I needed and go get Dean without encountering any more trouble.

I took a few steps into the grand foyer, setting the cat down to scamper off into a dark corner. Graystone was a clockwork house, run by mechanical means, and that kept it safe from the incursion of predatory creatures.

I heard a clank from upstairs and tensed. I doubted any animal could have breached Graystone’s defenses, but that didn’t rule out a person.

“Hello?” I said again, loudly. My voice rattled the long, dagger-shaped crystals in the chandelier above. “Anyone there?” A little quieter. “Say something.” The last came as a whisper. No other sound echoed, and I forced myself to keep looking around. If someone was in the house, I wasn’t going to be a sitting duck.

I started down the back hall toward the kitchen, where I’d always felt most comfortable. Graystone’s luxury was oppressive and smothering, everything incalculably old and valuable, more like the set of a lantern reel or a museum piece than a home.

The kitchen was made for living, was old and worn but homey, and unlike the rest of the drafty mansion, always warm.

As I crossed the threshold, I felt a breath on my neck, but I wasn’t fast enough. I felt a metal barrel jammed against my skin and a rough hand clamped against my mouth.

“What’s your business here?” a voice hissed in my ear.

I struggled, panic rising. The voice and the hand sounded and felt human, at least, but I had no idea whom they belonged to; plus, he or she was armed. Maybe a shock pistol, maybe something worse, but at this range there was no way I could twist the metal with my Weird to render it harmless.

I tried to shout Let go of me! but all that came out was labored breathing as I struggled with the hand across my mouth.

“Are you real?” the voice grated. “Am I seeing you or am I dreaming?”

I twisted violently, and managed to catch a glimpse of black hair, pale skin and a jacket the same gray as my old school uniform, too short at the wrists, exposing knobby bones.

“Conrad?” I managed.

He let go of me as abruptly as he’d sprung at me, but when he backed away the gun didn’t go down. It was old as the hills, metal dull, the energy bulb trapping aether at the barrel cloudy and nearly dead. Still, I wasn’t going to make any sudden moves. My brother had a temper and changeable moods, and we hadn’t parted on the best of terms. I would just as soon not have given him a good reason to shoot me.

“Are you real?” he repeated. His voice was raspy, and in the low light I saw deep circles beneath his eyes and a patchy growth of stubble on his high cheekbones.