Catherine Fisher - Obsidian Mirror

Reluctant, Jake unclipped the silver link and slid it off; he held it up and Symmes took out a pair of glasses, put them on and bent forward, examining it intently. “The snake biting its own tail. An ancient symbol of eternity—originating perhaps with the ancient Egyptians. And yet, I’m sure it is different.” He took the arm-ring and turned it in the spilling light of the oil lamp.

A silver flicker cascaded down the walls.

And instantly Jake saw the man’s hand flash out and felt a fierce shove that sent him flailing back against Venn. They crashed against the cellar door; it slammed open and they were tumbling inside, into a dark straw-scattered space of casks and cobwebs.

Venn was fast; he had rolled and scrambled up and thrown himself at the door, but already Symmes had it slammed shut in his face; even as Venn beat his fists against it, they heard the rusted bolts grate tight.

Venn roared, “Symmes! You can’t do this!”

The answer was mild and unapologetic. “I wish I could say I was sorry, Mr. Venn, but that would be a lie. You cannot possibly know how I have longed, these last months, to find another of these rings. How I have scoured the antique shops and flea markets of this city. And you have come in out of the night and put one into my hands!”

Venn closed his eyes. Jake, still kneeling in the straw, sank slowly down.

“I am not a criminal, however, not a thief. I simply intend to experiment—for a short while. Some days. Then I promise you, I will do all I can to help you return.”

“Symmes, listen to me.” Venn’s hiss was savagely restrained. “You’ll break it. You’ll wreck it. That is a device of such sophistication…For God’s sake, you have no idea.”

“Hassan will make sure you’re reasonably comfortable, given the circumstances. I’m so sorry, gentlemen. Perhaps you should both think of it just as a little delay .”

They heard his footsteps, in the soft slippers, go up the stairs.

The door at the top was noisily locked.

Venn turned, slid down with his back against the door, and stared at Jake.

They were both silent with despair.

There was nothing left to say.

The recoil from the shotgun sent Wharton slamming back; in the confined space of the stairwell the report sounded like an explosion. The wolf took the full force; it went straight through the beast’s chest and splintered the painted canvas forehead of a Venn of some distant century, thudding into the wood behind.

The wolf landed astride Wharton. It was completely unharmed.

He gave a great yell, as much of astonishment as of terror. The creature’s eyes were snow-shards, its teeth dripped saliva, and its growl was so close, he could smell the sickening hot stench of its breath.

He kept utterly still.

He could not even breathe, because if he did its teeth might snap, meet in his raw flesh. For a second of inhuman terror he did not even seem to be in his own body, as if he had shriveled up somewhere dark, far inside.

Something rattled, down the stairs.

The white wolf looked up, behind him, over him.

Another rattle. The world came back with a crash of noise. Rebecca was shouting, he smelled the acrid flare of flame.

The wolf put its head back and howled, a sound so loud, it made Wharton’s whole body quiver with shock.

Then it slid off him and turned, yelping and growling, twisting, and he saw a sudden rain of sparks was falling from somewhere above, onto the beast’s fur, on his hands, the stairs.

Wharton gasped and wriggled back. Before he could realize it, the wolf was gone, tumbling and yelping furiously down, and the darkness was back.

“Get up.” Rebecca’s voice hissed in his ear. “Quickly!”

She had him; she was heaving him up. He felt her stagger; then she had an arm around him and was half carrying, half dragging him away. He wanted to say Stop, I can walk, but for some reason his voice had dried up in his throat, and all that emerged was a croak.

Up the stairs, back along the Long Gallery. “What…?” he gasped.

“Candles! All I had.”

They backed with reckless haste, but now Wharton could breathe; he gasped, “I can manage,” but Rebecca muttered, “It’s back,” in nervous dread, and he saw the ears, and then the long muzzle of the wolf rise threateningly over the top stair, saw its moon-silver slink along the floor of the Gallery.

He scrambled backward, raised the useless gun. “Get that door open, Rebecca! Ready? Now! ”

She had it wide; he turned, flung himself in, and as they slammed the door Wharton had one nightmare glimpse of the beast leaping, before its savage impact made the boards of the door crack and splinter.

Rebecca had the wooden bar; Wharton grabbed it and they forced it across, safe into the solid iron bracket.

The door shuddered again.

They stood back, breathless. Wharton felt as if he had been scraped from some collapsed building.

Every inch of him ached.

“Are you hurt?” Maskelyne was running down the Monk’s Walk; he grabbed Rebecca. “Did it injure you?”

She shook her head.

Wharton was bent over, one hand on the wall. “I shot it. I shot the bloody thing! And yet…”

“No weapon will kill it except mine,” Maskelyne said.

Wharton gasped, “Well then, I’ll use it. Not you.”

“Shush.” Rebecca grabbed his arm. “Quiet. Listen.”

Footsteps.

Not the wolf’s, but the calm, measured tread of a man walking at his ease along the creaking boards of the Gallery, admiring perhaps the paintings, the glass cabinets of ancient books.

He came to the door of the Monk’s Walk, and stopped.

Silent, they waited, and they knew the Replicant was waiting too. Until it said, “I’m still here, Sarah. Master of all this house now. And you’re the ones trapped in there. How long, do you think, might it take me to starve you out?”

Wharton growled, “We have supplies.” It was a lie.

“Really?” A scrape, as if the Janus-image was drawing up a chair. Wharton imagined it sitting, propping its feet up on the locked door. “Then you had better eat them quickly. I wish you a very Merry Christmas. You have until exactly midnight to crawl out of your bolt-hole and hand the mirror over to me. If you don’t, on the stroke of twelve I will set fire to this ancient wooden house with all of you locked firmly inside it. And when the black mirror is the only thing left whole among the ruins and the ash, among the charred remains of your dreams, I will come and take it for myself.”

The time is out of joint; O cursed spite

That ever I was born to set it right.

21

I confess that my ruse pleased me exceedingly, and made me foolishly proud of myself. As I hurried to my study with the bracelet I chortled that a man like Venn, a man who had claimed to travel in time, could be tricked so easily.

I gave instructions to Hassan and secured the apartment. Then, with trembling fingers, I fastened the bracelet around my wrist. The metal was warm, and the eye of the snake seemed to shimmer and wink at me.

I was agitated with fear. But I switched on the apparatus.

Journal of John Harcourt Symmes

J AKE WAS COLD.Cold and hungry and tired.

He sat huddled up in a corner, his arms around his knees, trying not to shiver.

“Where’s your watch?” Venn muttered.

“Stolen. As soon as I got to this God-forsaken place.” Jake didn’t look up. “They got the bracelet too. If it hadn’t been for Moll, they’d still have it.” Quickly, he outlined the events in the ruined theater.