Catherine Fisher: Obsidian Mirror

One-handed, he swung the spear and pointed it. “Puppy,” he whispered. “Little scared puppy.”

The wolf whined. It cowered, hunkering down as if it wanted to sink into the earth. It scrabbled, panicky, at the mud.

Sarah said, “What are you doing? How are you doing that?”

The boy glanced at her. She scrambled up, watching the terrified beast abase itself in the dead leaves, watching it scrape itself backward. Then it turned and fled.

Amazed, she stared. “I don’t know who you are, but…”

“But I know you,” he said. “Don’t I.”

“No. You can’t. I…” Her eyes widened. There was no boy. Just tree shadows. Gnarled and twisted.

For a moment she stood there. Then, slowly, she turned and limped on down the path, to the house that waited for her in the moonlight.

Wintercombe Abbey was no burned ruin. It stood tall, a rambling manor house of gables and twisted chimneys, its darker, medieval stonework jutting out—the silhouette of a tower, a row of arcaded windows, all unlit. From gutters and gables waterspouts leaned, the long-necked griffins and heraldic yawning dragons she had imagined for years in her dreams. The house crouched in its wooded hollow; its murky wings ran back into gloom, and with a deep roar somewhere beyond, the river crashed through its hidden gorge.

She moved carefully from tree to tree, as if the house watched her coming.

There was a lawn of waist-high grass; she would have to cross that, and she would prefer it if no one saw her from the high dark windows.

It was time to become invisible.

Sore and muddy, she summoned up the small itchy switch in her mind, just as they had taught her in the Lab.

Done.

Now no one could see her.

She stepped out and limped painfully through the dead grasses until the house loomed above, the moon balanced on its highest gable, then slipped around the side of the building, over frost-blackened flower-beds, through a small wrought-iron gate.

She came to a window, ground floor, but higher than her head. It was ajar. A fragment of curtain gusted through it in the cold breeze. She waited, secret and shadowless, listening. Nothing. The room must be empty.

She stretched up and grabbed at the sill. Barely reaching, she gripped it, then had to scramble onto a narrow rib of stone and climb the brickwork, hanging by toes and fingers, until she could haul herself up and peer over into the room.

It was shadowy. A fire burned low in the hearth, flickering red on dark paneling and shelves of old books.

She edged the casement wider. It creaked. Carefully she pulled herself up, getting one knee on the crumbling stone. She squeezed her head and shoulders in through the wide bars.

Then she saw him.

He was reflected in a glass clock-face. A man in a high armchair with its back to her, legs stretched out, feet propped on a low table that was piled with documents, papers, books. In his hand was a glass of what might be whisky, but he wasn’t drinking it or reading.

He was listening.

She kept completely still, not even breathing. To see him was astonishing. As if a character from a book had come to life, there, right before her.

With a sudden lean unfolding, the man stood. He turned and his face was a sharp silhouette in the gloomy room. She caught the puzzled, wary tilt of his head. He put the drink down on the table, and said, “Who’s there?”

The curtain gusted between them. She was invisible but all her weight was on one hand and it was already trembling.

“Answer me. Is it you, Summer? Do you really think you can get in here?”

His voice was scornful. He came straight toward her; she had to move. She slid through the casement onto the broad wooden sill, and he stopped instantly.

His eyes, ice blue, stared right at her. He was so close she could see the shocked recognition come into his face, a spasm of stricken stillness. He reached out, till his hand was touching her cheek. He whispered, “Leah?”

She shook her head, devastated, her eyes blurry with tears. “How can you see me? It’s not possible.”

His hand jerked back, as if she’d slapped him. The shock went from him; replaced with a vicious anger that took all the life from his eyes. “Who the hell are you?” he snarled.

She jumped down and stood in the room in front of him, defiant, cold hands at her sides. “Sarah. And you must be Oberon Venn.”

He didn’t answer. All he said was “Your foot is bleeding all over my floor.”

3

I first met him on a remote glacier in the high Andes. A friend and I were climbing and had gotten into trouble; we had frostbite and the weather had closed in. We curled in a snow-hole, freezing. Late in the night I heard a sound outside, so I crawled out. The wind was an icy rattle against my goggles.

Through the mist I saw a man walking. At first I thought he was some creature of the snow, a phantom of the tundra.

I must have been in a state of delirium because I called out that he was an angel.

His laugh was harsher than the wind. “My name’s Venn,” he said. “And I’m no angel.”

Jean Lamartine, The Strange Life of Oberon Venn

J AKE GAZED OUTof the plane window at the blue sky.

Far below, the snowfields of the Alps glittered a brilliant white; the plane’s tiny shadow moved over glaciers and secret valleys where only explorers would ever venture.

Explorers like Venn.

He focused on his own blurred image in the glass. The plan had worked. He was out of the school forever. He felt strangely tired, though he should be elated. After all, there was no one at Compton’s he cared about. He had said good-bye to them all with cool politeness, and then been driven away. Davies and Alec and even Patten had watched him go, standing in a silent group on the steps. He hadn’t looked back.

They were probably at games by now. They’d probably forgotten all about him.

Fine. But there was still a problem, and it was a big one.

Wharton was sitting next to him, reading a book. Jake watched the man’s reflection. Big for a teacher. Ex-rugby international. Having him along was not an option. He’d have to get rid of him as soon as possible.

As if it was Jake’s mind he was reading, Wharton turned a page and muttered, “Whatever you’re planning, forget it. I’m coming with you to the very door of the Abbey.”

“I can look after myself. I’m sure you want to get back to glamorous Shepton Mallet.”

“I do.” Wharton looked up. “But the Head’s instructions were crystal. Hand the scheming little brat over personally. ”

Jake almost smiled.

Wharton watched him. Then he put a marker in the book and laid it on the fold-down table. “So, are you going to tell me what this is all about? This ridiculous…”

“It’s not ridiculous.”

“Murder? A man like Venn? Come on! You’ll have to convince me.”

Jake held himself still, but the old cold anger crept over him. “What do you know about him? Only what you read in the news. Venn the Boy’s Own hero. Don’t you think someone like that—out there in the wilds, on the edge of survival—don’t you think he could kill if he had to?”

“I suppose it’s possible.” Wharton watched the boy’s reflection. “Tell me about him.”

Jake was silent a moment. Then he said, “I’ve read everything on him I can find. He was the best. Explorer, mountaineer. Doctorate in plate tectonics. Virtuoso violinist. Collector of Cycladic pottery. You name it, he’s done it.”

Wharton nodded. “I’ve seen him in a few things on TV. A series on volcanoes.” Venn’s rugged face, his ice-blue eyes and dragged-back tangle of blond hair were familiar from documentaries and interviews. “A very intense man, I remember. Driven.”