Mirror Image (30 page)

 

67

J
ONATHAN FRAZER
rocked back and forth on his heels, tears streaking his grimy face.

Bitchbitchbitchbitch.

She thought she could fool him, but he'd gotten her in return. The experiment had been successful.

The mirror was some sort of psychic resonator, he decided. It obviously magnified thoughts or emotions, or possibly the blood was what originally charged it, allowing it to create the psychic link between people or places, translating the image through the nearest mirror, or possibly any reflecting surface would do. When he'd lunged at Celia, he'd obviously overloaded the mirror at the far end of the connection, causing it to break, the glass slicing into her skin.

Jonathan Frazer sat back nodding quickly, rubbing his sleeve across his eyes, convinced that his explanation was at least plausible. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring speculatively at the mirror, mentally and physically exhausted by his recent encounter, when he noticed the flickering deep in the core of the glass. It was a slow, flesh-colored pulse and as he watched, it grew from a tiny spot to an egg shape, and then larger into a pale-colored sphere. Colors, indentations, shadows began to appear on the pulsing ball, and just as Frazer realized that his heart was throbbing in time to the entity in the mirror, it assumed a definite form and shape and substance.

There was a woman in the mirror.

The woman he had seen before: this was Dee and Kelley's mysterious nameless woman, with the long hair and uptilted black eyes.

But he had never seen her so clearly before, never in such exquisite detail. It was almost as if she were standing on the other side of the glass.

Jonathan Frazer came slowly to his feet and discovered that she was about his height. But whereas her legs and groin were clearly delineated, her breasts and head were still slightly shaded. He stooped and picked up the still damp sponge, rubbing it across the glass, squeezing hard, smearing the last of the tacky blood onto the glass, clearing the dirt. Her features immediately came clearer. Her eyes were wide and pleading, her mouth working, her hands outstretched.

She was attempting to communicate with him.

She was a spirit, a ghost, trapped within the mirror, he was convinced of it. And she wanted to be free.

“How?” he asked, mouthing the word clearly. “How can I help you?”

The image's mouth moved slowly, her full lips forming words. But did she say
feed me
or
free me?

Frazer pressed the palm of his hand against the glass, and the image on the other side did the same, matching his fingers with hers.

Feed me?

Free me?

It didn't matter. He'd do both.

 

68

M
ANNY HAD
first felt it in the cab, the strange tingling and warmth deep in her groin, the itching in her fingertips and toes, the pressure on her breasts. She was conscious of her heart pounding so hard she could actually feel her skin vibrate, and she was acutely aware of her shortness of breath.

And it was Edmund Talbott's proximity.

When the scarred man had leaned over and tapped on the partition separating them from the cab driver, asking him to pull over, she'd been delighted. She needed the air.

Manny stepped out of the cab and into the shadows and watched Talbott pay the driver. She could make a run for it now if she wanted to. She was about a hundred yards from home and she was sure she'd get to the police car parked outside her house before this madman caught up with her. But she didn't run.

She had found that her attitude towards Talbott had changed as she'd approached the house. He seemed genuine, and certainly everything he told her fitted in with what she already knew. She could feel the power radiating from the man; she knew he was dangerous and a killer, and yet she didn't feel threatened by him. He spoke of strange energies, powers, and places with an intimate knowledge which she found fascinating and exciting. And while she had at first doubted his story about his wife and child, as he had continued to speak she discovered she had less and less reason to mistrust him, and now she found the whole idea of him keeping his scars as a memento to his dead family almost romantic.

And of course, she didn't want him to harm the mirror.

Talbott waited until the taxi had pulled away and walked over to Manny, moving in under the trees that overhung the road, blanketing her in shadow.

“You know what to do?” he asked gently. “Do you still want to do it?”

“I want to do it.” She slipped her arm through his. “You are my boyfriend; I've known you for years. You're a little drunk so you're coming home with me for the night. God knows what the cop'll think of me,” she said archly.

“Does it matter?” Edmund Talbott's lips curled in a smile that never came close to his eyes. What he hadn't told the young woman was that if the police saw through the ruse, and there was every possibility that they would, he would have to kill them both, and then all thoughts of subtlety went out the window. Killing so close to the mirror would only draw its attention down on him. He would then have to get to the glass as quickly as possible … and God help Manny and Jonathan Frazer if they got in his way.

Manny led him down the street, her right arm around his waist, his left arm across her shoulders and her left hand holding his, as if supporting him. They stumbled along the road, her high heels clicking loudly on the sidewalk, the sound unnaturally loud in the predawn silence. He glanced at the glowing green dial of his watch; it was a little before four, the dead time of night. More suicides were committed at this time of the morning than at any other, this was the time when the nightmares held sway, when dreams turned ugly with returning consciousness. This was the time when the astral spirit began to return to its fleshy host. It was a time of memories.

They stopped at the gated entrance. The unmarked police car was still parked across the road. Edmund stared at it for a few moments, but could see no movement inside. He smiled; he hadn't chosen to come here at this particular hour without good reason: this was also the time when the human body's imperative to sleep was at its strongest.

They wove drunkenly up the driveway, Talbott's head dipped low on his chest, stooping to disguise his height, Manny clinging to him, her arm around his broad waist. She could feel the heat coming off the man, she was close enough to smell his strange scent, a curious bitter-sweet aroma of herbs and some exotic orange-flavored spice. She was also aware of the effect he was having on her. Maybe her heart was pounding, her flesh tingling because she was about to do something illegal and dangerous, but she didn't think so. She was becoming aroused, and it was Edmund Talbott's fault.

The two police officers were asleep in the car. Mouths open, they both had their arms folded, one leaning against the left window, the other against the right.

Maybe there was a God after all, Talbott reflected, resisting the temptation to smile.

As they neared the front gate a deep shuddering chill wracked through his body, causing him to stumble. Manny held him as he attempted to catch his breath.

“What's wrong, what's the matter?”

“I can feel it,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “It's strong, so very strong.” He held his head up, almost as if he were listening and when he looked at Manny, his eyes were wide in alarm. “It's fed recently. I can taste the blood on the air.” Blood and the faintest hint of sex. His large hand closed around Manny's arm, almost dragging her up the driveway. “Come on.”

“What do you mean, it's fed?”

“Blood,” he murmured.

“My father?” she asked in alarm.

“I can't think of anyone else.”

The power of the image was strong here. He concentrated on building psychic defenses around himself which he hoped would prove effective. Every element of his consciousness had to be withdrawn into himself; he had to focus on thinking about one thing only, something simple: if even a portion of his consciousness went into the Otherworld then he was lost. This was the very heart of the whirlpool. He could almost
see
it towering over the house—gray and sere, twisting, turning, with faces, both human and demon within it—could almost hear the howling of the ghost wind, hear the wailing of the damned …

STOP IT!

It knew he was here. It was attempting to lure him, to beguile him into thinking about the deadly glass. Was he strong enough to withstand the blandishments of the mirror? He had to be. He touched the cans of paint in his pockets. Something simple, he needed to focus on something simple.

Manny let herself in by the front door. It was easier and quicker to make their way through the house and out through the kitchen than it was to go around the side through the garden. She turned as Talbott came into the hallway and then stopped, frozen by the expression of horror on his face. “Mr. Talbott … Mr. Talbott … Edmund…?”

“The mirror,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut, “for pity's sake, cover the mirror!” He fell to his knees clutching at his face, covering his eyes with his hands.

Manny whirled around. There was a large freestanding ornate gilt-edged mirror in the hallway at the base of the stairs alongside the coatrack. She could see herself and Talbott reflected in the glass. And then she blinked. Talbott's image had briefly flickered … and so had her own. As she watched the glass clouded. Emmanuelle Frazer approached the mirror slowly, touching it with her fingertips, her heart pounding convulsively. She could no longer see herself in the glass. There was a misty gray oval where her face should be.

And Edmund Talbott's reflection showed him lying on the marbled floor, his clothing ragged and shredded, his flesh torn and bleeding.

The scream caught in her throat as she spun around. Talbott was unmarked. “Edmund…?” she whispered slowly.

And Edmund Talbott slowly took his hands away from his eyes. He had caught a brief glimpse in the mirror as the front door had swung open, and in that instant he knew he was lost. That face, those eyes, the soft auburn hair, the gently curved lips. Even covering his eyes couldn't remove the image that had been seared on his brain. Now he could smell her in the room, that eau de parfum she favored, feel the heat from her body, and then—the final touch—her voice. Soft, gentle, husky, her English accent strong when she whispered, “Edmund?”

It was Elizabeth, his wife.

And where was Edward, his son? He must be around here somewhere.

“Edmund?”

He'd been away too long, too many business trips, and he'd missed her. She'd missed him, too. She was standing before him, her arms around his neck, kissing him with a passion he didn't ever remember her demonstrating. He could feel her tongue against his lips, pushing, probing, her hands working at his clothes, fumbling with buttons. And he was aroused, so aroused; he wanted her, he wanted her so badly. He tore at her black dress—he'd never seen her wear it before—exposing her breasts, and then pulled the dress down to her groin, ripping it apart. He fumbled at her breasts, her nipples larger than he remembered them, but then she was nearly five months pregnant, her breasts were bound to be heavier, nipples larger than usual, darker. She had almost pulled his shirt off, buttons were popping and skittering across the floor, and now she was working at his belt, snapping open the top button of his pants, dragging them down. And those eyes, so wide, so expressive, so full of love and warmth and need. Her mouth, now flat against the side of his head, whispering obscenities in his ear, urging him to take her … take her … take her. And his own passion reaching a stage where he simply had to have her here and now on the floor and he knew she was five months pregnant and he didn't care, and then he was inside her and she was wrapping her legs around him, pulling him in deeper, her fingers clawing at his flesh, as she thrust herself at him. She'd never done that before, she'd always been passive in bed, but obviously his absence had fired her blood, and he found himself pounding savagely into her, grunting, savoring her whimpering and her little gasps of pain and pleasure, concentrating now on his own release, feeling it building deep inside him …

*   *   *

M
ANNY WASN'T SURE
when it started exactly. She'd knelt on the floor, wondering what was wrong and put her arms around him, and then he was kissing her and the pressure she'd felt building up inside her, the coiled tension, seemed to unwind, and she found herself returning his kiss with a passion that surprised even herself. The tingle of electricity in her limbs continued to shudder through her body, concentrating in her groin, on her breasts, and when he had rubbed his thumbs across her sensitive nipples, the first orgasm had taken her, snatching her breath away, increasing her already racing heartbeat to an almost frightening level. She could feel the power coming off him, raw, primal energy that flowed from his body into hers. When he entered her, a second orgasm had shivered through her and she had clutched at him, wanting all of him inside her, acutely aware of his body against hers. His chin and stubble rasped against the soft flesh of her cheeks. She was speaking to him, shocking herself as she urged him on, encouraging him to take her, guiding him with pornographic detail. He began to pound into her, his large hands tightening on her breasts, twisting and pulling the nipples … and hurting.

Everything changed in a single heartbeat.

Suddenly, his pounding became painful, her lubrication suddenly seeming to vanish, and the rasp of flesh against flesh was agony. She attempted to push him off, but his weight was pressing her down. She flailed at him with her fists, but his face was locked into an impassive mask, his eyes blank and unseeing, spittle dribbling from the corner of his mouth. His hands began to convulse on her breasts, digging into the soft flesh, leaving long red weals in their wake, scoring the skin, drawing blood in places. She attempted to scream, but his mouth was on top of hers, his tongue probing deeper, his lips locked against hers. Her groin was on fire now, pure agony as he continued to batter at her, slamming against her pubic bone, attempting to push himself deeper and deeper.