—no, this house, an asylum with its stark walls and many rooms and whispers issuing up from grates and the dark.
That was the whisper-man
—Kramer, with his lisp and snaky hiss—
manipulating me, showing me what to do until I understood enough to use the cyn—
Wait a minute; wait just a goddamned minute. Her free hand crept to her neck. The galaxy pendant, the cynosure, was a dead cinder, a chill ball of lifeless glass on a beaded chain, but the relief that washed over her mind made her want to cry out. That was real. Her fingers traced the edges of Eric’s dog tags. Eric had been real; everything in that valley happened.
“You’re trying to trick me,” she said, and thought, Shit, I sound paranoid. “I know what happened. You can’t take that away—”
From the corner of her left eye, Emma caught a sudden flurry of movement and jerked her head around just as Weber passed off that sack of a strong dress to the boy behind him, and charged. As Weber danced forward, she threw the knife, not with the intention of hitting anything, but she needed Weber to look at something else for a split second. He did, batting the knife to one side with his arm, and in that instant, she whirled, snatched up the cockatoo’s bell jar in a one-handed grab, and hurled it as hard as she could. There was a dull bock as the heavy jar struck Weber above his nose, right between the eyes. Bellowing, Weller staggered back against Kramer and Battle, and all three men crashed to the floor.
“Elizabeth!” Kramer managed to get to one knee. “What are you—”
“Doyle!” Battle shouted, struggling to extricate himself from the bawling, bleeding Weber. “Stop her! Don’t let her—”
She didn’t stay to hear more. Turning, she vaulted in a bloom of white down the hall and saw, instantly, that there was no iron gate, no inset door, but only another T junction. Shit. The layout was different. She dug in and ran as fast as she could. So, which way: right or left?
This is no way out. It was the spidery voice again, and nothing hesitant about it this time around. They’ll trap you the way you’ve trapped me.
No, no! Air tore in and out of her lungs. She was Emma Lindsay; she didn’t belong here. She had a life elsewhere, else-when. And Eric, I remember Eric, how he felt, his voice, his eyes, how he smelled and tasted, and I remember Casey. She could hear them coming now, as she had before, the heavy footfalls. They’d be on her soon. Think, Emma, think; there has to be a way.
At the T, she doglegged a sharp right, and then she saw it at the end of yet another very long, very stark corridor: an oval flash.
A mirror. The Mirror. Yes. She forced her legs to go fast, faster. I’ll go there, I’ll go through!
“Emma!” It was Kramer, behind her. “Don’t! You can’t. It’s not what you think!”
How could he know what I— That made her falter, but for only a moment. Emma, he called me Emma. He knows I’m telling the truth. Or maybe he was only humoring her, trying to get her to hesitate just long enough for them to catch up. No, not going to fall for that. The way out was right in front of her. All she had to do was run, and then she would be through, falling to some other—
“Don’t do it, Emma!” Kramer cried. “That’s not—”
“I’m not listening to you!” She charged. Get me out, she thought to the cynosure, get me out, take me anywhere but here; just get me out! Behind, she heard Kramer still shouting, the thud of boots as the others closed, but she had a head start, was nearly there; so close now she saw her reflection rushing to meet her—
But something was wrong. There was no bloom, no heat, no swoon, no purple maw chewing holes through the back of the world. On the beaded chain, the heavy glass orb and Eric’s tags only clattered against her chest.
There is no Sign of Sure. Spider, in her web, in the dark heart of her brain, and what was left of this body’s rightful owner. Yet what and who that girl had been in this Now, Emma couldn’t tell. It’s only glass, Spider rasped. Those are strips of ordinary tin, only so much rubbish picked from a dustbin. You’re a mad girl in a ruined world. Look in the mirror, Little Alice, loooook.
Dead ahead, there was a girl rushing through the mirror, ready to break free and—
Wait. Heart pounding, she realized what else was wrong, what was different, as her face filled the glass and became the world—this Now—blotting out all else.
She saw eyes. They were cobalt, with that golden birthmark, but they were all she truly recognized. Oh, there was a girl, a wild thing with hair bright as corn and violent as a gorgon’s serpents, but she did not have Emma’s face.
The girl hurtling headlong to meet her—twin to her twin, image to her reflection, this Now’s version of all that she was—was little Lizzie, all grown up.
“NO, NO, NO!” she shrieked, and rocketed for the mirror with all she had left.
5
MAYBE A PIECE of her knew the truth or had listened to the seeds of doubt Spider planted, because, at the very last second, she’d thrown up her arms to shield her face.
It was an explosion. The impact was as much sound as it was something physical, a bright detonation of shock and pain that wiped away all thought in a stunning, violent burst. There came a glissando splash as the mirror shattered and rained razor-edged daggers. A second later, there was a heavier crash as the now-empty frame—and it was only blank, unblemished wood—toppled.
The world stuttered. Someone began to wail, the sound wordless and horrible and black. From the coppery taste at the back of her throat, she realized that this wailing someone was she. Staggering, she felt her knees wobble, then buckle, and then she was sinking into a warm, wet tangle of bloodied nightclothes and torn flesh as a Babel of voices swelled: She’s bleeding, she’s bleeding; quick, fetch bandages; I’ll need my bag … someone fetch the surgeon; hold her, hold her; she’s a spitfire, sir, an alley cat; hold her fast, don’t let her …
“Easy, Miss Elizabeth, easy.” There were rough, hard, strong hands on her now, wrapping her up, bracing her shoulders. But the voice was young, that of a boy not quite yet a man, and reached through the fog of her pain to stir memory. “I’ve got you, Miss … Here, here, what’s your name—Doyle? Take her hands; soon as we’ve got her into the strong dress, we’ll slip on those gloves.”
“No, no!” Gasping, she looked up and then let out a small cry that was half a scream, half a sob. If her mind had been glass, it would have ruptured as the mirror just had. My God, it’s … “Bode,” she rasped. “Bode, help me, please, let me go, please don’t do this, don’t!”