But right this second, Dad’s not flashing back to that valley. He’s not at his desk, and Lizzie feels that awful, heavy blanket weigh her down just a little bit more. She thinks, No, Dad, no. You promised. You crossed your heart. But he must’ve been dying inside, the story in his blood hotter than the highest fever, burning him up.
Dad has been a busy, busy bee. A new skin-scroll is unfurled over his desk. What he’s already pulled onto the scroll’s White Space with special ink is a bright red spidery splash: letters and words and whole paragraphs. A heavy scent, one that is like a crushed tin can left out in a storm, fogs the air.
Dad stands at the Dickens Mirror, which is not an oval but a slit, like the pupil of a lizard’s or cat’s eye, with all sorts of squiggle-monsters and arguses and typhons and spider-swoozels and winged cobcraas squirming through its wood frame. The glass isn’t normal either but smoky-black, like old char left from a great big bonfire.
And Dad … he’s not acting like Dad. What he’s doing doesn’t even seem human. Because Dad is growling, like something’s waking up in his chest, raking curved claws over his insides, trying to break his bones and bust from his skin, just like the mom’s cancer in Now Done Darkness, or the million creepy, furry spithres that tremble like spiky petals from that girl’s mouth in Whispers. Dad’s face is all twisted and crooked, as if his head got ruined in Mom’s Kugelrohr oven.
In his right hand is his wicked-sharp lunellum. Normally, Dad only uses the knife, which is decorated with special symbols, when he makes his White Space skin-paper. Not tonight, though, and Lizzie knows doom when she feels it. The person in front of that Mirror is in the middle of becoming a thing she’s never seen before.
So make a sound! A tiny panic-mouse claws her brain. Sing a song! Do something to save him! Do something, Lizzie, do anything, before it’s TOO LATE!
But then too late happens.
The blade kisses her dad’s left palm, quick as a snake, and Dad goes, AARRGGHHH! His head whips back as another roar boils and bubbles: AAAHHHH!
On the ladder, Lizzie jumps. Dad! the panic-mouse in her brain squeaks. Dad, Daddy! All the hairs on her neck and arms go spiky as a porcupine’s quills. She watches in mute horror as a bloody rill oozes down her father’s wrist to weep ruby tears.
The knife flashes again. The skin of Dad’s right hand splits in a red shriek. The lunellum thunks to the floor as her father slams his bleeding hands, really, really hard, against the Mirror. The stand wobbles; there is a squeaking, wet sound as her father’s blood squelches and smears the glass; and Lizzie hears a very distinct, metallic click like the snap of a light switch.
And then the lizard-eye of that Dickens Mirror … changes. It starts to shimmer. The surface wobbles and ripples in undulating black waves, like a river of oil spilling across ice. Her father’s blood pulses, hot and red and alive; his blood writhes over the Mirror, and where his blood touches, the smoky glass steams. Long, milky fingers of mist curl around her father’s wrists and begin to pulse and suck—and all of a sudden, they are not white as milk or heavy mist but first pink and then a deep, dark bloodred.
The Mirror is drinking her father. The Mirror’s greedy fingers spiral up and up and up in a tangle of rust-red vines to web his neck and face, as if her dad is a piece of blank parchment onto which something new is being written in blood.
“Blood of My Blood,” her father says, but what comes out of his mouth is a voice of one and many: overlapping echoes and whispers from down deep and very far away. “I feed you, Blood of My Blood, Breath of My Breath. I feed you and I invite you. I release you and I bind you and I draw you. Together, we are one, and there are the Dark Passages and all of space and time to bridge.”
The mist twines around her father in a shimmering vermillion spiderweb. The blood-web tightens and squeezes, hugging her father right up to the churning, rippling glass. The black glass gives, the inky mouth of that Mirror gapes, and then her father’s hands slip through, sinking into the glass, as he reaches down its throat and into the Dark Passages.
Run! the panic-mouse screeches. Run, Lizzie, run! Get Mom! But she doesn’t. Her heart bumpity-bumpity-bumps in her chest, and she has never been so scared. In all the Lizzie-worlds she’s made and the Nows she’s visited and the hours she’s spent here with her father, she has never seen anything quite as terrible as this—and she simply can’t move.
The glass fills with something white and sparkly and thick and formless as fog that swirls and ripples—and knits together to form a face. But not Dad’s face, oh no. Whatever lies beyond the glass is still becoming: oozy and indefinite, there and then not, as if the face is pulling together the way hot glass slumps and folds and becomes something else. Even as she watches, the face solidifies into a nightmare of raw meat, bristly teeth, a snaky black tongue—
And eyes. Eyes. Two are black. They are a crow’s eyes, a cobra’s eyes—dead eyes with no pupils and no eyelids either.
But the third is different. Instead of the blue-black cyclops eye that is her monster-doll’s, this third eye is a silver storm, both mirror and ocean—and her father is there, his reflection pulling together from the swirling, smoky whirlpool to eel like a serpent, and oh, his face, her dad’s real face!
Maybe she makes a sound. Or maybe, like a snake, the whisper-man tastes her with his tongue, because all three eyes cut sideways and then—
He sees me. Her hand catches the ball of a shriek. He sees me, he sees me, he sees me!
And then.
Her father.
Turns—
EMMA
Blink
1
“EMMA. EMMA?”
“What?” Emma snapped back, awareness flooding her mind in an icy gush, an arrow of sudden bright pain stabbing right between her eyes. Blinking past tears, her gaze sharpened on a pair of windshield wipers thumping back and forth, pushing rills of thick snow.
Driving. I’m in a car. Her hands fisted the steering wheel. But where am I going? How did I get here?
“Emma, are you okay? You look kind of out of it.”
“I-I’m fine. Sorry, Li … Lily.” She stumbled over the name, but Lily felt right in her mouth and Emma did recognize her, sort of: leggy, blonde, a touch of the valley girl.
“Have you figured out where we are yet?” Lily asked.
Oh man. They were lost? Jesus, how long had she been gone this time? “Not yet, but I bet we’ll be up … up …”
“Emma?”