I take deep breaths, trying to keep my thoughts hidden. My shoulders slump as though in defeat but in my mind I see a heavy sledge hammer. In an instant my knuckles are white on a splintery wooden handle, and with a loud grunt I swing the newly formed hammer at the mirror. Shards of glass rain down like snow and my heart races for three beats, four, enjoying the sensation of success.
It doesnt last. A burning that feels like knives assaults my arm.
I cant move.
Every muscle in my body rebels and clenches tight, My tendons ache and twitch, and its only when the sensation releases me that I look down at my arm and realize that Ive been tased.
Shit.
I fight for consciousness, my body already overwhelmed from whatever tranquilizer they gave me earlier and todays lack of food.
Or has it been two days without food? I dont even know.
My knees give out, and I sprawl to the floor. My fuzzy brain grasps for daylight, and I manage to push back the darkness gathering at the edges of my vision. I will not succumb again. I suck in air, focusing on my breath until Im certain Im not going to lose it.
I glance about me.
Its as if my entire attempt never happened. The mirror is as it had beenwhole and unbrokenthe shards of glass I distinctly remember peppering my skin are gone. Even my bottle of water is sitting full and upright, just how it was when it first appeared.
I suggest you dont try that again. A bored voice booms in from an unseen speaker, frightening me as much as anything. I know that voice. I just cant put my finger on it. As you can see, you can be instantaneously subdued if you try anything.
I nod shortlysince its clear they can see meanger trickling through my body as a weary absence of energy replaces the fierce tension of the electricity from the Taser. No using my powers. In any way, shape, or form. Got it.
I glare at the mirror, knowing that even though all I can see is my own scowling facea red mark across my cheekthere must be people on the other side watching me. The familiar voice, for one. I stare at the mirror, willing my expression to travel through the thick glass the way my vision cant, and all of a sudden the surface almost seems to turn transparent. At first I think its my imagination, but then something clicks and the lights on our side dim, and I know its not my tired body playing tricks on me; I can actually see through.
A man in a dark suit is standing at what appears to be a long counter. His hands are planted on the surface, and hes leaning forward in a manner so menacing it cant possibly be accidental.
I would have recognized him in an instant, even without his signature shades.
Sunglasses Guy. The guy who followed me for two weeks in Portsmouth. Who shot at me, and terrified me, and dragged Benson away on that terrible night.
And just over his shoulders, painted on a gray wall so obvious I cant miss it, is a black symbol, at least four feet high. An ankh, with one side of the loop curled up like a shepherds crook.
The symbol of the Reduciata.