“Look at you!” he yells, clapping his hands and then waving them at the mirror. I’m about to tell him to pipe down, except he’s right.I did it.Even if he doesn’t know it,this is my ticket out. My mind lays out the pieces, every detail—each part of my plan until it hits me.
I’m leaving the Playhouse. Tonight. And so is Jude.
A peculiar shadow zips behind him in the reflection.What was that?
My eyes widen, and I turn to track the figure when Jude steps in the way, blocking my view.
JUDE: “Incredible, Alistaire! Oh—well, almost. There should be a single frecklerighthere.” He taps the left side of my face below my eye.
RIVEN: “Wait—” My voice has dropped an octave, fuller and glassy. “Something is…in here.”
JUDE: “A near-perfect imitation! Brilliant.Brilliant.”
Alistaire.The name drives a splintering confusion through my mind. My name is Jude—I think? No, that’s not right, either.
I catch sight of that odd shadow as it flutters by again, closer. “Something is—something is in here,” I try again, more urgent.
The shadow darts by once more, gathering in a single mirror at the center of the room, solidifying into something—into a figure—into—
Before Jude can react, the figure, sleek and quick, slips through one mirror and disappears into the next.
“Hesper,”hisses a voice. A voice I’m sure I’ve heard before. Feminine, soft,familiar.
It’s so out of place, even Jude momentarily forgets his insistence, venturing up to the glass. “That’s not right,” is all he says, suspicious.
A flash of white solidifies in the mirror again, no longer a shadow but—
A woman in the mirror, fashioned in layers of white, torn at the hems and sleeves.
Sheglimmers,her skin chipping like paint from her face to her fingertips, gold gleaming right beneath. Her eyes bleed like the sun.
Gene Hunt.
Alive, in the flesh—barely. There’s a curious, sad smile on her lips, unlike the mask of unceasing shock Jude wears.
Her hair runs longer than it does in her portrait, curled into shimmering, brandy-colored locks. Several clumps are missing, leaving bald patches on the side of her head. Like a child’s doll that’s been played with too rough.
I can’t move. I’ve never seen anything so maliciously beautiful.
Somewhere, Sil is yelling, but it sounds distant, muffled, as if through a window, like he’s trying to get into the room, but I can’t tell from where.
Jude has only the time to incredulously speak the name “Gene” before a vibrant and guttural scream erupts from her lips.
The splintering of mirrors runs in circles around us like broken ice as I clap my hands over my ears.
What the hell is happening?
Half the room shatters, and a sharp, angry storm rains down as we drop for cover on instinct. I shield my eyes, peeking through my fingers at the display of glitter blanketing the ground. Slowly, I look to Jude, then to the broken mirror, empty of any ghosts now as we struggle to our feet.
Then I feel it. A suffocating, visceral presence just behind us.
A searing silence lingers between Jude and me as we turn.
The woman in white is no longer bound by mirrors. She’s in the flesh, standing before us.
Gene Hunt. Her eyes are shiny, bobbing between Jude, then me, then Jude before settling on just one—the one who moves to put himself between the ghost and me.
With a final shriek that sends my ears ringing, she lunges for Jude.
