Page 12 of Curse the Flame

“A puppy?” I say out loud.

Because that’s what it is. A small brown puppy with orange eyes is in the picture, down by my white house slippers.

“Puppy?” I say again, looking at the floor. I don’t see anything, and I spin around, keeping my eyes cast toward the carpet. “Where are you, puppy? Sir? Where did you go, little sir?”

A small yip is the only answer I get—and then I get another one that has my mouth falling open, my fingers flexing, and my forgotten phone falling to the floor.

Where is the puppy?

In the freaking mirror.

CHAPTER 3

THROUGH THE MIRROR

WILLOW

Idrop to my knees.

In the reflection, I see the reverse of my room. The bed, the dresser, the sneakers I was wearing earlier before I traded them for my house slippers kicked to the side. But there’s also a puppy. He’s on the bigger size, with floppy ears and a coloring that reminds me of a dachshund only with longer legs and a thicker shape rather than looking like a sausage dog.

And his eyes…

It wasn’t a trick of the camera’s flash. They’re not just orange. Unless I’m seeing things, it looks like he has little flames licking at his pupils.

What the…

I glance around a second time, making sure I’m not insane. In the room? No puppy. In the mirror? Definitely puppy.

As if he wants to make sure I don’t miss him, he plops down on his back legs, opens his mouth, and lets out an encouraging bark.

A bark—and smoke.

I gasp.

Curls of smoke slip out of his nostrils, like he’s some kind of miniature dragon or, holy crap, he really is on fire.

And he’s in the mirror. How did a puppy get in the mirror?

How can I help him?

Pretending that I don’t see a living creature beyond the mirror’s glass doesn’t even occur to me. He’s there, he needs help, and my first instinct—after I get over my shock—is to touch my fingers to the glass and see if the puppy responds to the gesture.

Okay. On the one hand? He does. The second I crawl toward the mirror, my fingers ghosting over the glass, he hops back up so that he’s on four feet, his pointed tailing whipping and wagging, he’s that excited.

He’s excited. Me? I should’ve grabbed my phone, called Daphne, and seen if she would take the train into town to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. I don’t, though. Leaving my phone where it is, I touch the mirror, and that’s all it takes.

One touch. My fingers make contact with the glass, but instead of actually finding resistance because, you know, it’s a mirror, my fingers go through the pane. I’m so shocked at the strange sensation—it’s cold, but not wet, even though I can’t shake the sensation that there’s liquor sucking on my fingers like it’s some sort of giant squishy—that I try to yank my hand out.

It, uh… it doesn’t work.

In fact, the more I try, the more I panic, and the more it keeps sucking me in until, suddenly, I’m being pulled all the way through. I swear, it’s like someone’s grabbed my fingers, tugging me forward, but all I see is the wide-eyed look of surprise on my face and the puppy running in circles just beyond the glass before I’m falling.

Falling.

Falling…

I close my eyes as I scream. No reason not to. Wherever I’ve gone, it’s pitch-black for the lifetime it feels like I’m tumbling into nothingness until, an eternity later that might’ve only been ten seconds, I’m stunned by sudden daylight behind my eyelids an instant before I fall to the ground.