Page 2 of The Dark Mirror

Arcturus had returned to Nashira. He had been using me for information, all that time.

He was nowhere to be seen or sensed, which seemed to confirm the things I remembered. I forced myself to go over our confrontation in Paris. He intended to betray the clairvoyant syndicates to Scion. I had acted quickly to protect the Mime Order, but for all I knew, he might have beaten me to my allies. I might be the only survivor of a failed revolution.

Was that why I was here, alone?

With considerable effort, I roused my gift and focused on the æther, pain lancing my temples. There were thousands of dreamscapes in the vicinity, but none that I recognised. My legs shook as I rose, grasping the bedpost for support. Instead of my usual nightshirt, I was dressed in drawstring shorts and a white shirt with cap sleeves. My arms looked slimmer than before, the muscle less defined. How long had I been here?

Now my heart was pounding, my skin clammy. I walked to the window, my head swimming. The room overlooked a long street, where streetlamps were coming alive – and one glimpse of those streetlamps rocked the foundations of my world.

Their glow was amber.

Not blue.

All Scion citadels had blue streetlamps, supposedly to calm the population. Unless this was a city in Spain or Portugal, which had only recently fallen to the anchor, then this was not Scion. Somehow, I was in the free world.

The realisation broke me from my stupor. I stumbled to another door, which led to a bathroom, and tapped a pad to turn the lights on, revealing my startled reflection in the mirror.

I had dyed my hair for the masquerade. It was still brown, though a touch darker than I remembered. A fresh bruise stained my left cheekbone. I tasted a powdery bitterness, as if I had eaten flour. My left wrist, always troublesome, was throbbing. When I looked at it, I saw pink stripes – marks that could only have been left by fingers.

I rushed to the door, turned the deadbolt, and jammed one of the chairs under the handle.

Impaired recollection, nausea, unusual taste. Someone had been giving me white aster – an ethereal drug that caused amnesia – to meddle with my sense of time. There was no other logical explanation for why I hadn’t a bull’s notion of where I was or how I had got here.

This had to be something to do with the Domino Programme, the espionage network I had been working for in Paris. They used white aster on agents who wanted to leave, to erase their memory of its existence – but Ducos had told me I was classified as an associate, that I could keep my memories. I trusted her enough to think she would have kept her word.

It had been twelve years since I was last in the free world. I scoured the room for clues, finding no hint as to my location. When I saw a white mug on the table, I picked it up and turned it, revealing a smeared crescent of lipstick on its rim, a rich cherry I recognised.

Eléonore Cordier wore it.

Cordier had been the medical officer for my sub-network, Mannequin. Last I had seen her, she had drained the excess fluid off my lung, to give me some relief from the pneumonia that had plagued me for weeks. After that, she had vanished, apparently detained by Scion.

I soon found other traces of her. A dress I had seen her wearing in Paris. A comb with black hair in its teeth. A bottle of perfume – a blend of cypress and wild geranium, the label written in French.

Why I was sharing a room with her, I wasn’t sure. But this might be my only chance to get away. I would have to go with my gut, and my gut was telling me to run.

In the bathroom, I forced myself to run the tap and splash my face with icy water. It shocked away the listless haze, even if it also left me shuddering. Next, I pulled open the wardrobe, findingthree coats with a safe behind them. No luck with the master code that had sometimes worked in London, and trying to bounce it might draw attention.

There was a suitcase under the bed. I took out a cream jersey with a roll neck and yanked it over the shirt. A pair of dark twilled trousers were a perfect fit. So were the hiking boots in the wardrobe, and the woollen hat I placed over my hair. Finally, I swung on a fleece-lined jacket.

The fact that I had my own clothes was jarring. I seemed clean and fed, even if I had shed a little weight, but the bruises told a different story.

Supplies were my next concern. I took a canvas bag from the wardrobe, stuffed it with snacks and drinks from the minibar, and tightened the straps around my shoulders. No sign of a phone. Not that I would have been able to call anyone – all of my human allies used burners, and the Ranthen had never warmed to human technology. I searched the coats in the wardrobe and found a single banknote and a lighter, both of which I pocketed.

There were no weapons. I would have to rely on my wits. They had saved me before.

Acting the part is half the trick, darling, Jaxon had advised me once.Behave as if you belong, and see who dares to question you.

Jaxon might be a soulless bastard, but I could still use his lessons. I slipped out of the room, into a dark corridor, and walked until I saw an elevator. As I strode towards it, a display above the doors lit up. No sooner had I swerved into another corridor than the elevator pinged open and three people – two amaurotics, one voyant – had marched from inside.

‘—room number did she say it was?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘Good. We do this carefully.’ The voices sounded American. I flattened myself into a doorway. ‘Scott, you get the personal effects. Torres, are you certain you don’t need backup?’

‘Not if she’s sedated.’

‘What if she isn’t?’

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