MirrorWorld

“Stop,” Winters says, stepping between Katzman and me, but the emphasis is directed toward me. She knows that if an altercation is unavoidable, I’ll act first, and that I’ll win. She also knows that’s not going to help anyone. “Please, everyone stop and think. We all know he’s impulsive, to say the least, but he never does something without good reason … or at least what he thinks is a good reason.” Looking back and forth between Lyons and Katzman. “You’ve read my profile of him. You both know this. So why not have a little talk before resorting to violence, which we all know is going to end poorly for anyone who isn’t a fearless world-class assassin, who, may I remind you, can move through solid objects.”

In the silence that follows, I whisper to Winters. “Thanks for calling me Crazy.”

“It’s what you prefer right now.”

“So you wrote a profile on me?”

“Part of my job is to psych eval the people that—”

“Do you normally sleep with—”

She puts her hand on my chest. Speaks quietly. “I know you have no fear, and that leads you to say whatever is on your mind, but that’s not an excuse to be inconsiderate of others. What we had … We both needed it.”

“Sorry,” I say. She’s right. And though I have no memory of what there was between us, the tension that exists when we’re together says that some part of me remembers. The feel of her hand on my chest is …

Distracting.

I lift her hand away. “Later.”

Lyons and Katzman still haven’t made up their minds, so I decide to give them a visual aid. I kneel down next to the fallen guard.

Katzman is giving me a “don’t you dare touch him” stare, but he should know that such tactics have no effect. I turn the guard’s head away from me.

“Did you notice how the guard — what’s his name?”

“Magnan,” Katzman says. “Mike Magnan.”

“Did you notice how Mike was acting when he came in the room?”

“Squirrelly,” Dearborn says, and I think he already understands what the others have failed to grasp. When he takes two steps back, I’m sure of it.

Katzman motions to the video screen showing the angry mob, who is now encircling the building. “Everyone in this building should be afraid.”

“Mike was a security guard here. Trained to deal with tough situations, yes? With the Dread?”

I take Katzman’s lack of reply as confirmation.

“But he was acting like a panicked mouse. I don’t know the man, so I’m just guessing, but that’s a bit out of character for Mr. Magnan.”

“It is,” Katzman says. “You think the Dread got to him.”

“I know they did.” I stand up and turn to Winters. “Help Katz stand Mike up.”

She listens, and the pair hoists the unconscious man up.

I walk behind them. “Try to keep him still or I might not be the only person with a part of his brain missing.”

“Wait, wh—”

Ignoring Katzman, I slip into the world between, focusing past the pain. The small Dread, like some kind of headless bat with hooked talons on the ends of its leathery, red-veined wings, hovers in the air, little tentacles lowered into Mike’s head. Whether the tendrils are making physical contact inside his head, I can’t tell, but it looks that way. I snap out with my hand, grab hold of the Dread, and yank. It comes free in my hand, flailing without a sound. The thing has no mouth.

Clutching the Dread in both hands, I slip back out of the world in between, focusing on the little creature, feeling its frequency resisting my influence, and then bending to it. I’m winded, tense with pain, and once again naked except for the plastic pendant. I really need to start trying to bring my clothes along for the ride.

But this time, no one is interested in my statue-of-David impersonation. They can see I’m holding something, and I can feel it, still struggling to escape.

“Fair warning,” I say. “There is a small Dread in my hands. I think only one of you should take a look, just in case. Would be a shame if all of you went mental at the same time.”

“Don’t look at me,” Dearborn says, already peeking through his fingers.

“I’ll do it,” Winters says, while she and Katzman lay Mike on the floor.

“Not a chance,” Katzman says. “It’s my job to—”

“You’ve been exposed too many times already,” Winters argues. “I’m your shrink, remember? I know how hard the strain is, and I know more coping mechanisms than—”

Fuck it.

I open my hands.

They all see it.

There is a fraction of a second when everyone leans back, collectively draining half the room’s oxygen, when I think I’ve made a mistake. But they recover quickly, one by one, leaning in to look at the small Dread, whose natural ability to instill fear has been negated by being fully present in this frequency. But it’s also not pushing fear at the moment. There’s no whispering. Maybe that won’t work here, either?

“Why isn’t it going back?” Allenby asks.

“Perhaps the Dread need to be tethered to the mirror dimension.” Lyons looks excited, on the verge of discovery. “Even when they physically attack, they never fully emerge from their world.”