Camille points at Jul. “That. Yes, thank you.”
“What, like there’s some leaky pipes around here or something?” I say. “There shouldn’t even be pipes. What would that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Camille snaps.
“I think Mac’s just jealous he doesn’t have a superpower,” Jul tells her.
“I’d pick something other than super smell, that’s all,” I grumble.
“Yeah, I picked this,” Camille returns.
“Guys, cut it out,” Jul entreats us.
“How about,” I say, trying to employ diplomacy, “you go track down the mystery of the old leaky pipes, and me and Jul will go check out the storeroom.”
Camille gives me a look that all but says, Try anything funny and I’ll throw you into next week. She wanders over to the machinery and the open bay, looking out at the forest beyond.
As if I’m ever not a total gentleman. Who does she take me for? Kei?
Jul follows me to the windowed metal door - though this glass, like all the others, is broken too. “You could have a little more faith in her abilities,” she says. “She’s here to help too. She notices things no one else does.”
“Hence letting her do her thing without me getting in the way making jokes about it,” I say, opening the door.
This room still has most of its ceiling intact, with the exception of one gaping hole. There’s a moldy old mattress in one corner, and some boxes and old furniture piled up against one wall. Empty liquor bottles line a shelf, but they’re covered in a thick layer of dust so they’re probably leftovers from Halloween parties. The floor here is wood, not concrete like the rest of the place. Still no signs of the imp - but then again, I’m not entirely sure what to look for. A nest made out of my stolen comics?
I step inside. Glass crunches under my feet.
“The glass is all on this side,” I muse. “You think something from the floor was thrown through it? If it had popped from heat it would have been on both sides.”
The floor creaks as Jul crosses the room gingerly. “That is not something that would have occurred to me,” she says, sounding impressed. There’s a pressed wood desk to one side that catches her interest and she works at tugging one of the drawers open.
“Physics, my dear Watson,” I say, grinning. “Although I don’t know how useful that tidbit is.” I look up at the molding wallpaper. There’s some pictures and things hung up in this room that survived the fire, it seems. A tall, plain glass mirror, surface clouded with age. A company photo under cracked glass shows a couple dozen people lined up in front of the factory. The focus is too far out to pick out anyone’s face, but it’s interesting to see what the lumbermill looked like at its prime, without the forest looking like it’s trying to eat it alive.
There’s a crash as the drawer suddenly comes unstuck and Jul loses her balance. She falls in a tangle of limbs, bits of notepads and paperclips raining down on her. She jumps up just as fast, brushing herself off frantically. “Oh my god are there spiders on me? Do you see any spiders?” she asks, voice pitched way too high. “Are they in my hair?”
“Whoa, whoa, calm down,” I tell her. “Here, lean down, I’ll check.”
“I keep forgetting I’m way taller than you,” she laughs nervously.
Her hair is softer than it looks. This shouldn’t be as big a deal as my heartbeat seems to think it is. I run my fingers lightly over the ebony strands, briefly wondering if there’s a legitimate way I could extend the inspection, but I can’t think of it fast enough.
“Mac?” she prompts.
“You’re clear,” I say, backing up and hoping I’m not blushing.
“Oh good,” she sighs, standing straight and giving the web in the rafters a wary look. “This place just creeps me out. I don’t think I’ve ever been around this many crawly things in my life.”
“New York doesn’t have bugs?”
“Mac, this place is like a setting for a horror movie. All that’s missing is the saw blades coming to life. We’ve already fallen victim to the first major horror mistake.”
“Not having a strongly defined villain?” I offer, kneeling to sift through the fallen notepads.
“Never go off alone,” she states ominously.
“We’re not alone,” I point out.
“Or split up! You know what I mean!”
“I do. Sorry,” I grin. “I didn’t realize you were that into horror movies.”
“I’m not, I’m interested in never being in one!”
My fingers close around something solid under the flakes of paper. “Too late, Daphne, Fred’s found a clue,” I say, standing with a box in hand.
“I thought I was Velma?”
The box is made of faded blue velvet, shallow and rectangular. About the size that would hold a fancy necklace or a tiara, I’d guess. I take off the lid, but there’s nothing inside. The cushion is shaped to fit the form of an old-style hand mirror.
“I was hoping for something a little more dramatic,” I admit.
“Look, there’s a note,” Jul says, plucking out a piece of paper folded between the cushion and the rim. She unfolds it, and we read the cramped, meandering handwriting.
Beatrix,
I have fixed it, you see. You said I could, and I did. I gift you this creation, my debt to you repaid. The design has been improved. Not just for conversation, this mirror now offers protection, and possesses the singular ability of being able to locate anyone, anywhere.
After all you have seen, you may not wish to see me.
But if you do...
~ Soren
“Okay,” I say, “is it just me, or is this guy totally hitting on your grandma?”
I glance at Jul, expecting her to be embarrassed or something, but she’s gone pale, staring at the page.
“I mean, if it’s creepy or whatever, I understand - ”
A shadow looms from the doorframe, and I look up, expecting Destin. “Dude, where have you - ”
But this is not my best friend. This is Meredith, the so-called Ender.
The lanky tattooed woman leans lazily against the doorframe, a bottle swinging loose in her other hand. She blinks at us, as if not entirely sure we’re there, and upends the last of whatever’s in the bottle. Apparently satisfied we’re real, she gives us an unsteady, suspicious glare.
This time I really take a good look at her. The red tattoos I’d thought were blocky look more like flames on second inspection, covering one side of her throat and down one arm. Bits also seem to peek from around her hairline, though her dark, tangled hair obscures it. She has a wide, small-featured face with grey eyes that seem over-large by comparison. About Jul’s height, but not quite as thin. She wears a sleeveless shirt and pants made of weathered, scorched brown leather.
Pointing a finger at us, the woman says, “You shouldn’t be here.” She tosses the bottle into a corner where it shatters against the wall, and advances on Jul and I. We both take steps back, hearing the floor crack loudly. The timber beneath us buckles and collapses. My stomach sinks as we fall; then, a hard yank on my arm as it nearly comes out of the socket. The woman has a firm grip on my wrist, and on Jul’s, who’s dangling next to me, staring up in shock. The arsonist saved us?
“That’s why you shouldn’t be here,” she says, chuckling. “You know this rat pit is condemned, don’t you?”
I feel my wrist start to scorch. “Ow, ow, ow!” I yelp, almost wishing she’d just drop me, even though I can’t see what’s in the darkness below.
“Minor burns or rocky death, your choice. Don’t be a pansy, reach up and help yourself,” Meredith says, slurring. “My hands are full and I don’t have super strength, you know.”