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  Mirror

  The Blaze Series, Book 2

  Monique Martin

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Monique Martin

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission.

  Cover by BZN Studio

  Don’t miss an adventure, visit Monique’s website to sign up for the new release newsletter.

  For more information, please contact

  [email protected]

  Or visit: www.moniquemartin.weebly.com

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without the help and support of many people. I’d like to thank Cidney, Phoenix, Michael, Tanya, Sarah, Elizabeth, Taryn, Amber, Andra, Arel, Mom and George, Dad and Anne, and Eddie and Carole, and especially Laura for her support and skill in making this series a reality.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  More Books & About the Author

  Chapter One

  “Focus!”

  Artemis swung her blade, but once again met only air. The shade had disappeared. Again. She glared at her father, who matched it tenfold.

  One day I’ll learn to glare like that, she thought, ducking a blow from the reappearing shade. If I live that long.

  One moment the demon was in front of her, and then the next he was standing by a tree, or to her right, or—

  “Behind you!” her father cried.

  Artemis spun around, her Hellsword ready to strike, but with a soft phump the shade disappeared into a swirl of gray mist. Gritting her teeth, she wheeled around to search for him again.

  She and her father had heard a report about shades in Hyde Park, and they’d gone there late that night to investigate. She’d taken care of the shade’s partner easily enough, but this one was capable of translocation. Her father had told her about this particular type of demon, but she’d been so tired at the time, she barely remembered anything he’d said.

  It had only been a few weeks since she’d become the Blaze, the Champion of Light, Fighter of All Things Evil, Girl with No Life. Until tonight, she’d only fought two demons. The first was relatively easy to dispatch—a Sapros demon, which was little more than a putrid piece of walking flesh covered with large pustules of viscous, necrotic tissue. She shuddered at the memory. It had taken nearly a week to get the smell of it out of her clothes. The second, a rokurokubi, had not been so simple; she’d nearly bungled the whole thing and gotten herself killed. She glanced anxiously at her father as she tried to locate the shade again.

  One more mistake and he’ll turn into Simon Legree.

  He looked nervous, with good reason. Not to mention the little fact that Samhain was coming soon.

  Phump.

  “There!” he called out, pointing toward a spot about twenty feet from where the demon had disappeared.

  This shade didn’t look any different from the others. He looked like a man, but he wasn’t. He was a demon, and it was her duty as the Blaze to send him back to the Otherworld where he belonged.

  Now, if he’ll just stand still long enough for me to do it.

  She strode toward him, her Hellsword aflame and ready to strike. The browning grass beneath her feet glowed reddish orange from the fire. With the fire came the darkness within her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to it. The thought that she might do so worried her more than she could say.

  As she closed the distance between herself and the shade, his cold smile grew. He was toying with her. His arms dangled at his sides, fingers wiggling with anticipation. He’s actually not bad looking for a shade, she thought and then dispelled the idea. Stop that! He’s not human, she reminded herself, and a traitorous inner voice added, Neither are you.

  The thought brought her up short. She was human; her father had assured she was. It was simply that she had a teeny, tiny bit of demon blood in her. The fact that she’d come by this blood through her biological father, a murdering serial killing psychopath, should be no concern at all. Except it was. Oh, how it was!

  “Focus!” her father barked out again.

  She whirled toward him. “You do realize that’s not helping!”

  He frowned as she heard the tell-tale phump behind her, and the shade was gone.

  Phump.

  She twisted around toward the sound and spotted him not too far off. He had something in his hand now, and it glittered in the moonlight. Her breath caught as she realized what it was.

  “He’s got a knife!” she called out.

  Phump.

  Artemis spun on her heels to scan the dark park for him when she heard her father’s voice, urgent and tight. “Artemis.”

  Her blood—demon blood and all—ran cold. The shade was standing in front of her father, his back to her, his knife poised to strike.

  Artemis ran toward them, faster than she’d ever moved before, heart in her mouth. It wasn’t far, but it felt like it took an eternity to close the distance between them.

  As if in slow motion, the knife in the shade’s hand moved toward her father. She cried out and lunged forward, driving her sword through the demon’s back. He gasped in surprise, impaled on her blade, and then disappeared in a flash of light, sent back to the Otherworld.

  She’d finally got him, and she was about to gloat about it when she noticed her father grimacing in pain. It took her a moment to realize why—the tip of her sword dug into his chest. With a sharp intake of breath, she pulled her blade away, the flames of Hellfire dying in her hand.

  “Oh God!” she exclaimed.

  He looked down at the smoldering sparks on his waistcoat. That seemed to bring him out of his stupor. He beat at the embers with his hands until they were gone. A thin curl of smoke and silence drifted between them.

  “I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly as she dropped her sword and reached for him.

  “I’m all right,” he replied, pushing out a deep breath.

  I stabbed my own father!

  “Artemis,” he said, his voice calm. “It’s all right.”

  He brushed away the burnt remnants around the hole near the top of his waistcoat. He pulled the edges aside to reveal a small tear in his white linen shirt, stained with only a touch of blood. The cut in his chest, right at his breastbone, was small, but it seemed enormous to Artemis.

  “I’m so sorry,” she replied, her voice as shaky as she felt.

  “It’s all right. Perhaps we should add a few depth perception exercises to your curriculum.”

  A bubble of nervous laughter rose in her throat, then she sobered again and reached forward to touch his chest. He took hold of her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.

  “I’m not hurt,” he assured her.

  “Much,” she said, feeling light-headed and letting out a shaky breath. “I only nearly killed you.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll take
nearly every time.” He squeezed her hand once more before letting it go.

  “But I think we might forego any more of this,” he added with a general wave toward the park, “for the time being. We have enough to prepare for with the coming of Samhain.”

  “And that means?”

  He picked up her sword and handed it back to her with a small, half-apologetic smile. “More training.”

  She gave him a wry smile in return, but couldn’t keep the affection she had for him from shining through. “How did I know you were going to say that?”

  The room smelled of beeswax and damp newspaper until a gentle breeze blew through the open slats in the shutters, bringing the odious smells of London with it into his little hovel. He tried to ignore the stench, focusing on the task at hand. Liquid silver rippled across the smooth surface of the glass. In its reflection he was almost handsome.

  Almost.

  Alain Leroux watched the waves of silver dissipate, the image of his countenance settling into place as the mirror took form. He was not handsome. Not anymore. The rutted and taut scars of his burns pulled the skin on the right side of his face into a grotesque mask of flesh unmade, then made again. He stared at himself, and for a moment, he saw what others saw and felt their revulsion.

  A groan tore from deep inside of him as he turned away from the image. His breath came in short bursts as he sought to compose himself. The anger could be all-consuming, but he could not give in to it. Not yet.

  He’d had the witch temporarily remove the glamour spell that hid his disfigurement. He despised having to wear it, but such was the way of the world. A world of vanity and venom.

  I will be free of it soon enough, he thought, returning to his labors.

  His eyes fell upon the small glass flask resting on the table. The opalescent liquid inside swirled of its own accord like clouds across a stormy sky. He reached for it, admiring his work as he held the round body of the bottle in one hand and the long neck in the other.

  He was a skilled perfumier, an artisan of scent; at least, he had been before the fire. His injuries had been extensive, and he’d sought help from all quarters. It was that search that led him to the world of alchemy. It was not so different from his life before—distillation, extraction, expression—the creation of something new and wonderful from disparate parts. However, even that powerful craft could not remove his scars, but in it he found solace and a new focus for his broken heart.

  Helen.

  He could scarcely think her name without pain. But soon that would pass. Soon, she would pay for her deceit. He’d thought her love for him was true and pure, and it fed his poetic soul. But after his accident, she began to pull away. Her eyes sought purchase on anything but him. Before long she could scarcely bear to look at him.

  The day she’d left him was seared into his memory. She’d smelled of someone else.

  The pain of the fire was nothing compared to the pain in his heart that day. Her family had encouraged her to find another, he knew, but if her love was true, she would have stayed. She would have nursed him. She would have been his.

  But none of that came to pass. In less than a year she had married. He was all but forgotten. But he had not forgotten her. His desire to return pain in kind fueled his every waking moment, and it kept him alive during his convalescence. Hate was his boon companion.

  And it had led him here. He could have avenged his pain easily enough already. A life was easy to snuff out. He’d done it before with surprising ease. But there was no poetry in that, no spectacle, no beauty. His plan was complex, and all the more elegant for it.

  He focused again at the bottle in his hand. Alkahest Aetherium was one of the most precious elixirs in the world. He was sure he held more in the palm of his hand than any man had before, or likely ever would again. The colors of the opaque liquid shifted and curled, so beautiful, so innocuous, and yet only a few drops would be enough if that witch was right. And she had better be.

  “Come,” he said, never taking his eyes from the Aetherium.

  From the shadows, his servant stepped forward, heavy legs lumbering slowly across the room. The floorboards creaked beneath him in protest as his massive body moved to stand beside his master. Even without the sound of his approach, Leroux could sense him, could smell him—a curious mixture of wet earth, burnt cedar, and a touch of sulfur.

  Leroux looked up at the crudely formed face staring back at him with dull, lifeless eyes. The golem was tall and broad, easily towering three feet over Leroux and weighing twice as much. The brute’s body was thick with arms and legs to match. Its head was a block of clay, human features barely shaped in the ruddy brick, the mouth a rough gash, and the nose and ears ill-formed and coarse. Its eyes, little more than unblinking black circles, looked lifelessly at its master. It was a man half-made.

  The rabbi should have taken more care in forming the creature, Leroux thought idly. But then it served its purpose quite well as it was, and the rabbi was quite dead. All he desired from his servant now was strength and loyalty, and both were given without question.

  Despite the temptation, Leroux dared not breathe in the Aetherium, but his servant had no such concerns; it did not breathe at all.

  Leroux held out the bottle toward the golem. “Four drops on each surface. No more. Do you understand?”

  The golem did not speak, it was not capable of such, but reached out one massive hand in answer. Leroux handed it the flask and withdrew to a safe distance.

  The golem’s thick fingers pulled the stopper from the neck and set about its task. Leroux watched it carefully for a few moments to ensure the business was completed as he’d ordered before he allowed his mind to wander.

  Once this last set of mirrors was finished, he would take them to his shop at the Pantechnicon. He had been very lucky to find a place there. Only a few dozen mirrors had been made, but that would be more than enough. After all, it was only one he really needed. For her. For Helen.

  Just the thought of her name brought a fresh wave of anguish. He crushed it as he always did and let anger grow in its place.

  It was surprisingly easy to lure her to his shop. He’d led her, of course, by her nose. A few drops of a scent he knew she could not resist upon a flier—bergamot, vanilla, and a touch of animalic notes. Unseen, he led her to his stall at the Pantechnicon. He knew she would not be able to resist the enchantment in the mirror. The only person who loved her more than he did was herself. He’d watched from the back room as she admired herself in the mirror. It had been delivered the next day.

  It was only fitting she should pay for her sins this way. Her vanity, London’s vanity, were an affront. To extinguish them in this manner was poetic.

  In just a few days’ time, when the Veil between worlds was at its thinnest, his mirrors would open a portal to the Otherworld and, quite literally, the stuff of nightmares would emerge. The owners’ worst nightmares would cross over from the Otherworld to this one.

  What will dear Helen’s nightmare be? It did not matter in the end, so long as it destroyed her and her new husband, he thought, fresh hatred blazing in his chest. So long as it destroyed all of those who saw only the flesh and not the soul beneath. Vainglorious. Shallow. Egotistical.

  Let them all be damned.

  Chapter Two

  Phoebe leaned toward the mirror and rubbed her index finger vigorously across her already exceedingly white front teeth before stepping back, satisfied that whatever had marred her perfect smile had been banished into oblivion.

  “It’s impossible,” she said, gazing at herself, shifting slightly to the side in an effort to see the entirety of her dress.

  Artemis blinked rapidly; she’d nearly fallen asleep. She lifted her head from its resting place in the palm of her hand, pried her eyes wide open, and stifled a yawn.

  Her training had increased exponentially during the past week. Life outside of the Blaze had all but disappeared. Not that she blamed her father after what happened at the park. She s
huddered at the memory of her sword piercing his chest, even slightly. He’d redoubled her practice sessions, and with Samhain coming in a few days, there was no sign of respite.

  She’d been so preoccupied with those preparations that she’d nearly forgotten the invitation to tea at the Raycrafts' she received several weeks ago. Knowing that Dulcie had only invited her due to a desire to please the Cliftons, and because she wholly expected Artemis to decline, Artemis had gleefully and spitefully accepted.

  That’ll teach her to invite me!

  In the intervening weeks, Artemis didn’t give the tea much thought. She’d been far too busy trying not to die on the streets or in her training, and a little man from French Indo-China came twice a week to try to kill her with a giant curved knife. Crumpets and Eccles cakes weren’t high on her list of priorities. Until now. Until having to train one more day, one more hour, made her want to scream, or pass out, or both.

  Maybe her father had sensed her fatigue, and that’s why he’d reminded her of the tea, or perhaps this was merely another of his tests. After all, Dulcie Raycraft was surely part demon. No one was naturally that unpleasant.

  Either way, it was a welcome change. Between the tea today and dinner tomorrow with the Cliftons, Artemis felt as much herself, her real self, as she had in weeks. Maybe she could be Artemis as well as the Blaze, after all.

  “It’s just impossible,” Phoebe repeated.

  “Hmm?” Artemis said, forcing herself to sit up. “What is?”