Dreamwalker (Stormwalker #5)(73)

Flora continued to sing. Sunshine beamed down on us, a fine late September day. Soon the nights, then the days, would begin to chill as winter came, but for now, the sun embraced us with warmth.

Under Flora’s hands, the mirror began to shimmer. It reflected the bright sky, broken into crazed patterns and multiple images, but now it began to glow from within. The glass tinkled as the mirror moved, more loose gilt floating to the ground.

The song grew louder, though I didn’t note Flora raising her voice. I realized then that the mirror was reflecting what she sang, increasing the melody as it did the light.

I was enjoying the song, mesmerized by Flora’s voice, when a sound like falling aluminum cans broke the music, clunky and loud. I jumped, and the mirror let out a shrill scream.

Oh no, I’m melllltinnnng …

I didn’t worry too much, because the mirror was putting on a Wicked Witch of the West voice, but it unnerved me to watch the shards of glass suddenly liquefy, flowing without restraint within the frame.

Flora lifted her hands as soon as the mirror began to melt. The glass glowed red then yellow, rivaling the color of the sun. The mirror let out another thin scream, which faded as its pitch rose higher.

I sucked in a breath. I could feel our collective, pooled magic pouring into Flora, who had her eyes closed, a serene look on her face. She moved her hand above the mirror, though the heat coming off it was roasting hot.

Flora made little circles in the air with her palm and continued to sing.

Sand and light

Silver and gold

Flow together

Be as one

Mick squeezed my hand. I felt his love for me come through the clasp. My ring on my other hand warmed, and Fremont’s grip tightened on my fingers.

Mick and I had been through a lot. The rocky start to our relationship, him following me here, our battles with both human and supernatural forces. He’d almost been taken from me a couple of times, but here we were, holding hands, like the goblin couple, still a pair at the end of it all.

The aluminum can sound was replaced with a silvery chiming. Sweet and clear, it shimmered, and was answered by the long, drawn-out cry of a coyote.

The mirror itself—its voice—had gone completely silent. I wasn’t certain whether that was because of the spell, the changes to the glass, or its choice. The mirror sometimes decided to go dark of its own accord.

The molten glass began to spin under Flora’s hand, following her movements to create a vortex. The cracks were gone, as was the hole left by the gunshot. The frame, strangely, remained intact, though it was made of wood gilded over. It should have long since combusted—the table beneath it as well.

Within the frame, the glass spiraled, the ripples dancing across the surface. The ripples collided with the sides of the frame and flowed back over themselves.

Flora repeated her verse—Sand and Light; Silver and Gold—then she stopped circling her hand and began gliding it, above the mirror, toward the corners of the frame, as though smoothing a bed sheet.

The undulating waves died down, the glass floated to the edges of the flame, evening itself, the glow slowly fading. The silver continued to ring, though at one point I heard a faint clank among the purity. I glanced around, wondering if anyone else had heard it too, but no one seemed to have noticed.

My imagination? I wondered. Bad things were never products of my imagination, unfortunately. I braced myself.

Nothing happened. That is, nothing except the glass in the mirror easing seamlessly to the extent of the frame. A faint breeze blew up from the north, and little by little, the glass cooled down.

The yellow glow faded to red, which in turn diminished until it became clear glass. The silver, which had been in the mix somewhere, spread out behind the glass until a mirror lay quietly, reflecting the immense expanse of the desert sky.

Flora breathed out, opened her eyes, and released Fremont’s hand. “Thank you,” she said in her mellow voice. “That will be—”

Her words cut off abruptly, her eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed. Fremont gave a cry and caught her in his arms.

The rest of the circle broke apart, either to peer worriedly at Flora or to give her some space. Flora’s eyelids fluttered, and she looked at Fremont in complete infatuation as he gave her a sip of bottled water. Mick stepped to her and touched her shoulder, no doubt sending her a spark of healing magic, but Flora never took her gaze from Fremont.

I approached the mirror and looked into it. I saw nothing but blue sky, the clouds floating by, and my face, framed by dark hair that spilled over my shoulders. “You all right?” I asked.

No answer. Again, the mirror could be choosing not to talk.

I touched the glass. It was smooth, unbroken, whole, as though no bullets had ever pierced it.