should have gone with the turkey sandwich and had him hold the avocado.
I pushed through into a dimly lit bathroom and locked the door. I did my business and washed my hands as best I could, avoiding soaking the bandage. I wondered if the lack of healing was worth the additional pain, and after a moment’s consideration, I figured maybe it was. I stared at myself in the mirror, saw the dark circles under my eyes from years of stress, of hell, of the last few days of crap that had come cascading to a lovely finish, and I sighed. I ran the water over my uninjured hand and then wiped it across my face. “Two weeks,” I muttered, staring down at the white porcelain sink.
I saw a spread of crimson on my hand and realized the bandage was soaking through again. I started to curse, then shook my head. Give it a night and this wouldn’t matter. Being a plain old meta again was an adjustment, even though it was only for a few hours, probably.
I splashed my face lightly with water again, then brushed my hair back, letting it tangle a little as I did so. I stared at myself in the mirror, the glossy, black-painted bathroom walls a stunning contrast with my pale skin. The light over the sink flickered, then snapped off for a full second.
When it came back on, the face in the mirror wasn’t mine.
Where my pale, make-up free face had been a moment earlier was a dark shadow, a featureless blur. It looked like someone had smudged black oil over the mirror, blotting me out, replacing me with something … else.
The sound of the humming fluorescent light filled my ears, and then, ever-so-quietly, I heard a voice, deep, sounding like it was somewhere in the distance.
“ You shouldn’t be here ,” it said, as I stared at the faceless darkness in the mirror.
Then the light over the sink flickered again, and when I blinked, my face was back. I looked around the bathroom, searching for some sign of something awry, of a power cord leading to the mirror, of anything to explain that strangely freaky display.
I found nothing.
I took a deep breath, then another, then a third. The light was at a steady thrum now, no hint of power interruption or weirdness. The mirror was clear, my face visible in perfect clarity, down to the small beads of water that I’d left on my face from the splashing.
“Maybe I’m imagining things,” I said and gave the bathroom another once over. There was nothing amiss here, nothing to hint that what I’d seen was anything other than a daydream or a delusion based on stress. Because I certainly had that.
Just the same, I took care when I came out the door. The hall was quiet, still no hint of anyone else in the bar. With a last look at the mirror, I left, walking back to the bar like someone was going to attack me at any moment.
Because let’s face it, it’s me. Someone was bound to try.
7.
Reed
Benjamin Cunningham’s house was a simple one story built over a sunken garage. It was the sort of thing you see a lot in Minnesota, but not much in other parts of the country, especially the ones closer to sea level, because it essentially left the house with a garage that emptied right into the basement. The front door to the house was on the upper level, and Augustus and I walked up the steps leading up the small hill from the driveway to ring the bell. The air smelled of fall breeze, with a lovely crispness that was a little early for the season.
When the door opened, we were greeted by a woman that I put in her mid-fifties. She wore a concerned look, probably wondering why two guys in suits were at her front door. “Yes?” she asked.
“Ma’am, I’m Reed Treston of the, uh … Metahuman Policing and—”
“I know who you are,” she said, staring out at me from behind a screen door. “Why are you here?”
My reputation preceded me. It often does; people seem to know my face from all the splash exposure I get with Sienna, but they get me mixed up with other people. Someone even asked if I was
I pushed through into a dimly lit bathroom and locked the door. I did my business and washed my hands as best I could, avoiding soaking the bandage. I wondered if the lack of healing was worth the additional pain, and after a moment’s consideration, I figured maybe it was. I stared at myself in the mirror, saw the dark circles under my eyes from years of stress, of hell, of the last few days of crap that had come cascading to a lovely finish, and I sighed. I ran the water over my uninjured hand and then wiped it across my face. “Two weeks,” I muttered, staring down at the white porcelain sink.
I saw a spread of crimson on my hand and realized the bandage was soaking through again. I started to curse, then shook my head. Give it a night and this wouldn’t matter. Being a plain old meta again was an adjustment, even though it was only for a few hours, probably.
I splashed my face lightly with water again, then brushed my hair back, letting it tangle a little as I did so. I stared at myself in the mirror, the glossy, black-painted bathroom walls a stunning contrast with my pale skin. The light over the sink flickered, then snapped off for a full second.
When it came back on, the face in the mirror wasn’t mine.
Where my pale, make-up free face had been a moment earlier was a dark shadow, a featureless blur. It looked like someone had smudged black oil over the mirror, blotting me out, replacing me with something … else.
The sound of the humming fluorescent light filled my ears, and then, ever-so-quietly, I heard a voice, deep, sounding like it was somewhere in the distance.
“ You shouldn’t be here ,” it said, as I stared at the faceless darkness in the mirror.
Then the light over the sink flickered again, and when I blinked, my face was back. I looked around the bathroom, searching for some sign of something awry, of a power cord leading to the mirror, of anything to explain that strangely freaky display.
I found nothing.
I took a deep breath, then another, then a third. The light was at a steady thrum now, no hint of power interruption or weirdness. The mirror was clear, my face visible in perfect clarity, down to the small beads of water that I’d left on my face from the splashing.
“Maybe I’m imagining things,” I said and gave the bathroom another once over. There was nothing amiss here, nothing to hint that what I’d seen was anything other than a daydream or a delusion based on stress. Because I certainly had that.
Just the same, I took care when I came out the door. The hall was quiet, still no hint of anyone else in the bar. With a last look at the mirror, I left, walking back to the bar like someone was going to attack me at any moment.
Because let’s face it, it’s me. Someone was bound to try.
7.
Reed
Benjamin Cunningham’s house was a simple one story built over a sunken garage. It was the sort of thing you see a lot in Minnesota, but not much in other parts of the country, especially the ones closer to sea level, because it essentially left the house with a garage that emptied right into the basement. The front door to the house was on the upper level, and Augustus and I walked up the steps leading up the small hill from the driveway to ring the bell. The air smelled of fall breeze, with a lovely crispness that was a little early for the season.
When the door opened, we were greeted by a woman that I put in her mid-fifties. She wore a concerned look, probably wondering why two guys in suits were at her front door. “Yes?” she asked.
“Ma’am, I’m Reed Treston of the, uh … Metahuman Policing and—”
“I know who you are,” she said, staring out at me from behind a screen door. “Why are you here?”
My reputation preceded me. It often does; people seem to know my face from all the splash exposure I get with Sienna, but they get me mixed up with other people. Someone even asked if I was
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