Kelly Drake and the Tears of the Dragons

Prologue

William adjusted his glasses as thin smoke billowed from the cigarette he was holding. He rubbed his itchy eyes, and then, when his vision cleared, resumed with the novel he was reading. Only a few pages remained, and he was determined to finish them though his legs had been numb for the past twenty-five minutes.  

Another drag on his cigarette made him cough, as had often happened in the recent past. This time, the coughing did not abate, even after he had extinguished the half-stick. William dropped the heavily dog-eared soft cover as he bent over to control the wheezing. He tried to stand, to get his emergency kit in the medicine cabinet just a few feet away, but with cramped leg muscles and lungs ready to explode, he just could not do it. He closed his eyes in concentration and clenched his fist. The light flickered. Old and new toothbrushes shook in their water-stained and moldy drinking glass case. The water in the tub began to boil. And for a moment – a blink-of-an-eye moment – the full-size mirror in front of him seemed to shimmer and take on a watery form, as if calling him to dive right in.

A film of silver and gold dust emanated from the frame and center of the mirror and hovered just above William's extended hand. A few seconds later, with boxer shorts crumpled around his ankles, he keeled over, his left hand clasped around his neck, and the dust scattered about, like a parade dispersed by sudden rainfall. William hit the checkered floor tiles face first, his expression a contorted, panic-stricken mess. Except for the dust that had begun to twinkle as they were drifting around his body, the toilet was as still and as silent as the break of dawn.

He was forty-one.

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