Dawn of Fog and Glass

Chapter Twenty: Dawn of Fog and Glass

The mirror is smooth against my fingers. I press harder, letting its energy run rampant through me. The surface glimmers for such a brief moment I can't tell whether or not it's my imagination.

I sigh at my blank reflection. The person before me isn't the green-haired artist I want.

At least now, I don't have my stitches. After a long period of healing, all that's left is a white scar darting across my neck.

I glance again at my notepad and pen sitting atop the counter to my left. The lights set above my mirror cast a faint glow across the top page. The pen throws a thin grey shadow, a slit down the centre of the paper.

I curse and draw my attention back to the mirror.

Focus, I tell myself.

My fingers dig deeper into the glass, hot in contrast to its cool, fluttery touch. It buzzes, reaching up to meet me, filling my throat, blackening my vision, until the mirror begins to shake.

I scowl and push away. The thrum weakens the moment I break contact.

"No, Arden," I mumble. "Push too hard and you'll break it."

I massage my temples with my palms, squeezing my eyes shut. Last time I summoned Orion, I was too panicked to know what I was doing. It was like hornets fluttered inside my head, stinging my eyes, coating my tongue with poison. There was just chaos, then quiet, then Orion.

The answer is just beyond my touch. It's so close, it's nearly tangible, but it slips through my fingers like smoke.

Control.

It's what I need and what I don't have.

For just a moment, I had had a complete, chilling control that numbed my brain and did exactly what I needed it to. I had wanted Orion, and the mirror brought Orion.

Except, you want Orion now, and nothing's happening, a little voice rings.

Shut up, I tell it.

The glass had listened to my plea as if it served me. And all this time, I've been acting as though I serve the glass.

"That has to be the answer, right?" I ask my reflection, but of course, it has no response. It knows no more than I do. It stares back at me: black hair with the ratty ends; rounded cheeks; dark, emotionless eyes; wrecked cuticles; small, spidery frame.

I roll my eyes at it. My reflection rolls its eyes back.

"Well, you're no help," I tell it, and together we plant our hands back on the mirror.

Come on, Arden. Control. Own the mirror. Don't let it own you.

"Orion," I whisper, and hope the mirror hears. "Bring me Orion."

The glass burns beneath my skin, toying with me. It hums brightly, singing through my brain, lively and chipper.

Nothing works.

I groan and rip my hands off the mirror. My fingers close around my pen, and I throw it across the room in frustration. It clinks helplessly against the floor.

It's his fault, anyway, the voice says in my head. If he hadn't told you to go outside, you wouldn't have been exposed to the Fog in the first place.

I laugh darkly. "We both know he'd never hurt me. It's Marksberg Tech's fault for leaving the door unlocked. It's my fault for being dumb enough to follow him."

I lean my back on the wall and slide down to the ground. If I close my eyes, the tiles feel just like glass, except there's no thrum. It's not alive under my fingertips, begging for release. I close my eyes and trace their pattern with one finger.