I've broken it. My great-great-grandmother's hand-carved ivory-framed mirror, shattered. I picked it up to admire the intricate carvings of fairies, elves, and other fey made to look as if they were lifting the perfect circle of mirrored glass. I had no idea it would be so heavy, no idea that my fingers were still covered in oil from the lotion I applied earlier. Now it lies on the floor, shards of glass scattered around the heavy frame.
My heart sinks. I can just hear the disappointment and anger in my mother's voice when she finds out. She has treated the mirror with so much love and care over the years, warning me to never touch it. And now I've done the unthinkable.
I bend down to pick up the largest pieces, cradling them in my palm with care not to cut my skin. I've only gathered a few pieces when I notice that the bedroom floor is covered in a light mist that's growing thicker by the second. I pause, wondering where it's coming from. The mist swirls around my knees and elbows and a blue glow from the mirror pieces casts strange shadows on the mist.
Abruptly, the mist changes direction. It rushes in reverse, gathering into a swirling ball just above the mirror frame. The ball of mist grows darker and more solid until it's a hovering gray sphere.
Wary of this unexpected development, I stand in a crouch, ready to run if I need to. There's a deafening crack, making me jump. A jagged, glowing crack splits the sphere down the middle. The sphere explodes and I shield my face in anticipation of debris, but nothing comes.
I hesitate. Taking a peek, I see no debris, no sign of a sphere at all. In its place is a slim figure shrouded in shadow. As the shadow gradually disperses, I see that the figure is a young man. His complexion is so white it almost looks like he's been painted over with reflective paint, and his arms and face are decorated in glowing, swirling tattoos that shimmer as he turns his head. He's clothed in strange, loose clothing that appears to have no seams, wrinkles, or anything that might indicate tailoring.
He turns his gaze on me, and a shudder runs down my spine. His eyes have no whites at all, the solid, glassy black orbs a stark contrast with his blinding white skin. A feral smile slides onto his face as he sees me. "Florence?" he asks. "No, your hair is too dark to be her," he muses. "A daughter? Granddaughter, perhaps?" His words alone seem harmless enough, but there's a dark, threatening undertone to his otherwise friendly demeanor.
I lick my lips before answering. "She--she was my great-great-grandmother," I say, not sure how much information I should give him. "Who are you?"
Instead of answering, he glides closer until he's only an arm-length away. My heart seizes in my chest, and I try to sink back into the bed behind me. He reaches out, his finger brushing against my chin. "Florence's great-great-granddaughter," he says almost thoughtfully. "It really has been a long time. I hoped she would still be alive when I finally freed myself. A shame, really."
Anger bubbles up from the pit of my stomach, boiling over until it overwhelms my fear, and I grab his wrist. "Who are you, and how do you know my great-grandmother?"
He remains unperturbed by my outburst, making no move to free his wrist. "The name is Abraxas," he says simply. "When Florence imprisoned me in that mirror I vowed to get my revenge the moment I was freed." Abraxas moves closer, but I stand my ground, trying to keep my grip on his wrist without leaving myself open. He bares his teeth, showing off blackened fangs and pointy incisors. "But seeing as Florence is long dead, her great-great-granddaughter will do."
Suddenly his wrist is free and my hand is empty, without any sort of tugging or resistance to indicate I ever had him in my grip. He pounces, his terrible claws aiming for my chest and throat. An unbidden scream rips from my lungs, and I shove him away in pure panic.
The resulting force from my act of self-defense is much stronger than what I put into it, and Abraxas sails across the room, slamming into the far wall. The same force throws me backward and I collide with the oak dresser, knocking jewelry boxes and combs and other knick-knacks onto the floor. I fumble blindly for something, anything, I can use as a weapon, my hand falling on a jeweled hat pin. I have no idea if such a thing would work against Abraxas, but I'm not taking any chances.
"You little enchantress," he hisses, white smoke rolling off his skin as he gets to his feet. "Figures Florence's progeny would be just as talented in magic."
"I'm not an enchantress," I say, gripping the hat pin until my knuckles turn white. "But I'm not about to be killed by some demon in a mirror, either."
He shrieks and propels himself forward, his pasty-white arms outstretched. Holding the hat pin out defensively, I wait until he's nearly at my throat before thrusting it at his chest. It connects, but not in a way I expect. My momentum carries me forward, and I pass right through him. I trip over his arm as he turns to try and grab me, and the hat pin is plunged into his shadow.
He screeches in pain, his body contorting and twisting before exploding in a wave of white smoke. The smoke burns my eyes and throat, making me cough. The smoke clears, revealing that Abraxas is gone. The hat pin stands upright in the carpet, letting off a faint glow. I hesitate, then dislodge it from the floor, turning it over in my hands.
You will never be rid of me. Abraxas's voice seeps into my mind. Your enchantment is weak and untrained, unlike Florence's. Your enchantment will hold only as long as you have strength, and once it breaks--which it will--I will get my revenge.
I shudder, resisting the urge to fling the hat pin as far from me as I can. Instead I set it on the floor in front of me and let out a long, shaky sigh. Mom is not going to be happy about this.
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