The Mirror

Prologue

The opaque shadows of dissipating clouds crept across the soundless, moonlit streets. The occasional pool of warm light pulsed over the ice-laced cobblestones as lamps struggled to keep the cold at bay, their flickering beams illuminating the streaming fog which wafted through the frozen night.

A frosted breeze stung the flushed skin of a woman’s cheeks, her pouting lips pale beneath a layer of rose-tinged gloss. An involuntary shudder trembled through her bones despite the thick coat nipping at her heels, the soothing layers of cashmere and cotton gingerly brushing the curve of her waist.

Deserted buildings rose above her, disappearing into the star-smeared night. The apartments had been abandoned for as long as she could remember, the gleaming cobblestones below all but forgotten as they extended through the gently curving street. Withered moss and vines wormed up the stone façades, twisting around the shadowed balconies and iron railings like the corpses of reaching snakes.

The woman stopped, a single boot hovering over the cobblestones, as she caught a glimpse of an ink black shadow shooting through her peripheral vision. Her chest rose with a deep breath, the cold air penetrating her lungs, her vast caramel eyes combing the depths of the dark for movement.

She stood, as still as a statue, waiting for what seemed an eternity.

Nothing.

Her shoulders shuddered as she released a steaming breath of relief. She lifted a hand, sweeping gloved fingers through her river of honey-blonde hair. Her hovering boot connected with the ground and she continued walking, ignoring the flicker of fear which lingered in her stomach. Her paranoia was unnecessary. Flinching at every shadow was irrational.

Particularly after the night that she had had.

An appreciative sigh trickled from her lips as the echoed whisper of a man kissed the backs of her eyes.

Irises of muddied brown flecked with the spattered green of moss. A strong jaw. A seductive smile.

The woman’s blood heated in her veins, her stomach tightened and a flush bloomed across her cheeks as she remembered the way he had gazed at her, his eyes full of want, his smile full of promise. It almost made her forget about the sculpture at the exhibition. Her favourite. A beautiful dancer carved of marble. The woman smiled, a quiet tilt of her lips, losing herself in thought as she continued walking down the cobblestone street.

Behind her a figure emerged from the depths of a shadowed door.

A street lamp sputtered violently.

Then died.

The woman turned.

And a black form streaked through the night air, a breath from her face.

The woman shrieked and leaped back. Her hands flew to her chest as the form landed on the ledge of a shattered window, quietly rustling its’ feathers and watching her with wide eyes of moonbeam silver.

An owl.

The woman let out a short, sharp laugh. Her paranoia had been triggered by an owl. She shook her head, her honeyed hair shining in the dull street light as the edges of her mouth lifted in amusement. She glanced at the dead lamp, barely giving it a thought, then turned back and continued on her way.

She was almost home.

Almost to her apartment.

She slipped a gloved hand into her pocket to retrieve her ring of keys. They glinted, striking one another, and their song was a sharp chime as she held them aloft to admire the attached pendant. The palm-sized mirror had been a gift from the exhibition, an obsidian snake coiled possessively around a shining, silver frame. The creature’s body seemed to slither as the mirror rotated in her fingers, reflecting the night-veiled street at her back.

Reflecting a figure, shifting in the dark.

The woman froze.

The silhouette’s onyx cloak flowed like a torrent of spilled ink amid the fog.

The woman took a step forward.

And the figure followed, lean legs stalking through a gleaming pool of streetlight.

The woman tightened her grip on her keys, skin barking painfully as the metal bit into her palm. She did not hesitate. She sprinted towards the end of the street. Heart pounding against her sternum. Breaths coming in short, nervous gasps. Her apartment would be safe. She would slip inside and the silhouette could not follow.

The woman glanced over her shoulder, searching for the figure and finding the pool of streetlight empty.

She bit down on her panic.

She could avoid the figure. If only she knew where it was. The shadows between the lamps were too deep. The clouds had almost entirely engulfed the moon. The black cloak would be too difficult to find.

The woman launched herself along the street. She could almost feel the door of her apartment. Urging. Beckoning. If she could just make it inside…

Her heart crashed like a caged bird as she rounded the corner, panting through her teeth, breaths heaving, lungs burning. Her form shot through the halo of a street lamp.

And a hand emerged from the darkness.

The woman loosed a strangled cry as gloved fingers closed around her shoulder, hauling her back.

Her stomach dropped. She struggled to turn, attempting to see the figure as she fought an onslaught of dread.

She found herself pinned.

Trapped.

Captured by the stranger’s unnatural strength.

The woman choked as the figure moved forward, heated breath caressing her ear, taut, muscled body pressing against her spine. …Wh-who are you? She gasped a frigid breath and forced herself to calm. To think clearly. She needed to find a weapon, a method of surprise. Wh-what do you want? She fumbled with the keys in her hand, the sharp metal of their teeth glinting in the street light.

The stranger lifted a shoulder in an apathetic shrug and shifted the grip on her shoulder.

The woman’s heart stuttered.

She grabbed one of her keys, stabbed its’ tip into the figure’s hand and twisted as she struggled to haul herself away.

The figure hummed a laugh, brutal fingers digging deeper into the woman’s flesh.

She opened her mouth to scream.

And was slammed back against a solidly muscled chest, the blow forcing the air from her lungs.

The woman lost her scream beneath a barrage of gasping coughs. Her keys dropped from her fingers, the metal colliding with the ground, the mirrored pendant shattering at her feet.

I’m afraid a key isn’t going to be of much help. The hand on the woman’s shoulder moved, snapping to her mouth, pressing her head into a collar of stone. Neither is your voice, for that matter.

The woman howled into the figure’s glove, her jaw aching beneath the force of the grip, fighting with everything she had.

Calmly, the stranger removed the glove from its’ free hand, catching the fabric between a gleaming set of teeth before dragging it off and tucking it into a pocket. The figure stood a moment, feeling the woman struggle, watching her eyes widen as its’ ungloved index finger began to lengthen, the tip stretching, curving, shifting into a glinting, obsidian talon.

The woman hesitated, caught in a stunned paralysis, then she began to thrash hysterically, tears spilling from her white-ringed eyes, sobs wracking her straining throat. She clawed at the hand still gripping her mouth, only to find it steady. Immovable.

The figure breathed the woman’s fear.

The talon lifted to her neck.

Pressed into her skin.

It began as nothing more than a bead of warmth, trickling down the woman’s neck. Then the blood began to spread, following the path of the talon as it leisurely dragged across her throat, the honed tip neatly slicing flesh, coaxing the life from her with the artful grace of a chord from a violin.

The pain took a breath to unfold.

But when it did, it exploded. Rupturing the woman’s anaesthetic shock.

Excruciating.

Effortless.

Blood spewed from her severed arteries, pouring in morbid streams onto her clothes and over the ground. A choking gurgle escaped as her hands flew to her throat.

She felt the warmth of her own blood pouring through her fingers, draining from her face.

Her skin turned cold and damp and tingling.

The woman collapsed beside the shattered glass of her pendant, blood bubbling in her mouth.

Her gaping eyes lifted to the cloaked figure as the talon retracted, shifting back to a blood-stained finger, smooth and slow as the moons descent.

The woman’s strength trickled through the gaps in the cobblestones, leaking towards the jaws of an ever-waiting grate. It was then that she realised no one would come. No one would see her last moments as she slipped into the eternal dark.

A tear dribbled from the corner of the woman’s eye.

Her hand slid from her neck.

The street began to blur.

And the life spilled from her like rain from the sky.

Chapter One

A single drop of water fell from the leaden sky, splattering across Adalinda’s cheek as she emerged from the mouth of a desolate alley. She glanced at the swollen clouds, her golden eyes flashing, and wiped the liquid from her skin in a smooth, sweeping movement. The frozen pavement made no sound beneath the silent soles of her boots, and she walked towards the Mirror Gallery with an unnatural quiet, even the rustling of her clothes seeming hushed by her presence.

The gallery sat across the street like a cut diamond amongst sand, its’ glass façade supporting four stories of towering stone split by gleaming windows and balustrades of twisted iron. The neighbouring buildings stood sentinel, near perfect duplicates, save the caution tape obstructing the gallery’s entrance. Stark and vivid. Separating the murmuring crowd from the curtained windows which shielded the chaos inside.

Adalinda lifted a hand to her scarf, smoothing the ruffles of fabric which coiled tightly around her head, as a series of restless shivers prickled over her scalp. The sensation crept down her spine, raising her skin in delicate mounds beneath the woollen fabric of her clothes. She sucked in a breath, the winter air clouding in her lungs, and curled her fingers into softly clenched fists as she willed the prickling to stop.

It refused.

The ghost of a frown curved Adalinda’s lips. She paused a moment, her eyes flicking over the gathered crowd, before straightening her shoulders, lifting her chin, and weaving through them as gracefully as the wind through whispering leaves. She slipped beneath the caution tape, choosing a section which remained unmanned, and pinned her gaze on the officer standing guard.

The officer met her stare, pale scars and tribal tattoos shimmering on a face as dark as midnight. The woman waited until Adalinda slowed to a halt before opening her stern lips to speak. Miss Adalinda Veil?

Adalinda nodded, examining the swirling patterns of the officer’s tattoos before peering at the gallery’s entrance. Why was I called?

To provide input. The officer narrowed her unusual eyes, her right gilded amethyst, her left a depthless coffee. She assessed the woollen cloak flowing over Adalinda’s shoulders, allowed her gaze to linger on the scarf binding Adalinda’s head. My name is Tzali’ka, I was asked to escort you inside.

Adalinda frowned, aching to placate her prickling scalp as it sent another shiver down her neck. She began to reach for the base of her scarf. Stopped.

Come, they will have questions. Tzali’ka shoved the door open, holding it just long enough for Adalinda to step inside.

It took a few breaths for Adalinda’s eyes to adjust to the subdued light. The gallery echoed with countless footsteps, with the hushed murmurs of officers and forensics and the quiet sniffs which follow tears.

Wait here.

Adalinda glanced at Tzali’ka as the officer turned her back, striding across the gallery floor to a man partially hidden behind a cluster of forensics.

A bit intense, isn’t she?

Adalinda blinked, then turned, responding involuntarily to the familiar, lilting voice of the gallery owner. Iveta.

The copper-eyed woman stepped up beside Adalinda, fiery, ginger hair flowing over one shoulder, tall, with the limbs of a willow. That woman is like a raincloud on a summer day. Honestly, I don’t think she has a bone in her body that isn’t made of granite.

You know her?

Iveta shook her head, shifting her weight to the side. I only spoke to her for a minute or so, but I figured that was enough. Especially after— The words caught in the woman’s throat and she bit her lip as it began to tremble. … After what I found this morning… Iveta looked over her shoulder, her eyes landing on Adalinda’s marble sculpture, placed near the back of the room. The sculpted dancer seemed about to swoon, her arms elegantly extended, her unseeing eyes gazing eternally up.

Up towards the roof, painted a pale, bleaching white.

Up towards the woman.

Hanging silent.

Lifeless.

Murdered.

She dangled from the ceiling, suspended by smoothest silk. Her figure unnervingly bent, her back forlornly arched, as if wilting with the transient grace of a pale and fading bloom.

The silk coiled around her waist like a mourning lover’s arm, the supple fabric circling the curve of her thighs, and reaching beneath her back, to stream through her dangling hands in a wistful, pearlescent cascade. A matching circlet of ribbon surrounded her slim neck, the perfection of her skin almost appearing porcelain beneath the fabric.

And her figure had been adorned with the spilling cloth of a beautiful, burnt-orange dress. The edges ragged yet stainless. One shoulder torn and hanging uselessly over her collar.

Adalinda stilled as a memory struck, cold and cruel as steel.

A thundering roar erupted in the blinding-black silence. The roar of a nightmare bellowing its’ rage. The roar of the wind, wrenching and wrestling with the limbs of a plummeting form.

Adalinda clenched her teeth, her fingers curling in trembling fists, barely able to hear the incorporeal fog of Iveta’s voice as the woman began to explain.

I came to the gallery early this morning and she was just— Iveta swallowed thickly, lifting a shaking hand to her neck, silver lining her bright, copper eyes. The woman shook her head, unable to hide the quivering of her chin. "She was just hanging there."

Adalinda forced herself to turn away from the suspended corpse, focusing her attention on the officer who had escorted her inside. Tzali’ka stood before an imposing man clad in a black, leather jacket, a frown tugging at her lips. She gestured to Adalinda and the man dragged a broad palm across his shaven jaw, his ebony features shifting as his eyes flicked in Adalinda’s direction.

… Do you recognise her?

Adalinda dragged her attention back to Iveta, blinking at the woman as she spoke. She was combing her fingers through her flaming hair, still staring at the lifeless woman hanging from the ceiling.

"I don’t recognise her. I’ve spent so much time in this gallery, preparing for the event last night, and now there’s a murdered woman—" A sob clawed up Iveta’s throat.

Adalinda placed a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder, unable to stop her gaze from returning to the burnt-orange dress. She swallowed the tension beginning to constrict her throat as she noticed the steady beat of approaching footsteps.

Miss Veil?

Adalinda gently pulled her hand from Iveta’s shoulder and turned to find the man in the leather jacket standing at her side.

I’m Detective Christensen. The man extended an introductory hand, his ebony skin dark against the pale gallery walls, his emerald eyes assessing. I have a few questions for you.

Adalinda lowered her chin in a nod and took his offered hand. She suppressed a chill as her eyes slid back to her sculpture, catching on a broken pendant discarded at its’ base. An obsidian snake, its’ body curled protectively around the silver frame of what should have been a mirror.

Christensen released Adalinda’s hand, his lips pulling in a deep frown. That’s your sculpture, isn’t it?

It is. The pulse skipped in Adalinda’s veins as the detective’s gaze shifted over her head, focusing on a dark form which had begun to cross the room.

Do you recognise the deceased?

Adalinda shook her head, inwardly fighting the urge to sooth the aggravated prickle of her scalp as Christensen returned his attention to her. No, I don’t.

Where were you last night?

Adalinda tensed as the dark form stopped behind her, speaking with a voice as rich as molten honey, his presence a heavy rift in the cool gallery air.

She had not heard him arrive.

But she had felt him.

Slowly, Adalinda turned, her boots silent as midnight on the cold marble floor.

Quivers danced beneath her skin.

Her pulse stuttered.

Stopped.

A man stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his broad shoulders supporting the flowing length of a dark, storm-cloud coat.

Confident and powerful and elegant.

Adalinda’s eyes wandered the exquisite planes of the man’s chest, his steady breaths sighing against the fabric of his shirt, his scent of woodsmoke and rain folding over her, drifting through her.

Adalinda swallowed as pain lanced through her palms and she realised her nails had bitten into her skin.

Focus.

She forced herself to look up.

And her simmering gaze collided with that of gleaming steel.

The breath rushed from her lungs, leaving her empty, leaving her aching.

The man peered down at her with eyes of bluest ocean, their depths brewing with amusement, smothering an almost imperceptible flash of hunger as he noticed her white-knuckled fists. The corner of his stern lips softened, curving in a devastating smile.

Adalinda set her jaw, sensing a faint, impossible familiarity.

Forgive me for the abrupt interruption. I’m Detective Donovan, I work with Detective Christensen.

Donovan extended a hand and Adalinda accepted it, all too aware of the shiver which charged up her spine. His warm, roughened skin grazed her palm, his touch consuming her, carving away her senses until there was only his staggering gaze. Wildfire coursed through her limbs, her nerves igniting in response to the contact as something inside her unraveled.

Phantom hands brushed her hips, causing heat to bloom in her core.

His grip was wasted on a handshake.

Adalinda forced her lips to part, to drag a word from the void consuming her thoughts. I—

Her scalp began to prickle.

The world slammed into her, a surge of colour and noise with the stinging lash of a whip, as she remembered herself. Remembered where she was.

Adalinda shook Donovan’s hand. Once. With inadvertently unnatural strength. To answer your question, I was working on a sculpture in my studio and returned to my apartment around midnight.

Donovan arched a brow, eyeing Adalinda’s hands as they curled into fists and disappeared beneath the folds of her ivory cloak.

Christensen crossed his arms. Did anyone see you return home?

Yes… My landlady, Diana, she has a habit of staying up. Adalinda paused, loosing her fingers and pressing a palm against her trouser pocket, feeling the shape of the keys to her apartment. … She made me tea before I went to bed.

Another frown curled the edges of Christensen’s mouth. We’ll need to confirm that with her.

Adalinda dipped her chin in a confirming nod. I’ll forward you her details.

Can you think of anyone who would want to threaten you?

Adalinda’s eyes shifted to Donovan as he turned, slowly beginning to walk towards the murdered woman and her sculpture.

A shiver crawled across Adalinda’s scalp and she lifted her fingers to the base of her scarf, moving to follow the detective. … No.

And you, Iveta?

No! Iveta shook her head emphatically, her long hair whispering around her fair features, her boots echoing as she followed them across the floor. I don’t understand why anyone would… The woman swallowed again, averting her eyes as Adalinda stopped before the sculpture to stare up at the suspended corpse.

The dead woman’s honey-blonde hair shifted in a soft breeze as Tzali’ka swept out the door.

Whoever did this clearly had a lot of time to prepare. I imagine suspending a person from a ceiling would be difficult. Adalinda gestured to the hook which held the silk, its’ dark metal faintly glinting beneath the fabric. They would’ve had to attach that hook to the ceiling, tie the silk and haul her body into position.

Donovan looked at Adalinda, the gallery light burnishing the thick waves of his chocolate hair, his ocean eyes dark and intense.

Adalinda kept her focus on the lifeless woman, attempting to ignore the weight of the detective’s stare. The murder was committed elsewhere. She nodded to the pristine, stone floor. The gallery is too clean. There’s no blood, no glass—

No glass. Christensen let his arms fall to his sides, glancing at Donovan and beginning to circle the sculpture.

That is one of the gallery’s promotional keychains. Adalinda pointed to the broken pendant discarded at the base of the sculpture. It’s mirror has been shattered but there’s no glass here.

Christensen narrowed his eyes, peering at Adalinda around the curve of the sculptures back. I take it crime solving is a hobby.

Adalinda hesitated, the corner of her lips twitching, as a medical examiner stepped around Donovan and reached for the murdered woman’s dangling wrists. You have a sense of humour, Detective.

I think you know more than you’re letting on. Christensen came to a stop by Adalinda’s side, his brows knitting together in a deep-set frown. What are you hiding, Adalinda?

Adalinda met Christensen’s stare, set her jaw against the inflamed prickling beneath her scarf. I’m not hiding anything. I’m simply observant. I’m an artist, it comes with the territory. She shifted, catching sight of one of the many cameras scattered throughout the gallery. … I take it the cameras didn’t catch anything helpful since this looks as if the murder was clearly thought through. Did you speak to the security guard?

Donovan nodded, crossing his arms over his chest and assessing the layout of the room. We’ve already requested the security footage from last night. The guard was convinced that all possible entrances on the premises were locked and the alarms were activated. At no point during the night did he let anyone in, nor did any of the alarms trigger.

The only people with keys are the security guard and myself. Iveta dragged her eyes away from the medical examiner still examining the murdered woman’s wrist. The examiner’s brow furrowed as something on the skin began to shimmer, catching the gallery light. She angled her head, the piercings lining the curve of her ear subtly winking.

So how did the body get here? The corner of Christensen’s lips twitched as he looked to Iveta.

Adalinda lifted her gaze to the ceiling. Perhaps the balconies above the gallery?

"My apartments? The blood drained from Iveta’s face. No. I reinforced all of the windows and doors with the same security as is in the gallery. She pursed her lips as Adalinda turned to her with a question brimming in her eyes. What? I collect art. You really think I’m going to leave my own collection unguarded while I’m out?"

Christensen rubbed his palm across his forehead and over the cushioned surface of his tightly coiled hair. What other entrance methods are there?

There’s only the one. Iveta swept a hand towards the glass door of the gallery. That’s it.

Adalinda pressed her lips in a line. She twisted, momentarily studying the entrance before returning her attention to the murdered woman and the examiner standing beneath her.

The examiner released a low hum, muttering to herself before glancing at Donovan and then Christensen, her eyes of jade and topaz bright, the short side of her platinum hair rustling ever so softly as she moved.

What is it, Clarke? Christensen stepped around Adalinda, closing the distance between himself and the bright-eyed woman.

Clarke rotated the murdered woman’s wrist and the silk draping from her waxen hands slipped…

To reveal a tattoo.

Adalinda froze, every muscle in her body becoming stone, her blood turning to ice in her veins.

Inked in shimmering ivory, in the centre of the lifeless woman’s right wrist, was a curling snake, its’ body looped and knotted, elegant in its’ symmetry, simple in its’ design and impossibly, sickeningly familiar.

My guess is that this was tattooed post mortem. There’s no aggravation on the skin even though the ink itself has not completely dried. Clarke released the wrist, lowering herself so her feet were flat on the floor.

The murderer tattooed the victim? Adalinda forced herself to relax, to erase the panic she could feel leaking into her eyes. Beneath her cloak, she discretely adjusted the right sleeve of her jacket, feigning calm as she ensured the cuff still concealed her wrist.

Clarke nodded, the piercing in her lip glinting as her gloved hands dropped to her sides. And the ribbon around her neck is concealing a sliced throat. Professionally stitched. She turned to Donovan, revealing the long side of her platinum hair, the length rolled into a tight bun, the underside gleaming a deep shade of lavender.

Donovan narrowed his eyes, calculating the difference between her height and the suspended woman’s neck. … Do I want to know how you reached that?

Clarke chewed her lip, gaze flicking to a chair behind the white desk on the far side of the room. I used the chair.

A growl rumbled in Donovan’s throat. Clarke…

Clarke’s elven features contorted in a grimace as the detectives glared at her. "In my defence, I put it back exactly where I found it."

Donovan released a sigh, his expression shifting, becoming evaluative, as he noticed the fingers Adalinda had wrapped around her wrist. I suspect the murderer wanted to convey a message.

Adalinda forced her eyes from the dead woman’s tattoo, deliberately meeting Donovan’s gaze and releasing her wrist. She could feel the spark of the detective’s suspicion, seeping through his features as he locked his stare with her own.

As he took a step forward and she felt the air thicken in her throat.

I don’t suppose you have any idea what that message might be?

Chapter Two

Adalinda held donovan’s stare, feeling the anxious tension of her nerves, skin prickling, heart stuttering, as Iveta began to speak. Snakes are often associated with fertility and immortality since they appear to be reincarnated when they slough their skins. The woman paused, looked between the detectives. They’re also regularly regarded as guardians of the underworld and, therefore, are connected with negativity and evil.

Christensen shuddered, crossing his arms over his chest, his words barely audible as he muttered under his breath. "I hate snakes."

Adalinda felt a contraction in her chest as a crease formed in Donovan’s brow. That doesn’t explain why the murderer would tattoo it on a corpse.

Perhaps the murderer sees death as a form of art and simply created a signature to ensure recognition.

Donovan’s eyes flicked to Adalinda, his expression darkening in response to her suggestion. … Hence the art gallery.

Adalinda nodded, inhaling deeply as she looked up at the murdered woman and fought to control her fragile state of calm.

But why here? Christensen frowned, sharing a look with Donovan before turning to Adalinda. "Why this gallery? Why your sculpture?"

A subtle ringing built in Adalinda’s ears, leaking over Christensen’s voice, swelling and surging as her calm began to fray, as her instincts began to scream at her to run.

The killer had chosen this gallery, had chosen her sculpture, because the murder was for her. She understood the macabre gift for what it truly was.

A warning.

A message.

Someone knew who she was.

Someone knew what she was.

Adalinda pressed her fingers into the flesh of her palms, struggling not to reach up and calm the crawling sensation beneath her scarf. The prickling had become constant, an incessant, unending reminder.

She was a monster.

And she could not run.

She would not run.

But if she remained looking at that burnt-orange dress, at that dead woman hanging from the ceiling, she would find herself defenceless. She would be unable to protect herself from the prowling memories she was constantly keeping at bay.

The blood heated in Adalinda’s veins as she forcibly released her fists, dragging her eyes from the suspended corpse long enough to answer Christensen’s questions. If I knew why the body had been left here I would not hesitate to tell you, Detective, but I don’t. I don’t know why it’s here. I don’t know why it’s above my sculpture. Adalinda inhaled an unsteady breath, re-establishing a few threads of her unravelling calm. I apologise but I don’t think I can help you any further. If you’ll excuse me, I have some personal matters to attend to. She extended her hand to Donovan, deliberately ensuring her wrist remained hidden.

The detective hesitated, assessing her, before finally lifting his hand to take her own in a firm, unyielding grasp.

Adalinda exhaled a shallow breath, some of the tension bleeding from her bones as Donovan released his grip and lowered his arm to his side.

How do we contact you? We’ll have further questions.

Adalinda looked to the gallery owner. Iveta has my details. Her gaze shifted to Christensen and she lowered her chin in an acknowledging nod before turning and striding for the doors, breaths unevenly shuddering, ignoring Donovan’s piercing stare as it burned the planes of her back.

She dared not look back as she passed the officer still guarding the door, Tzali’ka’s attention possessed by another woman slipping through the caution tape. Another woman who watched Adalinda, her eyes flashing silver, her auburn tresses strangled in a knot atop her head. She swept past in a river of confidence, head held high, the corner of her lips quirking.

Adalinda suppressed a shiver and lifted her fingers to brush the base of her scarf as she ducked beneath the barrier, narrowly avoiding a man clothed entirely in black. He watched Adalinda as she pushed through the crowd, his mud-brown eyes decorated with glittering moss, his muscular shoulders forcibly relaxed.

For a moment, the cuff of Adalinda’s right sleeve fell, revealing smooth skin and a shimmering tattoo. An ivory snake. Looping and elongated. Elegant in its’ symmetry. Simple in its’ design.

Identical to that which was inked on the murdered woman’s wrist.

The man’s stare locked on Adalinda’s tattoo as she tugged at her sleeve, once more concealing the pearlescent design.

His handsome features set in grim determination.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. Ducked his head.

And disappeared into the crowd.

Chapter Three

The enormous steel door stood before Adalinda like a demon in the recesses of her studio, appearing entirely effortless despite its’ dominating, leaden features.

The door was old.

Enormously old.

With its’ scratched and dented surface, rusted and eternally taunting.

Adalinda’s tattoo glinted as she reached out with both hands, grabbing two of the six massive spokes protruding from the vault’s radial handle. She flicked her wrists and the handle span, its’ inner mechanism groaning loudly.

It spat a metallic clunk as it popped open.

The vault was not locked.

The vault was never locked.

And Adalinda felt the cool darkness inside it calling to her.

Tendrils of shadow sucked back as Adalinda pulled the door open further, the studios’ light intruding on the airless, blackened void. She heaved a long breath, dropping her hands from the door and rubbing a soothing thumb over the lines of her tattoo. She stayed there only a moment, then moved forward, slipping into the all consuming dark without a second thought.

A step to the left found her the light switch, clinging to the wall like a mulish parasite. Adalinda glared at it, her brow deeply furrowed, her golden irises glowing like embers in a dying fire. She flipped the switch. The electric current hissed.

And a single, naked bulb flickered to life, hanging precariously from the roof as if at any moment it might choose to fall.

Gradually, its’ light expanded, banishing the darkness of the vault and replacing it with a warm, buttery glow.

Adalinda pivoted on her heel to face the room. Her bare feet absorbed the cold of the metal floor, the chill causing her skin to sing and her bones to gently ache. She followed the vault’s great, steel walls with her eyes, then let her gaze sweep over the interior.

The vault was filled with figures of partially carved stone, all of them illuminated by the light of the fragile bulb. Their surfaces were smothered with crosshatching indents, chiselled and unfinished, dead and unseeing, misshapen and ruined and wrathfully banished to the darkness of the ageing vault.

A shudder spread beneath Adalinda’s skin as she navigated through the statues, shifting and rotating with the dexterity of a dancer, her gaze locked on the wall at the end of the vault. A low hiss drove through her clenched teeth as she arrived at the wall, glowering at the small safe welded securely into its’ surface. The safe was scratched and dented, its’ door hanging from a single hinge.

This safe had been locked. Left without a key.

Though, that had not stopped her.

She had seized the door and wrenched it open with Pandora’s ignorant curiosity, not fearing what was inside, nor what it would do to her if she found out.

Adalinda slipped hesitant fingers around the safe door.

A shudder crept beneath her scarf as she gently pulled it open.

The doors’ hinge screamed in violent protest, the dull light from the single bulb creeping into its’ mouth, crawling possessively over the item inside.

Adalinda pursed her lips and snatched the object up, her skin absorbing the rough feeling of ancient, worn leather. The abnormally light cover stared at her expectantly, the foiling on its’ surface gleaming a bright and brilliant silver.

Adalinda’s chest expanded as she inhaled a cavernous breath.

Her fingers curled around the cover.

She opened the book.

The inside of the spine was stripped, lined with the torn edges of the paper that had once filled it.

Adalinda’s heart contracted as she stared at the splintered sentences scrawled across the inside of the back cover. A swirling script edged with panic. Sharp yet flowing like the sting of airborne sand.

Sentences which had remained vague and useless for nearing a decade.

Sentences written in her own hand, in a book she did not recognise.

Don’t let — find you. She’s —

Run.

Hide from the owls.

Find — The man who holds the ocean in his eyes.

I hope that will be enough for you to remember.

Some words had been removed, scraped and torn from the cover and smothered with bleeding black ink. Adalinda had searched for indentations, had tried to take rubbings with charcoal and tried to remove the ink.

Nothing worked.

She couldn’t understand why she would have written so obscure a message. She couldn’t understand how the book had appeared in the safe, waiting as if placed like a torturous, infuriating clue.

Adalinda had found the man with the ocean in his eyes, she’d found him, and still she did not remember.

Her mind was empty.

Wiped.

Save the decade in which she had been a sculptor.

The man peered down at her with eyes of bluest ocean, their depths brewing with amusement, smothering an almost imperceptible flash of hunger as he noticed her white-knuckled fists.

Fire surged in Adalinda’s core at the memory of the detective. She snapped the book shut. Threw it into the safe. Slammed the damned door.

Metal shrieked as the remaining hinge ripped, peeling like the missing pages of her book.

The door of the safe crashed to the floor.

A growl lathered in Adalinda’s throat as she glared at the book laying face up in the safe.

Smugly.

Taunting.

Adalinda stepped back, hands collapsing to her sides, and stood, barely moving for long, arduous moments. Her stare seared into the covers’ shining indentation, twin, in every aspect, to the ivory tattoo inked onto the murdered woman’s wrist, onto her own wrist.

Monster.

Fury bloomed inside her, throbbing and growing until it became overwhelming. Her fingers curled in straining fists. She spat a curse and bared her teeth, driving her knuckles into the wall beside the safe, her anger flooding into the steel, where it steamed, where it cooled.

Adalinda’s nostrils flared, she pealed her fist away from the crippled metal, revealing a perfect imprint, as if she had struck nothing more than a pile of moistened clay, adding another impression of her knuckles to those already spread across the surface of the wall.

Marks of her frustration.

Her inability to understand.

She knew what she was. She simply couldn’t remember why.

Adalinda twisted, storming back through the mangled sculptures, angered and frightened and alone. She stalked out of the vault and slammed the door, banishing the page-less book to the dark and leaving the naked bulb swinging, ever so slightly, from the force of her frustrated rage.

Chapter Four

Frigid rain poured in sheets from the darkened sky, seeping into the heavy fabric of Donovan’s coat, spilling down the ridges of his angular features and plastering thick waves of hair to his head.

He stood like a shadow amidst the glittering street, ocean stare locked on the warm glow leaking from the windows of the building before him. A hotel which had been converted into a luxurious orphanage.

"Bloody hell, it’s cold! The car door slammed viciously as Christensen stepped out, shoulders hunched against the downpour. This weather makes my refrigerator look like the tropics. He muttered a string of curses, snapping the collar of his jacket up over his neck and stomping through the icy puddles to the building across the street. … Let’s just get this over with."

Donovan flexed his fingers, watching the freezing water collect in his palm, watching as the droplets trickled from the edge of his dark lashes and down the bridge of his nose.

Pattering.

Whispering.

Clinging to his skin as if it did not wish to leave.

The hypothermic cold didn’t bother him. He felt the chill of it, the bite of the winter wind as it pinched his cheeks, the sting of iced rain as it nipped at his skin. Though it was more of an afterthought. An inconvenience.

He’d been through worse.

Donovan. Donovan’s attention snapped back to the building. Christensen huddled beneath the overhanging balcony, his gloved fingers curling irritably. It’s cold as hell. Stop standing in the rain, you’re making me feel worse.

The corner of Donovan’s mouth twitched in amusement and his eyes glinted as he strode forward. It isn’t that bad.

Christensen narrowed his eyes in response, shoving his finger into the bell and listening to the sharp melody of the chime as it echoed through the door.

Donovan and Christensen had found a suspect late that afternoon, a man clothed entirely in black, smooth as night as he crossed the security footage from the gallery exhibition the evening of the murder. The man had raked his fingers through his combed, chestnut hair, grinning and flirting with the victim while she admired Adalinda’s sculpture.

They had yet to uncover a name.

Though they had obtained hers.

Leena Rosenberg had been studying sculpture, attending one of the top art universities in the city, and had attended an exhibition at the Mirror Gallery on