“It’s a mirror,” Berkley scoffed. “What could a mirror possibly do?”
Jenkins was sitting on the edge of Berkley’s desk, leaning over his partner as he inspected the ornate artifact. It was old, but well cared for. “I have the faintest. But the guy took a tumble and this was left behind. Maybe it is a family heirloom? His mother’s?”
“Or he liked looking at his hair,” Berkley sighed. “I don’t think this will lead us anywhere, Jenks.”
Jenkins took the mirror and flipped it over to look at the back of it again. It was an antique for certain. The wrought metal handle twisted itself into the frame that held the mirror itself, with a engraved rear cover that depicted a ship of strange design. The sails were drawn and yet it appeared to be moving quickly through water… the artist had made some critical mistakes or had never been on a boat.
Berkley watched his partner with scrutiny. Jenkins had a way about hunches, and they usually proved right. “What are you thinking?”
Jenkins shook his head slowly as if he was pondering two different answers. “This is such a specific item… and such specific items have specific histories. Think about it, Berk, when was the last time we encountered a serial killer with an affinity for something like this?”
“Well… never. This is my first serial killer.”
“You know what I mean. Serial killers have their MO, right? They have their rituals, their behaviors… they usually stick to a pattern. It may appear to be different, but it usually isn’t. Human beings are creatures of habit, even the broken ones,” Jenkins held the back of the mirror up to his spectacled eyes, studying the minute detail of the scrollwork at the edge of the mirror backing. “Something as, unusual, as this is definitely a clue, my friend. This is not a smoking gun about the murders themselves, but it is a very real clue about our murderer.”
“Why was he carrying it?” Berkley tried.
“Exactly. Why was he carrying it? Why have a woman’s styling mirror from the Victorian era in hand while you commit such crimes?”
Berkley frowned and leaned back in his chair. The drop ceiling was yellowed and stained, each layer of color overlapping the others from the years of a leaking district building. He stretched his arms over his head and groaned. “It’s been a day. I need a drink and my bed.”
Jenkins continued to stare at the scrollwork along the edge. “Berk, I think there is writing here.”
“What kind of writing?”
“It’s hard to read,” Jenkins pulled out his phone and swiped his flashlight on. “Morta de-spenza nost… no… morta despencia nocti vert.”
The office lights all went off, and the only light in the room was from the e-lights down the hallway and Jenkin’s phone.
“What the hell? Power outage?” Berkley said.
“That’s not even Latin. It’s nonsense,” Jenkins said mostly to himself. He glanced up and slowly lowered his phone. “Uh, Berks?”
“Yeah?”
“It was just us in here right? Michele left a while ago?” Jenkins’ voice was trembling slightly. Just a tinge of fear… Berkley had heard that voice once before when a gunman had committed suicide in front of the station, it was subtle, but Berkley definitely understood it.
“Yeah.”
Jenkins raised a finger. “Then who is that standing against the wall?”
Berkley turned his head to see a dark figure starkly outlined against the far wall, opposite of the door to the hallway. Berkley jumped from his seat and pulled his sidearm in a frantic rush. “JESUS CHRIST!”
The dark figure did not move, just stood there, watching the two detectives react. The outline was indistinct, like a shadow on the water, moving and shifting with the invisible currents around it. It appeared the being was looking downwards, with its long black hair occluding its face like a shadow.
Jenkins stood slowly, lowering the mirror to his side, and set the phone down in order to pull his sidearm free from it’s holster, carefully keeping the muzzle lowered.
“Do not move!” Berkley commanded. The figure was absolutely still, lacking the movement most people made involuntarily. There was no swaying or subtle glances, the shape was an absence of movement. Berkley thought that the figure was not even breathing, as impossible as that could have been.
“Who are you?” Jenkins followed, attempting to keep his voice level.
“ENGLISH, I HATE THE ENGLISH,” the figure muttered at the end of the dark room. “YOU SUMMONED ME, BRITONS. YOU SHOULD KNOW WHAT POWERS YOU INVOKE.”
“Who are you?” Berkley reiterated, taking a step closer. He tried to ignore the pressing need to tell the creature that he and Jenkins were Americans.
Yet the figure was quiet and still as a statue in a serene garden.
“Answer the man,” Jenkins said.
“ONLY BECAUSE THE HOLDER OF MY MIRROR COMMANDS,” the figure replied, it’s voice a frosted breeze. “I AM MORNIVCH.”
Berkley looked at Jenkins and shrugged, keeping his Glock trained towards the end of the room.
Jenkins swallowed heavily. “Where are you from Mornivch?”
“MY MIRROR.”
“Uh… what is your purpose?” Jenkins tried instead.
“TO REFLECT THE DEAD AND TELL THEIR SECRETS.”
“What the hell d-d-does that mean?” Berkley stammered.
Mornivch raised his face towards the feeble light of the forgotten phone with its flashlight app shining forlornly from the desk. The creatures eyes were like mirrored silver, glinting brightly within the frame of blackness of its long black hair. “IT MEANS DEAD MEN CAN TELL ALL THE TALES THAT THEY MUST.”
“Can you tell us who used this mirror last?” Jenkins asked calmly.
“ONLY IF HE IS DEAD AND THE CORPSE IS LAYING AT MY FEET. I DO NOT SEE A CORPSE,” Mornivch observed with a sardonic tilt of his head. As if it was obvious, and also as if it was a question.
“Uh… morta despencia nocti vert,” Jenkins blurted, holding the mirror up to his glasses again. The lights of the office flickered to life, and the end of the room was empty again.
“Whiskey TANGO foxtrot, Jenks… What the ever-living-fuck just happened?” Berkley spun quickly in a circle, the barrel of his gun swinging in a swaying pattern at his crotch.
“Put it away, Berk,” Jenkins holstered his own weapon and picked up his cell phone, finally flicking the flashlight app off. “It seems we just acquired a very special hand mirror. And something tells me the rounds in your magazine are not nearly big enough to do anything about it.”
“So I am not hallucinating?”
“I never said that,” Jenkins rattled, petering out into a rough chuckle. “Although that explanation would make me feel better.”
Berkley holstered his sidearm and collapsed back into his old chair. “Now I definitely need that drink…”
“After that, I don’t blame you,” Jenkins saved him the trouble and pulled the handle of whiskey and a couple of mugs from the back of Berkley’s bottom drawer. He sloshed a couple fingers into both mugs, corked the bottle again, handing one of the mugs to his partner. “Although drinking this crap is an absolute last resort.”
“I would keep good stuff in my drawer, but it has a habit of disappearing,” Berkley said as he knocked back the mug. He grimaced as it went down.
Jenkins picked up the mirror again, inspecting the rest of it carefully. “You think we should take this over to Jenni?”
“I am not going to use a creepy mirror as an excuse to see my ex-wife, Jenks.”
“Oh come on. She is one of best researchers with access to some of the best knowledge bases in the world. She could make short work of this I bet.”
Berkley shrugged and poured another drink from the bottle. “Let’s just think this through… we have a serial killer who was finally cornered…”
“Off an anonymous tip no less,” Jenkins interjected.
“We chase the tip down… and sure enough a body, our guy, and all the evidence we need to nail the son of bitch, and he runs.”
“I go left, you go right, he goes over those trashcans, he drops this, and then he hits that alley…”
“And disappears,” Berkley finished. “Leaving us with a mirror, a body, and not much else.”
“You know…” Jenkins tapped his finger against the mirror.
“Actually use that thing? Are you serious?!” Berkley nearly spit out his whiskey.
“Why not? We have a body… and supposedly this mirror allows the dead to tell their story. I mean if it works, we could solve ANY murder!”
“Going out on a limb don’t you think?” Berkley asked. “Shouldn’t we just do our jobs? The way they are meant to be done? By performing actual detective work?”
Jenkins made a face. “I think…”
“You think what? A blimey fucking ghost is going to tell us who dun it? I admit, having it happen right in front of me was shocking… but it is a bad idea to play with things you don’t understand, Jenks.”
“Berk, it’s not a Ouija board.”
“I know! It’s a goddamn silver mirror with a spirit living inside of it. My mother, God rest her, would have contacted the Vatican at the sight of this thing, and the next moment had it in a ring of salt with a bible on top of it.”
There was a light knock at the door frame. “Gentlemen, I heard you might need some help?”
“Who the hell are you?” Berkley exclaimed. No one had walked down the hall. There were windows on either side of the doorway, the length of the hallway, and no tall blonde had walked in.
The woman walked into the office as if she owned the place in a glance. She was wearing faded black jeans, a bit tighter than what made Berkley comfortable, and a white V-neck t-shirt under a crimson leather jacket. Surprisingly, she was wearing a pair of Converse that looked like they had been fished out of a high school lost and found. The woman ran her finger along the edge of the other desks, and sat on the edge of one after inspecting her finger.
“My name is Laura Samson. And that mirror you have right there… that is bad juju, my friends.”
Jenkins pointed to himself and then the other detective. “I am Detective Jenkins, this is Detective Berkley. How did you get in here?”
Laura hooked a thumb over her shoulder, “The door.”
Jenkins licked his lips and ran a finger over the mirror absentmindedly. “And just how is this mirror bad juju, Ms. Samson?”
Laura tilted her head, and her ponytail cascaded over her right ear. “That is the Creakswood Mirror, crafted in 1871 from a broken mirror fragment found in the wreckage of the Blood’s Bounty off the coast of Scotland in 1804. The mirror itself was probably made near the Black Sea sometime before that. How the mirror got to the ship and then to the Scottish coast, and then to the Creakswood family is all a bit of mystery. What is not a mystery is that Mornivch’s essence is contained within it.”
Jenkins eyes had gone as wide as his face would allow. “How did you know the mirror was here?”
“The better question is how did I know that you used it? The answer is…” Laura leaned back with a smile. “A little demon told me.”
Berkley snorted. “Yeah sure, lady. Why don’t you find your way out of the station before I escort you out?”
“Sweetheart, you couldn’t do it if you tried,” Laura crooned. “But I am not here to measure dicks. I am here to help you with that mirror.”
Berkley shook his head, “Measure dicks?” he muttered.
Jenkins stood up with the mirror in hand, but he nestled it against his leg tightly.
Laura watched the detective called Jenkins holding the mirror carefully. The invocation was designed to be addictive. The addiction would let Mornivch loose more often, and that was the whole point of his existence now. The smaller mousy detective with the glasses must have been the one that released Mornivch, the overweight grumpy one named Berkley was just along for the ride at this point. Laura felt a smug need to punch the grumpy detective right across the jaw. “Just so you know, I happen to know who your killer is… and I will be glad to share that information if you hand that mirror over.”
Jenkins rolled his eyes and put his hand on his service revolver. “Yeah. It’s probably you, Ms. Samson.”
“I know this is the first time we have ever met, but trust me, you need my help on this one. That mirror is tied to very bad things,” Laura smiled tightly.
“We already know that. The serial killer,” Berkley sighed.
“That junkie is just the last in a long line of them. You should not be too worried about him committing more. Without the mirror, he will go into withdrawal, and the killings will stop. However, other powers that operate in this city will come for the mirror once it is known that it is without a sacrificial owner. Mornivch was a powerful summoner in the Urals in the 18th century, and his experiences are dearly sought after. Some would string out a bunch of innocents, night after night, in order to use the mirror, just like the pirate Black Brian. You see, the dead do tell tales alright, and Mornivch is deader than most, so of course, he has the best ones to share.”
“And that is why you want it?” Berkley scratched his head in confusion. Laura thought he was probably still chewing on the dick measuring comment.
“No. I have no business with the ancient cretin in the mirror, but I do have an interest to keep it out of certain hands.” Laura tapped her finger on the desk in time, flicking the fingers of her other hand between the sigils on her wrist beads. She built a containment spell, just in case. She folded her hand around the fount of energy as it coalesced in her palm. She did not want to call Mornivch from his silver mirror, but she would, if she had to. The containment would cause a lot of damage, of course. The building would probably cave in as the mirror was severed from it’s owner and the hundreds of souls that it took to make it were released in a very explosive fashion, but if the small mousy detective insisted on making this messy, Laura was prepared to go all in.
In for penny, in for a pound.
“So… how do you want to do this, boys?” Laura asked. She stood straight, ready for the one called Jenkins to do something stupid. He was holding the mirror next to his leg like he wanted to hump it. Destroying the mirror was probably for the best, but then she would have to figure out what to do with it’s inhabitant. Having Mornivch out and about was a problem in and of itself.
Jenkins turned subtly, moving the mirror out of sight. Berkley leaned back in his chair and sighed again.
“Lady, we are the cops here. You have this backwards. We tell you how it is going to be, and you deal with it,” Berkley said.
“I… uh…” Laura felt the trip of her trespassing charm spell at the back door of the station. She had dropped it out of an abundance of caution on her way in. Something wicked this way comes. “Shit.”
“That is what I thought,” Berkley grinned like he had just re-established his manhood.
“Not you, Detective. Someone else just walked into your back entrance. Just like I did,” Laura shot back. She quickly dissipated her containment spell back into her sigil bracelet, and pulled a standard #2 pencil from her inside chest pocket as she calmly backed up against the wall. Facing the door, waiting for the worst to happen with her only weapon held delicately between her fingers.
“What are you doing?” Jenkins asked worryingly. “Why are you holding a pencil?”
“I, uh… am waiting for whatever is coming after that mirror, Jenkins. Berkley, you might want to stand up.” Laura kept her eyes on the door, readying herself. She regretted leaving her snappers and the .38 at home. The wyvern wood was a powerful wand, and as soon as she used her trigger word, the actual relic would come crashing back into reality. And it was a relic that happened to release dragonfire upon command. A messy weapon, but wholly undetectable until she triggered it. The .38 would be way better, but what kind of idiot walks into a police station with a gun under their jacket?
A young woman floated down the hallway as if she was on rails. The reinforced glass outside their pen offices made it look all the more otherworldly, and Jenkins sounded like he was about to hyperventilate at the sight. Laura smiled at the reaction. The Maevens had this affect on people the first time they were seen. Imagine a young woman who died of heartbreak, something that was part ghost, part zombie, and part ghoul all at once. A Maeven was a heavy hitter in magic realm too, able to weave spells like the witches they would have become if they had not passed on. In the modern world, the Maevens were assassins of the highest order. They were able to phase through walls, shift magical boundaries, and blend into any crowd. This one was an out-of-towner for certain. They were extremely rare in the world, so having one show up in the same building that the Mirror was in was not a coincidence.
The young woman stopped before nearing the door and looked through the window at the three of them. The Maeven shook her head at the sight of Laura.
“Come on, sweetheart. Come on through the door,” Laura said under her breath and she added her best Pacino impression. “Say hello to my little friend!”
The Maeven stayed in place, floating up and down as if bobbing in a lake. “Release the Mirror to me and you may live.”
Berkley and Jenkins both had their guns out now, and Berkley shook his head. “The freaks come out at night, man.”
“This mirror is evidence,” Jenkins said matter-of-factly. He still clutched it tightly in his other fist. “You need to leave before you give us an excuse to arrest you.”
Laura rolled her eyes. “You two are dense, you know that?”
The Maeven shook her head again in mock sorrow. “I was not talking to you. The offer was for the Witch. Both of you will certianly die.”
“Now, now, little Maeven, let’s not make this a bigger problem,” Laura said.
The Maeven looked like she had died when she was only sixteen or seventeen, and had eyeliner streaked down her face as if she had died crying. She commanded, “Witch, give me the mirror!”
“Uh, Ms. Samson, can we shoot it?” Jenkins asked timidly. Something was finally getting through to him.
“You can try. Won’t do much besides piss her off.”
Berkley cursed. “What do we do?”
“You either come in or you leave, little Maeven,” Laura commanded back, ignoring the detective. “You are not getting the mirror. I laid claim first.”
Even for the supernatural races, there were shared rules that governed behavior and interactions. One of the oldest was the Rule of the Claim. It was one of the few ways property was established in a world without courts, police, or laws. Vampires and Werewolves did not get along, but at least they could interact with Claims without everyone killing everyone else in order to get what they wanted.
“You cannot claim what is ours.” The Maeven replied, her voice muffled by the glass. “The Creakswood Mirror is under claim with my sisters.”
“Then we take it outside and talk about it,” Laura tried.
“IT’S MINE!” Jenkins screamed, and fired rounds at the glass with his revolver. In the enclosed pen, the noise was deafening. The slugs went through the glass, fracturing it and sending spiderwebbed lines in every direction. In moments the glass was nearly opaque.
The Maeven was nowhere to be seen. Laura’s ears were ringing.
“And that is how people get tinnitus,” Laura exclaimed. “I think you made the situation much worse. So if anyone is keeping track, you are two for two.”
“Where is she?” Jenkins said shakily.
A ghost of white appeared from behind another desk on the opposite side of the pen, and crossed the distance to Jenkins in a heartbeat. The Maeven grabbed Jenkins head from behind and twisted it so hard the sound of breaking bones was nearly as loud as the gunshots that had come before it.
Laura grimaced and released her trigger word, “Woosh!”
The wyvern wood coalesced into reality, the pencil evaporating into a much larger piece of smooth wood, with a crest glowing branches at the tip covered in small double pointed leaves made of glowing fire. The length of the wood was like a bunch of ropes coiled together, each coil a small dragonlet in hand, their mouths opened wide and ready to spew flame. The leaves made it appear each cord of wood was licking its lips with a multitude of fiery tongues. Laura pointed it squarely at the Maeven and poured energy into the wand.
The result was immediate and dramatic. Thin spirals of flame turned into a massive gust of roaring fire, catching the Maeven in the side and encasing her thin white form in ethereal flame. The flame was so hot that paint on the wall next to her immediately bubbled and peeled away as if hit with God’s own blowtorch. The Maeven let out a horrific scream, pitched many octaves higher than a human voice should be able to go, and attempted to phase away to flee. Unfortunately for her, ethereal flame was just as supernatural as she was, so as she faded from sight, the flame went with her.
“Where did she go?” Berkley yelled, his hand still partially covering his eyes.
“Probably outside the building. She may be able to survive, but that blast would kill nearly anything,” Laura said breathlessly. The air smelled of burnt everything. “Sorry about your partner.”
Jenkins was laying on the ground face down, but that unfortunately meant he was lying on his back. The mirror was still clutched in his hand. Laura walked over, pulled the mirror free and looked at Berkley squarely in the eyes.
“You will need to handle this. I will go after the Maeven to make sure she doesn’t come back. When you are ready to handle your serial killer, call me.”
Laura handed the oversized detective a business card, he took it feebly, his mind still reeling from the encounter. He could only grunt in response. She turned on her heel and headed for the door.
“Wait… how, do I explain all this? My partner is dead in the station, man.”
“Blame your serial killer? He came after the mirror, strung out on drugs. Its not too far from the truth. Just don’t mention me.”
“Why is that?” Berkley numbly dropped his Glock on the desk and picked up the phone.
“Because, then I won’t help. And trust me, Detective Berkley, you need all the help that I can offer,” Laura walked out the door and was gone. And again, the windows of the hallway had no tall blonde walking away beyond them.
Berkley looked down at his partner, then the wall, then the shattered pen window. “Shit.”
Down the hallway he could hear uniforms running his way, typically late once again. The detective dialed the Chief and collapsed into his chair listening to the ringing as if it was miles away.