Page 118 of Dead Vengeance

“No, not at all,” I admit. “My mum took me to see the musical once. It was really good.”

He laughs that warm laugh of his that’s been giving me life since the minute we met. “You’re full of surprises.”

“Not so much as you are.”

“I don’t know about that…” He eyes me steadily for a moment, as if he can see right into me, and for a few seconds, I wonder if he can. If that’s part of his powers. But he breaks away, says, “This mirror belonged to him. Doctor John Dee. And he used it to talk to the dead.”

Everything begins to clear. Like one of those 3D puzzles you stare at until your eyes cross, then it all makes sense. Well, somewhat. Hauntings starting, or increasing dramatically, when this mirror went missing—this mirror that is a powerful occult object that can be used to communicate with spirits. “So you think it’s possible someone, whoever has this mirror, is talking to the dead? Communicating with them? Raising them up?”

He gives me a solemn nod. “Yeah. I worry this thing has opened more gateways like the one you heard Helena mention. And maybe that’s why we have so many hauntings. That could also be how the thing found its way into my attic. Because, as you can see…” He drops his finger back onto the map, right in the centre of a half dozen pushpins, red lines swirling all around them. “My house is right in the centre of a conglomeration of ley lines. And if I’m right, and that mirror is somehow opening holes between worlds, or making these already-existing lines of travel bigger, easier, more accessible, it would make sense that something new would find its way here.”

It’s enormous. Three years of ghost activity, three years of a missing occult object, and maybe a way to stop it all. “So if we could find that mirror…” I vaguely suggest.

He shuts it down with, “It’s impossible to track that mirror. Every attempt I’ve made to discover its whereabouts, ghostly or otherwise, has come to nothing. The police are still looking for it. It’s simply gone. If not for the abundance of spirit activity, I wouldn’t even think it was still in this country.”

“And you’re sure it’s the mirror that’s causing it? I mean, it’s just a… what? Like an old-fashioned ouija board?”

“Oh, no. No, the scrying mirror is much more than that. It’s famous for belonging to Doctor Dee, but it was already in dark and constant use before it was stolen from the original owner, which is how he got his hands on it.”

My heart stutters as the plot thickens. “What? Stolen twice? Stolen from who?”

“From the Aztecs.”

Okay. That was about the last answer I would have expected. “The Aztecs?”

“The Aztecs!” His finger slams down on the newspaper. “This mirror would have belonged to a high priest who would have used it in ceremonies to appease the god Tezcatlipoca.”

“Who is Tez… Tez…”

“Tezcatlipoca,” he clarifies.

“Mmm. Him.” Clearing my throat, “Who’s, um, him?”

As if he doesn’t even notice my questionable grasp of spoken word, he carries on with his excited lecture. “In Aztec culture, a mirror that looked exactly the same as this one belonged to Tezcatlipoca. He was the god of… Well, of all sorts of things. The god of shadows, of sorcery, of the night sky, of chaos and discord. But he was also the god of good fortune. If he wanted to bring horror on you, too bad, so sad, you’re fucked. Conversely, if Tezcatlipoca wanted to bring you something nice, he’d do that too.”

Archer takes a moment, waving his hand in the air as if he can clarify his thoughts with it. “He was, ultimately, the god of fate. And he could use his mirror to look inside a person, to see who they really were, deep down. The good things and the bad things they’d done. But more than that, their thoughts. Who they were at their very core. You couldn’t hide a thing from Tezcatlipoca. Using that mirror, and the information he got from it, he’d decide exactly what he wanted to do with you, and with your fate. He might reward you or punish you. If he wanted to, he could even stop you crossing over to the afterlife—the realm of the dead. He could simply snaffle you up and keep you in his void for eternity.”

“Wait… so what you’re saying is…” The understanding hits like a ten-tonne truck. “He could open or close pathways between the living and the dead. So, he’s just like you then?”

Archer glances over at me, eyes wide like I’ve said something appalling. “What do you mean he’s just like me?”

“You know.” I slightly smile an embarrassed smile. “Controlling where the dead go. Shadows and sorcery. That sort of thing.”

“No shadows and sorcery here,” he chuckles out. “Well, maybe just a little. But if I had his powers to control fate, I certainly wouldn’t need to be involved in ghostly theft and grave robbery.” Then he quips, “And I’m a whole lot better looking than him too.”

A smile twists my lips. “Oh, are you? Than an actual god?”

“I’ll prove it. I’ve got a picture of him around here somewhere.”

Archer wanders over to his bookshelf, back muscles flexing enticingly as he pulls an enormous book down from a high shelf. He literally blows dust off the top of it, which adds to this spooky and mysterious side of him that I’m falling for just as fast as I’ve fallen for the apron-clad, baking, sunny side of him.

He lays the giant book down on the table, and I read the title on the front: A Ten Thousand Year History of Art.

“Is that…” I stare at the gilt edges and thick pages. “How old is that book?”

He flips it open, running his finger down the index. “It was published last year.”

“Bullshit.” Reaching out, I feel over the cloth-bound edge. “This is a new print?”