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KIRA AWOKE SHIVERING, her back pressed against a hard, unyielding wall, her butt planted on cold, damp concrete. She coughed and rolled her neck, so stiff that pain shot up into her skull with hard, icy fingers.
She glanced around at a world of gray. Everything was neutral and dull . . . the concrete that she sat upon, the brick wall at her back . . . the mist that rolled along the ground.
A groan escaped as she rested her head and ran her tongue along her lips. They felt swollen and burned something fierce.
Shivers racked her body—she was drenched from head to toe. Slowly she unwrapped her arms from around her knees and stood, though she teetered a bit until she gained her balance. Kira’s legs felt like spaghetti and her arms had no strength.
Her hair hung in long cords of tangled ebony, well past her shoulders, and water dripped from the ends to form little pools at her feet. The dress she wore was a tattered ruin. The skirt was ripped from hem to hip and the beautiful shade of yellow had seeped from the fabric.
Like everything else in this place she’d found herself, it was devoid of color. She glanced around and exhaled.
It was devoid of life.
Overhead the crimson moon still shone, but here, tucked in an alley between two buildings, it was muted. Large bins lined the wall to her left—a few of them were overflowing with garbage—and she grimaced at the sight of rats scurrying among them.
Her breath hung in the air as she inched forward until she reached the edge of the alley. Carefully, Kira poked her head out, curious and afraid of what she’d find.
The street in front of her, while deserted, was not painted with the same dull brush as the alley. It was alive with color and scent . . . baked goods and . . . her brow furled . . . caramel candy apples.
Several small cafés lined the street with round tables set up on the sidewalk in front. Red and white checkered cloths covered them, and each boasted a beautiful flower arrangement. A bucket of ice sat there as well, chilling a bottle of wine. Kira had no clue what kind of flowers they were, but the large orange petals were beautiful. A bakery, pub, and a store that sold cheese were also across the way.
Lighting from lampposts along the sidewalk was muted, casting a warm golden glow over the cobblestone road. It took some of the edge off the darker, reddish light from above.
The small street looked like something you’d find in a quaint, European city . . . Paris or Italy. She’d visited Paris once with her parents when she was eight . . . At least she thought she had.
Kira spied a clothing store two doors down from the bakery. The window displayed colorful pieces: a hot pink jacket, a white halter dress, and fuchsia stilettos. When she was sure there was no one around, Kira darted across the street and wove around the many tables set for dinner. She paused in front of Le Grand Design.
The light from the closest lamppost illuminated both the street and the sidewalk. She stared in surprise at her reflection. Slowly her hand reached out and she traced the outline of her face in wonder.
I look like my mother. Hysterical laughter bubbled inside. Who knew?
She flinched as the memory of another reflection and another time rifled through her mind like a shot from a cannon. Pinched features—short, dull, bleached hair and haunted eyes—stared back at her.
Kira blinked and it was gone as fast as it had come, leaving her more than a little rattled. Exhaling, she tried the door and surprisingly—or not—it was unlocked.
Once inside, she closed it behind her, wincing as the latch clicked and echoed into the darkened store. She held her breath but no one came, then slowly released the door as she made her way into the shop.
Racks of clothing surrounded her. Silks, satins, linens in a rainbow of exotic colors. She’d never seen such luxury, and a tentative smile crossed her face as she fingered a dress that fell to the floor in deep plum swaths of silk. She let the cascade slide through her hands and moved on.
Pretty, yes, but not very practical.
She searched through the racks, a shivering mess of wet hair and damp skin, and after a few moments found a t-shirt, stretchy black jeans, and a pair of boots that she could run in.
She grabbed clean underclothes and walked to the back of the store, secure in the shadows that blanketed the corners.
Teeth chattering, Kira set the clothes aside and peeled the wet dress from her body. She dropped it to the floor and stood naked, shivering in the dark. Her thick hair still dripped so she grabbed a scarf from a bin close by and used it to towel-dry the ends, fingers deftly removing what tangles that she could. When she was done she rubbed the rough material down her body—arms, stomach, and legs—until her skin was dry.
A mirror hung on the wall to her right—had it been there before? Slowly she stepped forward and studied herself in its reflection, her hands caressing flesh that was flush with health.
Her breasts were full, no bruises were visible, and—she held her hands in front of her—the scars were still gone. This was the perfect reflection of what she’d always wanted to be.
Of what she could have been.
A wave of sadness rolled
over Kira. She didn’t understand any of this. Was she really dead? How could she be when, truthfully, she’d never felt so alive?
She wiped away a tear that stung the corner of her eye and froze as goose bumps spread along her flesh like fire across the plains. Glancing up, she peered into the mirror and the world faded away. For what seemed like minutes but had to have only been a few seconds, her gaze was caught by the man behind her.
