Page 5

The sight of Caelan should not undo me. He’s been gone for months. I walked away from what the silver fae offered, and I’m not about to let some mirror-fiend trick me into longing for fairytale endings.

I shake away the image and bite my tongue until the urge to scream passes.

In my distraction, the demon skips to the vending machines near the haunted house. I follow, ducking through the maze of toppled benches and greasy popcorn carts, the metal bat gripped so tight my bones ache. Its laughter echoes in the pop cans and candy wrappers, setting every surface a-quiver.

The vending machine’s glass panel fogs as I approach, the creature’s shadow swirling in the clouds of condensation.

“Come on.” I plant my boots and heft the bat. “No more games. Either fight me or crawl back to the demon plane.”

The glass distorts, and a thousand needle fingers punch outward. The whole machine ripples as the demon coalesces, jaws splitting in a warped O. It rips through the panel, spraying slivers.

I dive, roll, and come up slicing with my rune knife. The blade connects, scoring a deep, glittering gouge in its flank. It shrieks and recoils, bleeding quicksilver. The stench of sulfur and old batteries stings my nostrils, and I almost choke.

The glasscrawler lunges at me, all fangs and gnashing mandibles. I jab upward with the knife, punching through its eye cluster, then spin and whack it with the bat. Bones shatter under the metal, and the thing folds in on itself, spasming.

The demon’s legs convulse, scraping a shriek across the concrete, and for a split second, I think I’ve won. Then it reverts to smoke and is gone, sucked into the warped reflection in the security mirror above the haunted house.

My hand tingles where I gripped the knife’s hilt, the skin going numb as witch magic fights demon magic, with no guarantee who will win.

I chase the monster, sprinting across the empty midway. Every mirrored surface pulses with magic, the afterimages growing more vivid. Caelan appears in the windows of the carousel, then in the glossy sheen of a rain-soaked bench.

Each time I blink, the reflection changes, his image replaced by my hollow-eyed, haggard likeness or the demon’s pointy-toothed grin.

The glasscrawler wants to slow me, confuse me, make me question what’s real, but I know what I chose, and the fae don’t belong in this realm any more than the glasscrawler belongs in this theme park.

The sign for the Enchanted Hall looms ahead, the gold letters flaking and the out-of-order sign hanging by a single nail. Spray paint covers the exit sign, but the black lights inside flicker to life, casting the floor and walls in sickly purple and green. The plywood that once blocked the doorway sits askew from where the kids had snuck in on a dare, and I slip through the path they opened.

Ice-cold air leaches the warmth from me, a vacuum sucking away every trace of heat. Inside, every surface reflects, even the damn cobwebs glistening with mirrored beads.

I catch movement in the corner of my eye and turn fast.

“Miss me?”

Caelan sounds too real, too close.

My bat swings, but it passes through nothing. His image lingers in a funhouse mirror, lips parted, hurt in his silver irises.

I curse, loud, crude, and unapologetic as I smash the mirror. Caelan’s image shatters into glittering shards.

“Stay out of my head!”

But he doesn’t. He won’t.

The demon’s trail becomes clear now, a slick of frost and sparkle of magic leading through the enchanted house and straight for the Hall of Mirrors.

I follow, catching flashes of my past on every surface. The magic here is thick, woven in a spiderweb that resonates with years of hoarded fear. This is the glasscrawler’s nest, and it uses my own memories as a weapon, painting the halls with my failures and regrets.

I move fast, taking the winding halls in a sprint, sidestepping props and rubber arms, never pausing. The rune knife pulses with every step, eager for blood.

Past the trick door, through the strobe-lit corridor. Each time I check a reflection, Caelan stands there, his presence taunting me with what I gave up.

I ignore him.

As I step into the House of Mirrors, broken glass crunches underfoot, and the air freezes me to the marrow.

The maze of mirrors swallows sound, muting every footfall and ragged breath until only my heartbeat keeps time. Light ricochets in sick angles, painting the passage in blues and silvers and neon orange. Each panel distorts my features, stretching my jaw or sharpening my cheekbones until the person staring back becomes a stranger.

I follow the glimmering trail through the shifting reflections, sometimes a girl-shaped shadow, sometimes a writhing nest of limbs and grins. I track it through the first corridor, avoiding the obvious trap near the fire exit.