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  Mirror

  Book One of the Valkanas Clan Series

  By Noelle Ryan

  Copyright © 2011 by Noelle Ryan

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to [email protected] and include “permission request” in the subject line.

  www.NoelleRyan.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Illustration Copyright © 2011 by Rebecca Block

  Cover design by Rebecca Block

  Editing by Michael Flota and Cynthia Ekle

  Author photograph by Mark Fasano

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my parents, who aren’t around to appreciate it but would, I think, be proud if they were.

  It is also dedicated to my husband, who is a constant source of encouragement, humor, and zen-like reassurance. Thank you.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements. 7

  Prologue. 8

  One. 9

  Two. 14

  Three. 19

  Four. 23

  Five. 27

  Six. 34

  Seven. 40

  Eight. 48

  Nine. 58

  Ten. 66

  Eleven. 71

  Twelve. 75

  Thirteen. 80

  Fourteen. 86

  Fifteen. 92

  Sixteen. 98

  Seventeen. 101

  Eighteen. 106

  Nineteen. 112

  Twenty. 116

  Twenty-one. 120

  Twenty-two. 125

  Twenty-three. 129

  Twenty-four. 133

  Twenty-five. 140

  Twenty-six. 145

  Twenty-seven. 153

  Twenty-eight. 159

  Twenty-nine. 167

  About the Author. 169

  Acknowledgements

  This book wouldn’t have happened without the support of a number of people. Huge thank you’s go out to Simone and Michael for your thorough and thoughtful comments and encouragement. Thanks also to John D. for letting me draw on your superior knowledge regarding guerilla tactics and just how many fighters it actually does take to go against those encamped in familiar territory with superior numbers. Finally, thanks to my e-book publishing group for the moral support, practical information exchange, and occasional diversionary conversations, when necessary. You all rock!

  Prologue

  I leaned back against the front door, exhausted. At least something useful had come out of this trip, and I was relieved to discover the warnings about this being a trap had proven false. I shifted my weight, my back brushing against the door knob.

  And everything went black.

  I swam back into consciousness slowly, heavily. As I did, sensations flashed through me. There was a sharp scratch of burlap being yanked over my head, and I spun around, hands seeking my attackers, straining to hear where they were. But I touched only a wall, heard a light brush of rubber against marble, and then there were hands on my back pushing me down the hall. I stumbled and didn’t catch myself, trying to turn my fall into an opening for escape. But before I could tear the bag from my face, I was snatched upright and shoved forward. Pain exploded against my chest as I was shoved down onto something that splintered into me, and then one sharp blow fell across the back of my neck.

  Then there was only darkness, stillness, and I realized I was dead.

  One

  At the time, I didn't realize what had just walked into my classroom. If I had, I'm not sure I would have stayed to take role. But I thought only that he looked like a fairly standard Army Reserves student. I guessed him to be in his late twenties; he had buzz cut dark hair, pecs faintly visible beneath his gray t-shirt, muscular forearms, an intense gaze, and the classic “yes ma’am” response I’d gradually learned to accept even coming from someone clearly my age. Other than a brief appreciation of his looks and a longer appreciation of having at least one student who wouldn’t give me attitude this semester, I didn't pay him much attention. As with most of my students early in the semester, I wasn’t even definite about his name—Derek, Dylan, something like that.

  I didn't become certain of his name until about two weeks into the semester, when I was walking back to my car after an evening class. We’d just spent a little over an hour and a half discussing Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein—the first book I assigned in every one of my general lit survey classes because, if nothing else, I could usually get them talking by asking them how the book compared to whatever movies or shows they’d seen based around that theme. Tonight’s conversation had gone into less familiar territory, however, when one of the students turned the subject to monsters in general. I didn't pull them back on topic because I was pleasantly surprised to see them all talking eagerly, a rarity in the first few weeks of any freshman class.

  “Well, I think the story gets turned into so many modern versions because we’re all still kinda afraid of the things that go bump in the night, you know?” one girl said. This elicited a number of nods from around the room.

  “Good point,” I said, trying to covertly eye my role call sheet and remember whether her name was Amy or Abigail. “Why do you all think the idea of monsters is still so delightfully frightening to so many people?”

  “Maybe it’s a leftover from prehistoric times,” one student called out.

  “Because danger is kind of sexy,” said another—Jayne, I was pretty sure.

  “You think Frankenstein’s monster is sexy? Wow, you’re twisted,” said a third, and the room laughed.

  “Frankenstein’s monster isn’t the same as a real monster,” Jayne said. “He was made by a crazy scientist; he’s not supernatural like werewolves or vampires. Those are the dangerous ones that are kinda sexy.” She blushed, and I found myself nodding unconsciously. I had a bit of an obsession with paranormal fantasy myself, though, as a literature professor, I rarely admitted it to my colleagues; I got tired of the patronizing looks they gave me as I tried to explain that "fantasy" was not (always, at least) a synonym for “schlock.”

  “Like that vampire from Buffy,” another girl added. “Now he was definitely sexy!” She mock swooned, and we all chuckled.

  The conversation had actually generated so many responses we’d run slightly over class time, and their excitement prompted me to make a spur-of-the-moment decision.

  “Tell you what,” I said, interrupting their end-of-class chatter. “I've never been much a fan of Moby Dick anyway, and this is a general survey class after all. Would you all like to read some kind of vampire novel instead?”

  You would have thought I'd sprouted green tentacles from the shocked looks they turned towards me. Jayne was the first one to break the stunned silence.

  “Really Professor Wilson? We could actually read a fun book for this class?” she asked.

  A few class members giggled nervously, and Jayne turned red.

  I hedged. “Well, I think there's fun to be had with the literary classics too, but yeah, if reading a 'fun' book means you all will talk like this in class every day, I'm up for it. What do you want to read? It has to be something everyone can find easily, because you'll all still need to have read the first three chapters before class on Thursday.”

  “How about Interview with a Vampire? That's almost like a classic, anyway.” The suggestion came from one of the baseball-cap boys,
as I'd privately named them. They tended to cluster together at the back of the class, participating as little as possible.

  “Any objections?” I asked. No-one responded, but I noticed Derek/Dylan giving the space just behind my shoulder an oddly intense look. Had all the rest of my students not been staring at me, waiting, I probably would have turned around to see what he was staring at. “Alright,” I said finally, “Interview it is then. I'll see you all on Thursday!”

  They trickled out, a few stopping to ask me questions on the way. I walked with them down the hall, and was almost out of the building when I realized I'd left my purse behind. I turned back, wishing my students a good night and ignoring their sympathetic chuckles—I’d done this twice already this semester. All these delays meant that by the time I’d actually arrived at the out-in-the-boonies lot I’d parked in it was ten thirty, and my car was the only one left. Wincing, I made a mental note to end class on time Thursday, and perhaps tie my purse strap to my wrist so I wouldn't forget it again. Then I tried to assure myself that the prickling sensation between my shoulders was just the side-effects of tonight’s conversation. Still, I creased my fingers around my keys, leaving one poking out between each knuckle. It was mostly false reassurance, since I probably threw the world’s most pitiful punch, a suspicion that had prompted me to sign up for self-defense courses a few weeks ago.

  “It actually works better if you hold them like this.”

  I jumped and spun faster than I thought myself capable of—and might have even hit him if he hadn’t caught my hand lightly in his own.

  I gasped. “What?" Then I recognized him. “I’m sorry, what were you saying…”

  “Tom. Tom Delaney,” he said.

  “Yes, of course, Tom.” I tried not to blush at how completely I'd misremembered his name, though at least Delaney was somewhat close to Dylan. “You surprised me. Did you have a question about something from tonight’s class?”

  Belatedly, I realized my hand was still inside his palm. I yanked it back as if I’d been touching a hot stove, though his palm had been pleasantly cool, especially in the late August heat.

  “No ma’am,” he said. “I just thought you might appreciate knowing a more effective way of turning your keys into a weapon.” He smiled slowly. “Though if you're nervous from all that talk about vampires, I have to say I doubt a set of keys would do much to protect you from the nosferatu.”

  He grinned and raised his eyebrows as he said the last word, but a spider-legged chill ran down my back at the term. Suddenly, I realized how acutely uncomfortable I was to be standing in the middle of a dark parking lot alone with one of my students. The August heat and humidity, unnoticed a few moments ago, now seemed oppressive; I could hardly breathe.

  “Um, no, thank you, I was just, uh, fidgeting. I do that sometimes.” I laughed nervously, and tried to force a smile. “See you in class!” I spun towards my car, walking as quickly as I could without breaking into a run. Once I was in, with the doors locked, I turned to flash another fake smile and cheery wave—only to discover he was nowhere in sight in the empty lot.

  The next morning, nine hours of sleep and two cups of coffee later, I was feeling ridiculous about my anxiety from the night before. Whatever lingering uneasiness I had, I attributed to the email that had greeted me this morning, from my department-chair-from-hell, Dr. Myron Vente, saying he’d like to see me in his office tomorrow morning at ten to discuss some "concerns" he had about my teaching. I was trying to avoid speculating at the meaning of his message, instead lingering just a little while longer in my cozy breakfast nook with a cup of coffee and the reading responses for my Wednesday afternoon class. I was adding my final comments, wondering if I should also offer this class the opportunity to read Anne Rice over Herman Melville, when my cell rang.

  “Hey Ava, what’s going on?”

  “You know, Aly, even after years of caller ID it still throws me when you answer with my name.”

  “Actually, I never look.” Then I realized what I’d said, and paused, slightly stunned. It was true, but I usually didn’t mention that to anyone, not even her.

  “Mm-hmm, sure you didn’t. If you were that good with recognizing people, you’d know who all your students were by now—but I bet you couldn’t name half of them without your roster in front of you”

  “Not true!” I paused. “Okay, completely true. Actually, I’d be lucky to name a fourth. But we can’t all live up to the standards set by your superhuman memory.”

  “Whatever,” she said, chuckling. “So are we still having lunch before your afternoon class today?”

  Oh crap, I’d forgotten to put that in my planner. “Um, yeah, of course—remind me where again?”

  She sighed. “Aly, I swear, sometimes I think you’d forget we were friends if I didn’t call to remind you now and then. It’s the Mexican place across from the stadium.”

  “Mm, tacos.” I paused, mentally savoring their guacamole in advance. “And don’t worry, I spent way too many hours helping you edit your gargantuan dissertation to ever forget we’re friends.” I smirked. “Plus, I’m counting on your friendship to save me from what promises to be my next debacle with Dr. Vente.”

  I groaned dramatically, and she laughed.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “We'll see—any chance Bellarmine has any upcoming openings for literature instructors, just in case?”

  “Wow, you must really be feeling desperate if you want to transfer from your big research university to my little liberal arts school,” she said.

  Ava and I had become friends in college, and then decided to go to graduate school together. She got her Ph.D. in Philosophy while I got mine in Literature, and when we went on the job market during the same year and saw the chance to teach at different schools in the same city, we jumped at it. She loved Bellarmine and, with the exception of Dr. Vente, I loved UofL. But the possibility of not earning tenure, which, if it happened, would put a black mark on my record that would make it almost impossible to have any other school hire me, meant I was only half-joking about considering a transfer to Bellarmine.

  “Just wait until you hear about the little email I got this morning. You’ll hardly taste your tacos out of sympathetic anxiety, trust me.”

  “I don’t know, their tacos are pretty good.” She laughed. “But still, don’t flake out on me and forget again—I couldn’t stand the added suspense.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m far too hungry to forget about lunch.” As if to support me, my stomach emitted a low growl.

  “I'll believe it when I see it.”

  “Bye.”

  I spent the next couple hours drafting up notes and research questions for an article idea last night's class had sparked. I was hoping some academic journal would be interested in a piece on the reemergence of the supernatural as a popular topic in contemporary novels and popular culture. I got so caught up I almost lost track of time, remembering lunch at the last minute and gathering everything I’d need for my afternoon class and setting it beside the door. I checked my watch. Just enough time to slap on my one vanity, a high SPF anti-aging sunscreen, and feed Beckett, who was currently twining his tuxedo fur around my ankles like he hadn’t seen food in a week.

  “Such the dramatist,” I muttered, and smirked at my own bad pun.

  I was running a few minutes late when I arrived at the restaurant. To top it off, the tiny amount of street parking beside the restaurant was already full, so I swung my car into the alley behind the building to search for an open spot. I’d just gotten out of my car and was grumbling over the oily puddle I’d managed to plant my foot in when I felt a trickle of ice between my shoulder blades.

  I paused, looking around. I’d learned a long time ago to trust those odd sensations; as a child, they’d saved me from more than a few bullies who didn’t appreciate my nerdier tendencies. A few seconds went by, and then I heard an agonized metallic screech. Turning toward it, I saw a steel door ten feet away buckle in the middle
, then slowly collapse off its hinges and drop into the alley. Puddled on top was a mass of bloody clothing. I stared at it, my mind sluggishly trying to process how a sodden and stained pile of cotton could buckle a steel door. Then, the clothing started to move, and the drops of ice along my spine froze into a solid sheet.

  I lurched for my purse, still sitting behind me, and began digging for my cell, trying to dial 9-1-1 through stiff fingers. The words tumbled out of me, almost incoherent.

  “Help, I’m in an alley behind the Mexican restaurant across from the University stadium, and—”

  I stopped, gaping as the pile of clothes slowly stood, revealing a gaunt face, crimson eyes, and bleeding mouth. It began staggering toward me, and I slowly slid away from it along the side of my car. I wanted to run, but my legs disobeyed me, only barely supporting my weight as I inched backwards.

  “Miss? What’s the nature of your emergency?”

  “I, uh, someone, blood…”

  The figure stared at me, and my tongue slowly stopped moving, along with every other muscle in my body. Then it leapt. My back slammed against my car, I heard a nauseating crunch, and everything went black.

  Two

  I didn’t so much awake as become aware of a stabbing light attacking my eyes. I groaned, and tried to drag an arm over my face, only to discover my arm wouldn’t move. Panicked, my eyes flashed open, then immediately slammed shut when the sunlight lanced through my brain.