Indexing: Reflections (Kindle Serials) (Indexing Series Book 2) Page 26

  Every step seemed to highlight another difference between this body and my own. My vision was crisper than I expected it to be, sharper around the edges, until it felt like everything had been magnified. Maybe it was time to look into getting contact lenses when I was myself again. Being several inches shorter than I expected to be was a lot more disorienting, as was the fact that I was substantially curvier than I’d ever been in my life. I needed to find a bra, and soon, or this was going to be a painful adventure.

  Breaking out of a hospital turned out to be easier than it sounded, especially when breaking out of the coma ward. The staff was no doubt dedicated, committed to their jobs, and genuinely invested in the well-being of their patients. They were also accustomed to those patients remaining perfectly still for months, if not years, at a time. “She got up and walked away” wasn’t a normal concern. I found a locker room, no doubt reserved for use by the nurses, and rummaged through the open lockers until I had assembled something that almost resembled a reasonable outfit: sweatpants, a loose hoodie, socks, and heavy-soled brown shoes that almost fit. I probably looked like a college student on laundry day. I didn’t particularly care.

  One of the nurses had left her wallet in her locker. I felt bad about taking the eighty dollars in cash that she had on her, but not bad enough to leave it behind. At the moment, I needed it more than she did.

  “Sorry,” I murmured, making the money disappear into my pocket. “The Bureau will reimburse you.”

  I closed the locker, turned, and walked away. There would probably be a taxi stand outside the hospital, somewhere. I should get moving. I didn’t have a choice.

  # # #

  My feet were aching and the sweatshirt was starting to chafe in places I didn’t like to think about by the time the cab dropped me off in front of the unlabeled, unremarkable building that served as Bureau headquarters. My new body had been sleeping off her story in my own hometown, which was a blessing, and also a terrifying reminder that we’d never known as much as we thought we did. How many stories like her were scattered around like little narrative grenades, waiting for the moment when their pins would be pulled and their fairy tales would explode into terrible life?

  The fare was a little over sixty dollars. I told the driver to keep the change. Maybe tipping well would keep him from telling the hospital he’d seen me if they asked—and since I’d jumped into a body with coloring identical to my own, it wasn’t like he was going to forget me any time soon. The skin as white as snow alone would be pretty memorable.

  It had been years since I’d approached the Bureau via the front door. That was for visitors and people from other branches of the government, not for agents. Right now, my status was unclear. Did oaths of service travel with the mind, or with the flesh? Was I a part of the organization, or was I one more target?

  We’d find out. I stepped inside, inhaling the stale, faintly artificial lobby air, and proceeded toward the desk. The receptionist on duty didn’t look up from whatever game she was playing on her phone. Her hair was long, dark, and wet-looking, like she’d just dredged herself up from the bottom of a forgotten pond in the middle of an isolated moor.

  I cleared my throat. She didn’t look up.

  Right: we were going to have to do this the direct way. “Agent Henrietta Marchen to see Deputy Director Brewer,” I said. My voice was too high; I sounded chirpy and bright, even when I was trying to be serious and dour. Just my luck. I had to jump into a soprano.

  The receptionist looked up, thick eyebrows raised under the damp fringe of her hair. “Bullshit,” she said, in a voice that sounded like it was being forced through layer upon layer of thick, waterlogged peat. “I don’t know what you want, kid, but impersonating an agent isn’t the way to get it.”

  I took a deep breath and stood up straighter, trying to look imposing despite my perky collegiate form. I had the feeling things were going to get harder from here. “You’re wet, despite having no obvious source of moisture. Your eyes are the color of riverbank mud. They’d be blue or green if you were drawn from a Grecian story. Also, you’ve been playing Candy Crush since I walked in here. Matching obsessions tend to come with the Slavic variations. You’re either a Rusalka, which doesn’t make sense with your hair, or a Berehyni. Did you not like drowning people and existing in an uncertain story? I’m not sure why the narrative keeps manifesting you, since it never knows what to do with you once you’re here.”

  The receptionist stared at me, the only sound the water dripping from her long, unbound hair. Finally, warily, she said, “I’m calling the deputy director. Don’t go anywhere.”

  “You do that,” I said, with an agreeable nod. “I need to talk to him. It’s important.”

  The receptionist didn’t look reassured by that. She picked up her phone and turned half away, using her body to block whatever she was saying. After a few seconds she hung up and looked back to me, saying, “You can have a seat if you want one. The deputy director will be right with you.”

  “I’ll stand,” I said. “This body’s been in a coma for a while, and I need to work on my muscle tone if I’m going to be of any use to anyone.”

  The receptionist stared at me. Then, shoulders still hunched, she returned her attention to her phone.

  Bothering her further wouldn’t have been productive, and more, it would have been cruel. I tucked my hands into my pockets and turned to face the door, waiting for what I knew was about to come. Deputy Director Brewer was a smart man, and he hadn’t managed to stay in charge of the Bureau for as long as he had by walking blindly into bad situations. He wasn’t going to come alone. The only question was who he was going to bring with him.

  The door opened. A whipcord-thin man in a black suit that hung around his skeletal frame like an undertaker’s rags stepped through. His hair was bone-blond, slicked back with pomade that smelled of lilies and ashes. I relaxed a little. Agent Piotr Remus might not be my biggest fan at the Bureau, but he was trustworthy and surprisingly open-minded for someone who presented himself as having died twenty or so years before the present day.

  Another man followed him through the door, and I tensed again. This guy was built like a walking brick wall, broad-shouldered and straining the seams of his government-issue suit. He was dark-haired and tan skinned, and wearing mirror shades. No one who wears mirror shades has ever intended anything good. It’s just a fact.

  Deputy Director Brewer was the third one through the door. He moved into position between the two men, looking me slowly up and down. My coloring couldn’t fail to make an impression, but there are a lot of Snow White stories in the world. More than I’ve ever been happy with.

  “Miss, why are you here?” he asked.

  “Because I belong here,” I said. His voice even sounded different to my new ears, a little softer and with fewer hard edges. Maybe this body had some minor hearing loss. This wasn’t the time to worry about it. I pushed on. “My name is Henrietta Marchen. I am an Agent of the ATI Management Bureau. My body has been taken by a hostile seven-oh-nine, better known as ‘Adrianna.’ My team is in danger. I want my body back. It would really help me out if you gave me a badge, a gun, and directions to where my people are.”

  There was a moment of silence, during which Piotr and the deputy director stared at me and the larger man stood silently by. Then the large man reached out, putting a hand on Deputy Director Brewer’s shoulder, and said, “She’s telling the truth.”

  “What?” The deputy director turned to look at him. “Agent Névé, I don’t think we can be sure of that. She may believe what she’s saying. That doesn’t make it the truth.”

  “I know the difference between someone being mistaken about their situation but believing what they say and someone telling the actual, subjective truth,” said Agent Névé. He sounded bewildered. Given the circumstances, I couldn’t blame him. “This woman either is or completely knows herself to be Agent Henrietta Marchen.”

  All three of them turned their attention back
to me.

  “What did you get me for last year’s Secret Santa?” asked Piotr.

  “A bottle of good vodka and a stuffed wolf,” I said. “Also, we don’t call it a ‘Secret Santa.’ There’s no point in borrowing trouble just because we’re feeling the need for a little holiday cheer.”

  “What was your gift?” asked Deputy Director Brewer.

  I sighed. “I drew Sloane, who gave me a subscription to the ‘apple of the month’ club. I’ve been donating apples to the local food bank all year. I think she’s planning to do it again, regardless of whether she’s supposed to be getting me anything. This is because Sloane is sometimes horrible. Look, are we going to stand out here and play twenty questions to prove I am who I say I am? Because honestly, I don’t have time for that.” I spread my arms. “I’m wearing a borrowed body, and my team is in danger. I need a gun, I need a badge, I need a bra, and I need someone to drive me to their last known location.”

  Deputy Director Brewer frowned. “How do you know they’re not in this building?”

  “If they were, there’s no way you wouldn’t have brought Andy with you, and even less of a chance that you’d have made it out here without Sloane shoving her way into the mix. She’d have picked up a seven-oh-nine entering the building, and she’d want to know what was going on.” I shook my head. “They aren’t with you. That means they’re not here. I need to find them.” I needed to warn them about what they were harboring in their midst, assuming it wasn’t already too late. Time worked differently in the whiteout wood. Maybe Adrianna was just now waking up, and I could still step in and keep her from doing any damage. Or maybe she’d been here for years, and everything was already lost.

  Deputy Director Brewer’s frown deepened as he looked me up and down, searching my strange new frame for a sign, however small, that I was telling the truth. He was an ordinary man in a building full of fables, fairy tales, and urban myths, all of them wearing human skins and trying to get through their days with a minimum of trouble. That meant he’d needed to develop a better-than-average awareness of his surroundings, because anything else would have gotten him killed.

  “How did your story become active?” he asked.

  “I ate an apple to keep Birdie Hubbard from blowing my team to kingdom come. You nearly suspended me from field work over that. You said I should have found a different way. I told you there wasn’t one. To be honest, sir, I still don’t think I could have done anything differently. It was my story or my team, and I chose my team.”

  “Your team consisting of . . . ?”

  “Sloane Winters, Jeffrey Davis, Andrew Robinson, and Demi Santos. That’s in order of seniority, not in order of value to either the team or the organization.”

  “You didn’t mention your sister.”

  “Because I don’t have one, sir.” I glared at him. I knew what he was doing, and I understood how important it was to establish my identity. That didn’t make me happy about hearing him misgender my brother, even for something like this. “My brother, Gerald March, is a high school teacher and isn’t involved with the Bureau in any capacity that he can possibly avoid. I can do this all day. My team needs me. Please don’t make me do this all day.”

  Deputy Director Brewer looked at me. Then, without turning, he asked, “Agent Névé?”

  “She’s telling the truth as she knows it,” said the bulky agent. “She’s told no lies at all.”

  I turned my attention on the agent. “I don’t know you,” I said. “Why don’t I know you?”

  “I recently transferred to the field office from Human Resources,” he said. “I was tired of pushing paper all the time. Thought I could do more good here.”

  “What’s your story?”

  “Agent Marchen—if that’s who you are—we’re getting off the topic,” said Deputy Director Brewer. I turned my attention back to him. He was starting to look shaken. I was getting through to him, no matter how much he didn’t want to believe me. “It’s clear that whatever your situation is, it falls within the bailiwick of this organization. I’ll get you clothing that fits, and then we will discuss our next steps. If you don’t like this proposal, I’ll be forced to conclude that you’re not who you claim to be.”

  “If I did like your proposal, that would be a sign that I wasn’t who I claimed to be,” I said. “But I won’t object to it. I need clothes. I need my team to believe me too.” And it was going to be harder for them. They would have Adrianna right there, wearing my skin and my smile, while I was going to be the stranger.

  I had to try. I had to save them. The deputy director motioned for me to follow him, and I did, even though the sound of the door swinging shut behind me was like a latch closing on a trap.

  This was the only way out.

  # # #

  Piotr and the new guy from HR stood outside the women’s locker room while I changed into the clothing provided for me. It was standard-issue Bureau attire, which meant it was the most comforting thing in the world: I hadn’t voluntarily worn anything but black and white since they’d given me my badge. What’s more, due to the range of standard heights and weights within an organization that included giants and leprechauns, everything fit. I didn’t have to think about dressing for my new body. All I had to do was put things on.

  My hair was too long. I didn’t feel comfortable cutting it, not when it was growing out of someone else’s head, and so I grabbed a scrunchie from the bin by the door and moved to stand in front of the full-length mirror, tying it back. Then I jumped.

  I wasn’t alone in the locker room.

  The woman standing behind my reflection was skinny and disheveled, dressed in a paisley-print sundress that looked like it had come straight out of the late seventies. Her hair was dirty blonde and stick-straight, hanging to almost cover her face.

  I spun around. There was no one there. I was alone. But when I looked back to the mirror, the woman was closer, standing so near to me that I should have been able to reach out and touch her.

  “Uh,” I said. “Hello?”

  The woman responded by lifting her head and pushing her hair aside, revealing her eyes. They were light brown, the color of dust on glass, and utterly lovely, if I ignored the rings of blood around them. Streaks of it ran down her cheeks, like she had been crying the stuff. It was utterly chilling. I didn’t dare allow myself to look away.

  “You’re in the mirror,” I said.

  The woman nodded.

  “You’re not a Snow White.”

  She shook her head. Then she pointed to me and nodded.

  “That’s right,” I said. “I’m a Snow White. I had to pass through a mirror to get here. Is that why I can see you now? I’ve never seen you before.”

  She nodded again.

  “Have you always been here?”

  She paused before making a “sort of” gesture with her right hand, wobbling it from side to side like a small child trying to get a point across.

  Right. “Does the deputy director know about you?”

  A single bloody tear rolled down her cheek as she nodded, mouthing the word ‘yes’ this time, just in case I missed the point. I found myself wishing for Judi. Maybe she could have found a less binary way of communicating with this strange mirror-girl, one that didn’t make her cry. I couldn’t even turn to face her, or she would disappear.

  “I’m Henry Marchen,” I said, and the mirror-girl nodded again, agreeing that this was true. That was . . . something of a relief, actually, even if it wasn’t much of a surprise. This woman lived inside the mirror. If anyone would be able to see the reality in my reflection, it was her.

  Wait. That meant . . . I took a deep breath, and said, “This isn’t my usual body. I’m supposed to be taller, and thinner, and a little older. Have you seen my body recently?”

  She nodded.

  Now for the ten thousand dollar question: “Was someone else wearing it?”

  She nodded again.

  I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough t
o draw blood. It had been long enough that Adrianna was up and out of the hospital. I had no way of knowing how much damage she’d done, and I still needed to convince Deputy Director Brewer that I was the real deal. “Thanks for letting me know. She’s dangerous, that lady. It’s probably best if you don’t show yourself to her, if you have a choice in the matter.”

  The woman nodded.

  “Look, I need to get going. I need to help my friends. Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”

  The woman hesitated. Then she reached into the pocket of her dress and withdrew a folded piece of paper. It was marked with bloody fingerprints. I guess that was unavoidable. She unfolded it and held it up for me to see.

  Her handwriting was large and unsteady, more the handwriting of a child than an adult—but then I realized I could read it. It was mirror writing, designed to be read in a reflection. No wonder it looked so childish. She’d been drawing the letters, not printing them.

  TELL DAN MARY SAYS HI, said the note.

  “Deputy Director Brewer?” I asked.

  She nodded, lowering the piece of paper.

  “All right,” I said, and turned, and she was gone.

  Dressed once more in black and white, with shoes that fit and a bra that kept my breasts from being quite so much of a distraction every time I moved, I started toward the door. It was time to save my team and get my life back, hopefully in that order.

  Piotr turned his head when I stepped out into the hall, giving me an appraising up-and-down look before he said, “You look more like Marchen now. I guess the clothes really do make the woman.”

  “I hope that next time, the wolf eats you,” I said, earning a snort of laughter from Agent Névé. Piotr shot a glare at the taller man, who shrugged. Funny was funny, even when it was coming from the mouth of the woman who might or might not be who she said she was. I sighed. “Look, fun as it is to stand out here and banter with the two of you—or the one of you, since tall, dark, and quiet doesn’t know me well enough to engage—I need to get back into the field, which means I need to convince the deputy director I’m the real deal. Can we get moving?”