Obsidian Mirror Read Free Page A

A black bramble spread its briars above her; she sat up and saw wide moorland, windblown and sparse, the dying sun sinking into heavy cloud.
    It was bitterly cold.
    Elation made her shout; she’d done it. But where were the others?
    She stood, turned a complete circle. “Max? Carla?”
    Over her head a great flock of small dark birds streamed croaking to a distant wood.
    She drew a cloudy breath. Face it. No one else had made it.
    The wolf’s muzzle exploded out of nowhere; before she knew it, it had her sleeve, tugging powerfully. Only its head existed here, materializing out of the air as if through a slant of glass. If they got her back it was over—there was no way they would let her live.
    Her feet slid in mud. She yelled, a wordless cry, but only the birds heard. Icy saliva soaked her arm.
    Sliding, she hit a broken branch. She snatched it up, swung it.
    “Let me go!”
    The wolf flinched under the blow, eyes burning with fury. For a second it wasn’t even there, and then she was free, running and stumbling over the tussocky, squelching bog.
    Soaked, hair plastered to her face, she snatched a look back. The moorland seemed empty. But the sun had set; long shadows leaned from rock and tree.
    Furious with herself, she limped faster. She had to get away. Because it would come after her and smellout her trail. And they’d send a Replicant with it.
    The moor was so cold! Ice cracked on the surface, and her shoeless foot was wet through and bleeding. Her dress clung to her body and arms. And there was a ringing in her ears, as if after some huge, silent explosion.
    She was shaking with shock, but she was here, she knew this place, and she knew there was a lane. It should be ahead somewhere—no more than a track. But when she crawled through a hedge and slithered down into its shelter she was surprised at the dark, smooth surface, hardly broken by weeds.
    Ahead was a cottage. From one of the chimneys a circular white dish sprouted like a mushroom.
    The door opened.
    Sarah dived sideways, into plants that stung her.
    A young woman came out. She had a basket of laundry; quickly she pegged a row of clothes to the line. Trousers, dresses, a shirt.
    A baby cried, indoors.
    “All right,” the woman muttered. “Mummy’s coming!” She went in, slamming the door.
    Sarah moved. Keeping low, she ran across the lane and crouched outside the garden. Through the gate she could see toys, a yellow swing.
    And a vehicle.
    It was black. It stood, all glass and metal, on thedrive of the house. Fascinated, she inched through the gate, closer to it, and touched the icy metal. In its curved surfaces saw herself, warped and strange. Had she been altered? Become aged, unrecognizable? A thread of terror chilled her spine.
    But then the wing-mirror showed the same cropped blond hair. The same sharp blue eyes.
    Her relief was stupid.
    The door opened. She leaped back around the corner of the house as the woman came out again, this time with a baby in her arms. Over the mother’s shoulder the baby saw her, and screeched.
    “Don’t be naughty, now. In you go.”
    The vehicle flashed and clunked. Its door was open; the woman strapped the child into a small seat, then climbed in after it.
    Sarah watched. The vehicle exploded into a roar of sound so terrible she flattened herself back against the wall, because how could anyone bear that? And then with a slur of gravel and a choking stink, the car rolled down the lane and was gone.
    It seemed to leave a hole in the air behind it.
    Quickly she ran to the line and felt the clothes. The driest were a green woolen top and a pair of the same blue trousers the woman had been wearing; she snatched them down and changed into them behind the hedge, clumsy with cold, her hands fumbling overzips and buttons, desperately watching the bend in the lane.
    The clothes felt soft and well-worn. They smelled of lemons, but she really needed shoes. She threw her own soaked dress in the green plastic bin, and as