“Baffle it, imprison it, banish it. That might be better than trying to kill it.”
“OK, we’ll play it as it’s dealt. If I get into real bad trouble, you get the hell out.”
She did not reply but took my hand and stepped into the mirror. As I followed her, the antique Chaos clock began to chime an irregular beat. The inside of the mirror seemed the same as the room without, but turned around. Rhanda led me to the farthest point of the reflection, to the left, then stepped around a corner.
We came into a twisted, twilit place of towers and great residences, none of them familiar to me. The air bore clusters of wavy, crooked lines here and there. She approached one, inserted her free hand, and stepped through it, taking me with her. We emerged on a crooked street lined with twisted buildings.
“Thank you,” I said then, “for the warning and for the chance to strike.”
She squeezed my hand.
“It is not just for you, but for my family, also, that I do it.”
“I know that,” I said.
“I would not be doing this if I did not believe that you have a chance against the thing. If I did not, I would simply have warned you and told you what I know. But I also remember one day…back in Wildwood…when you promised to be my champion. You seemed a real hero to me then.”
I smiled as I recalled that gloomy day. We had been reading tales of chivalry in the mausoleum. In a fit of nobility I led her outside as the thunder rolled, and I stood among the grave markers of unknown mortals–Dennis Colt, Remo Williams, John Gaunt–and swore to be her champion if ever she needed one. She had kissed me then, and I had hoped for some immediate evil circumstance against which to pit myself on her behalf. But none occurred.
We moved ahead, and she counted doors, halting at the seventh. “That one,” she said, “leads through the curves to the place behind the locked mirror in your room.”
I released her hand and moved past her.
“All right,” I said, “time to go a-guiseling,” and I advanced. The guisel saved me the trouble of testing the curves by emerging before I got there.
Ten or 12 feet in length, it was, and eyeless as near as I could tell, with rapid-beating cilia all over what I took to be its head. It was very pink, with a long, green stripe passing about its body in one direction, and a blue one in the other. It raised its cilia-end three or four feet above the ground and swayed. It made a squeaking sound. It turned in my direction. Underneath it had a large, angled mouth like that of a shark; it opened and closed it several times and I saw many teeth. A green, venomous-seeming liquid dripped from that orifice to steam upon the ground.
I waited for it to come to me, and it did. I studied the way it moved–quickly, as it turned out–on the horde of small legs. I held my blade before me in an _en garde_ position as I awaited its attack. I reviewed my spells.
It came on, and I hit it with my Runaway Buick and my Blazing Outhouse spells. In each instance, it stopped dead and waited for the spell to run its course. The air grew frigid and steamed about its mouth and midsection. It was as if it were digesting the magic and rushing it down entropy lane. When the steaming stopped, it advanced again and I hit it with my Demented Power Tools spell. Again, it halted, remained motionless, and steamed. This time I rushed forward and struck it a great blow with my blade. It rang like a bell, but nothing else happened, and I drew back as it stirred.
“It seems to eat my spells and excrete refrigeration,” I said.
“This has been noted by others,” Rhanda responded.
Even as we spoke, it torqued its body, moving that awful mouth to the top, and it lunged at me. I thrust my blade down its throat as its long legs clawed at or caught hold of me. I was driven over backwards as it closed its mouth, and I heard a shattering sound. I was left holding only a hilt. It had bitten off my blade. Frightened, I felt after my new power as the mouth opened again.