Mirrors hold a strange and potent place in the world of magic, the occult, and even psychic traditions. Throughout history, mirrors have been viewed not just as reflective surfaces, but as gateways, tools, and sometimes, traps for the human soul. They appear across cultures as symbols of truth, deception, and the mysterious link between the physical and the spiritual worlds.

  That’s why, as I stand here in the middle of a long-abandoned carnival grounds outside of Berlin, New Hampshire, staring at the faded fa?ade of the House of Mirrors, a knot tightens in my gut. It’s a heavy, sinking feeling that reminds me that being a witch comes with an understanding of just how dangerous, deadly, and nightmarish the world can be. Most people would write off the unease as some primal fear of the dark or a relic of too many ghost stories told around campfires. But not me. I know better.

  Here, the air is thick with more than just the scent of decaying wood and rusting carnival rides. There's a weight to the place, like it remembers everything that’s happened within its bounds. And the mirrors… they remember too. They always do. The mirrors have seen things, trapped things, and more than that—sometimes, they hold onto what they shouldn’t.

  I take a step closer to the entrance, the peeling paint and warped wood of the door frame groaning under years of neglect. For anyone else, this would just be another dilapidated structure, a forgotten relic of cheap thrills and cotton candy memories. But for a witch like me, this place pulses with something darker. Something alive.

  See that primal fear? The hair raising on the back of your neck? The churning of your gut that makes you feel uneasy? That's nature trying to tell you something supernatural is nearby. It’s not always dangerous, but your instincts are trying to make sure you’re ready, just in case. Most spellcasters with any real training are taught to understand these feelings and even use them to their advantage.

  That is precisely why this place is making my skin crawl and my brain race through a few dozen supernatural horrors that might be lurking inside. My name's Jessica, by the way—Jessica Fairfax. Long story short, I’m a witch. A well-trained one at that. I’ve been on the run from my old-money family, who are a bit too controlling and full of nasty secrets. I also happen to work as a paranormal investigator to help make ends meet, which is where all of this started.

  With a case.

  I've been on the run for a few months now, staying ahead of my family, lying about my age, and making ends meet as a freelance witch and psychic. Though, if I’m being honest, that's a bit of a stretch—my psychic powers are pretty underdeveloped. I use magic to fake it, make it seem like I’m the real deal. It’s weird, right? How the world seems to accept psychics with open arms but cringes at the very mention of magic? But hey, I’m not in a position to challenge society's ideas. I just go with the flow, and what people don’t know about what I really do won’t hurt them—or me.

  So, let’s get to that case.

  It started like most of my gigs do: a weird phone call from someone who heard about my “abilities” through the grapevine. I’ve gotten used to the kind of hushed tone they use when they’re asking for my help, like they’re embarrassed or afraid to admit they believe in the paranormal. This time, it was a local in Berlin, New Hampshire—a town that barely makes a blip on most maps—who had a problem.

  The person who hired me was a woman who sounded absolutely beside herself with panic and grief. Her voice trembled over the phone, thick with desperation as she explained how her daughter had recently gone missing. The police, she said, were coming up empty-handed. She was running out of hope, and her fear was palpable, pressing through the phone like a physical force.

  She said she heard about me through word of mouth, though I hadn’t exactly been advertising my services. People talk, though, especially when they think they know someone with "connections" to the other side. But this woman, Mrs. Redding, wasn’t just looking for some dime-store fortune teller. She was practically begging me to find her daughter, claiming that her daughter had been dabbling in the occult and that dark forces were at play.

  Normally, I’d be a little skeptical. People throw around the word “occult” like it’s a catch-all for any weirdness they don’t understand, and half the time there is a logical explanation behind it, the problem is the other half of the time when it's not. I needed the money and to be honest I felt bad for Mrs. Redding, the least I could do was investigate and see what was going on.

  Mrs. Redding swore that her daughter had been acting strangely for weeks before her disappearance. She talked about how the girl had become engrossed in magic and ritual work—things you’d expect from a teenager dabbling in the occult. But then, the story took a darker turn. She mentioned journals full of strange symbols and diagrams, the kind of thing that might make anyone familiar with the craft stop and take notice. The real kicker, though, was the mirrors. Her daughter had become obsessed with them, but not in the typical way. She’d started covering them up, avoiding them like they were dangerous. Mrs. Redding said it was almost as if her daughter believed something was watching her from the other side.

  And then came the night she disappeared. Mrs. Redding had found her daughter standing in front of her bedroom mirror, whispering to something—or someone—that wasn’t there. That set off alarms in my head, the kind that scream this might actually require a witch to handle.

  This wasn’t some ordinary missing person case. There was magic involved, real magic, and that’s where I came in. Mrs. Redding was desperate, but she wasn’t foolish. She knew enough to keep my involvement under wraps, paying me under the table and making sure her husband and the police never found out she’d hired a witch to look into her missing daughter. I guess, in her world, hiring someone like me would be a blow to her reputation as a proper New England housewife.

  She didn’t care, though. Her daughter was gone, and she was willing to do whatever it took to bring her back. And honestly, I could feel it—the darkness creeping in around the edges of this case, the kind that couldn’t be solved with police work alone. It was the kind that needed someone who understood what lurked in the shadows, and the power that mirrors could hold.

  Her daughter's room was the first place I checked, and it screamed rebellion. It was a pretty typical setup for a girl around my age who was pushing back against societal norms—posters of dark, moody bands, black lace curtains, and candles scattered on almost every available surface. The room had a clear goth aesthetic, and I spotted more than a few nods to witchcraft. There were stacks of Wiccan books, crystals, and those little bundles of sage that every newbie witch thinks are essential. Yeah, I clued into it real fast. Takes one to know one, right?

  She had a decent setup, a sort of witchcraft starter kit, with odds and ends that you could easily find at any occult shop catering to beginners. There were dried herbs, a pentacle necklace, tarot cards—nothing too advanced or alarming. Most of it was standard fare, the kind of stuff you see when someone’s just starting out, trying to find their identity. Her books weren’t dangerous either, at least not in the wrong hands. Wiccan guides, some self-help on tapping into spiritual energy, maybe a spellbook or two that promised to improve your love life or boost your confidence.

  As for magical talent? Well, I wasn’t sure. She could’ve been just another girl playing at witchcraft, testing the waters of the unseen without any real understanding. You don’t need significant magical talent to work certain rituals or even to draw the attention of supernatural forces. But it does help. Raw talent can make things happen faster or more powerfully, but it’s not a requirement. Anyone can stumble into something dangerous if they’re curious or careless enough.

  The room told me one thing for sure, though—this girl was new to the craft. Her tools were basic, her knowledge likely self-taught, and her grasp of the supernatural shaky at best. The missing journal her mother had mentioned, though—that’s what I needed to find. If she had stumbled onto something darker, something real, that journal might be the key to figuring out what went wrong.

  I also knew that if she had a book of shadows, she would’ve hidden it somewhere her parents couldn’t find. If she was anything like me, it would be tucked away in some clever little spot, just out of reach but not too obvious. After all, when you’re a girl in your late teens, pushing against your parents’ boundaries, you get pretty creative with hiding things. I was no stranger to keeping my own secrets from prying eyes, and I could guess where she might’ve stashed it.

  So I stood in the center of her room, asking myself: If this were my room, where would I hide something as important as a book of shadows? Not in the dresser or under the bed—those were too obvious, too easy. Parents always check the obvious places. No, it would have to be somewhere a bit more personal, somewhere she thought they wouldn’t even think to look.

  I scanned the room, taking in every detail. Her nightstand was cluttered with the usual teenage paraphernalia—old lipsticks, hair ties, a few half-burned candles—but nothing that seemed out of place. Then my eyes landed on her bookshelf, lined with novels, Wiccan guides, and some old diaries. Maybe behind the books? Too predictable.

  But what about inside one of the books? The thought hit me as I pulled out a thick, well-worn volume on herbal remedies. Sure enough, the pages felt heavier than they should, and a small leather-bound notebook slipped out as I opened it.

  Bingo.

  This was it. Her book of shadows.

  Some people have this idea that a book of shadows is like a wizard’s spellbook straight out of a fantasy RPG—a place where you scribble down spells and arcane secrets, like you're prepping for a boss battle. But in reality, it’s so much more than that, especially for a witch just starting out.

  A book of shadows is personal. It’s part diary, part manual, part map of a witch’s journey. Sure, it might have spells and rituals written inside, but it also contains thoughts, emotions, and the raw energy of discovery. It’s where a witch jots down her experiences, what worked, what didn’t, the feelings she had when she performed a certain ritual, or the strange dreams she had after casting her first spell.

  For a young witch like Mrs. Redding’s daughter Rhonda, who was probably just starting to explore her power, this book would be her guide and her sanctuary. Every page would reflect her growth, her fears, her questions about the unknown, and the strange pull she felt toward magic. It would be the most personal thing in her life, a reflection of her soul, her connection to the forces she was learning to command.

  And right now, this book might just hold the key to finding her.

  Not because of what lay inside persay, but because of its personal nature, something like this would be a powerful tool for sympathetic magic. I also snagged a photo of her when no one was looking and some hair from a comb on her dresser. It was as I was snatching the hair that I noticed a book that had been neatly tucked away, an old one with real leather covers and raised silver letters.

  The American Witch’s Grimore 1985 Edition

  The American Witch’s Grimoire was not just any book—it was a guide meant for experienced witches, one that demanded both caution and respect. Seeing that spine on Rhonda Redding’s-that is the girls name- bookshelf immediately complicated things. This wasn’t a harmless Wiccan book you could pick up at any metaphysical shop, or even one of the more common occult books that circulate among beginners. This was a comprehensive guide for witches who already had a strong foundation in the craft, and who were ready to explore deeper, more dangerous magic.

  The Grimoire was a fusion of European witchcraft, brought over during the colonization of the Americas, and the native magic that had long been part of the land. In it, rituals and practices from different traditions clashed, merged, and evolved into something new—a distinctly American form of magic, eclectic and experimental. My own mother had warned me and my sisters to approach this book with care, for it contained not only spells and incantations but also insights into the supernatural creatures that stalked the Americas, from the ghosts of colonial towns to the shape-shifters of indigenous lore.

  Seeing it here, tucked away in Rhonda's room, told me something crucial—this girl had gone way deeper into magic than her appearance of a novice would have suggested. She wasn’t just dabbling in safe rituals and moonlit incantations. If she had been reading this book, she was exploring powerful magic, magic that was older and wilder than anything most beginners would dare to touch.

  And that’s when the alarms in my head started blaring even louder. The Grimoire didn’t just teach spells; it detailed how to summon and communicate with spirits, how to bend supernatural forces to your will. It covered the history of witches who had made pacts with beings far older than mankind, and it warned about the consequences of crossing certain lines.

  I pocketed the hair from her brush, careful not to let my thoughts show as I stood back up. That book changed everything. I wasn’t just looking for a girl who had run away or gotten lost in some magic she didn’t understand. I was dealing with someone who might have attracted the attention of forces much darker and more dangerous than she ever intended.

  I had promised Mrs. Redding I would find her daughter, and I meant it. As I left her house, the weight of the promise settled heavily on my shoulders. The tools I needed to locate Rhonda were at my disposal—her hair, a photo, and, most importantly, my knowledge of the craft. If Rhonda had been avoiding mirrors and covering them up, she had at least known enough to realize she was in danger. That gave me hope. But with the American Witch’s Grimoire in her possession, there was also the unsettling possibility that she’d drawn the attention of something powerful, something capable of dragging her through a portal or worse.

  Normally, I rely on fey witchcraft, an inheritance from my father’s side of the family. The stories say we’re descended from Morgana La Fey herself, and while many other magical families are skeptical of the full truth of that claim, I’ve always felt a natural connection to the fey. But this situation? This called for a different type of magic—the kind that ran through the veins of my mother’s side of the family. Ashcroft blood. Old New England witchcraft, the kind woven from colonial spells, European traditions, and the shadows of Salem.

  I found a quiet spot in the woods, far enough from prying eyes to work undisturbed. I slipped off my backpack, setting it down on the mossy forest floor, and began to pull out the supplies I’d need. The cold bite of autumn was in the air, leaves crunching underfoot as I knelt down to prepare. I needed to make a poppet—a small, hand-crafted doll—one of the more basic but reliable tools in traditional witchcraft. I always kept a few tiny, handmade dolls in my kit for emergencies, just in case a situation like this came up.

  Taking Rhonda’s hair, I carefully twined it around the neck of the poppet. The strands were pale against the fabric, delicate but strong, a powerful link to the missing girl. With that done, I drew a circle in the dirt on the forest floor, using my fingertip to carve out a simple but effective protective boundary. Magic was all about intention, and circles, especially in this old Ashcroft tradition, were key to containing and directing that intention.

  Sitting cross-legged within the circle, I closed my eyes and let my breath steady. I focused on the doll, channeling energy through it, whispering a chant under my breath as I weaved the magic. The purpose was simple: a locator poppet. A sympathetic connection that would lead me to Rhonda, wherever she was. I could feel the pulse of the earth beneath me, the energy in the air shifting as the spell began to take root.

  The wind around me stilled, the forest quieted, and the poppet began to warm in my hand. Now, I just had to hope that Rhonda was still somewhere within reach—somewhere in this world—and that I wasn’t already too late.

  The poppet had done its job, leading me down winding roads and overgrown paths to this eerie place: an old carnival ground, abandoned since the early 90s. The wind carried the faint, hollow creak of rusting metal, and the smell of damp earth clung to the air. It was like something out of a horror movie—decayed and forgotten, but still very much alive in a sinister, unsettling way.

  Faded carnival rides stood like skeletal remains, their once-vibrant colors now muted by years of neglect. The Ferris wheel loomed in the distance, its rusted frame swaying ever so slightly in the wind, as if waiting for riders who would never come. Broken-down tents and shattered booths lined the grounds, remnants of a time when this place had been filled with laughter and light. Now, it felt like a mausoleum for childhood memories.

  And here I was, standing at the entrance to the House of Mirrors.

  The building looked worse for wear, the glass cracked and the entrance draped in ivy that had twisted and curled its way into the structure over the years. The sign, once bright and colorful, hung askew, the letters barely visible through layers of grime and neglect.

  Mirrors had a way of holding energy, of trapping fragments of what they had seen, and this house—this whole carnival—reeked of it. Something dark, something hungry, lingered in this place. My gut twisted in response, a deep, primal warning that screamed danger. The poppet in my hand vibrates slightly, its warmth growing. Rhonda had been here.

  Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and stepped forward, the knot in my stomach tightening with each step. The ground crunched beneath my boots, and I could hear my own heartbeat thudding in my ears. There were no sounds but the occasional groan of old wood or the distant creak of the Ferris wheel.

  Rhonda had come here, drawn or maybe dragged by something powerful—and now, so had I.

  The interior was macabre, and under different circumstances, I might have even found it amusing in a morbid, Addams Family kind of way. The walls were warped with age, the mirrors lining them twisted and bent, creating a distorted funhouse maze of reflections. They stretched and shrank me, warped my limbs, and bent reality into something surreal. Some of the mirrors were cracked, their surfaces spiderwebbed with fractures, others so dulled by neglect that they barely reflected at all.

  But it wasn’t the twisted versions of myself that made me uncomfortable—they were just glass, after all, reflections of what could be. No, there was something deeper here. Something watching me, hiding in the corners of the room, just out of sight but constantly present, sending a chill down my spine. The air was thick, almost suffocating, and I could feel the pull of something dark and ancient resonating through the space.

  Instinctively, I slipped a weapon into my hand. A simple gold ring with a sunstone set in the center, it was small and unassuming, powerless in the hands of most. But for me? It was like holding a miniature flamethrower. With a thought, I could channel fire through it—enough to light up a room, or burn through something far worse than glass. The warmth of the stone was comforting, its glow faint but steady against the cool, oppressive atmosphere.

  "Alright, Rhonda," I muttered under my breath, gripping the ring tighter. "Where are you?"

  I took a step forward, the mirrors around me flickering with reflections of myself as I moved, each one slightly different, twisted in a way that felt... wrong. It was as if the mirrors weren’t just reflecting me, but pulling pieces of me into themselves, distorting not just my image, but my essence.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Something was here, and it wasn’t just reflections.

  Or rather, it was my reflection after a fashion, as I was about to soon learn.

  I heard muffled sobbing from deeper within the maze and crouched low, moving toward the sound. That’s when I found her—Rhonda. She was about my age, a bit heavy-set with blonde hair dyed black and red at the tips, her makeup smeared from tears. Her black dress and fishnets were torn, like she'd put up a fight before being dragged here. She looked like the kind of girl I’d probably hang out with under normal circumstances, maybe grab coffee, talk magic or music, and laugh about how lame the mainstream was. But right now? She was bound, gagged, and absolutely terrified.

  I wanted to rush over, to untie her and get the hell out of there, but I knew better. Every instinct screamed to hold back. Charging in cocksure into the lair of whatever had dragged her here was a good way to get us both killed—or worse. My family had drilled it into me from a young age: never take the supernatural or paranormal lightly, especially not the things that had been hunting humans for hundreds of years. The things that had perfected their predatory craft.

  So I crouched behind a broken column of mirrors and surveyed the situation. The air was too still. I scanned the space, feeling the heavy, oppressive energy that clung to the mirrors. This wasn’t just any trap—it was one of the oldest ones in the book. It was using Rhonda as bait. Something was watching me, waiting for me to make a move.

  I glanced at Rhonda again. Her eyes darted to something just behind me, widening with fresh panic. I followed her gaze in the nearest mirror and froze.

  There I was—or at least, a version of me. But her eyes were different. Cold. Predatory. And that smile... it wasn’t mine. The reflection’s lips curled upward in a way that made my skin crawl, as if she knew something I didn’t.

  That’s when I realized.

  It wasn’t just the mirrors watching me. They were mimicking me. And the thing standing behind the glass, wearing my face? It wasn’t just a reflection. It was something else entirely.

  Something that had been waiting for me.

  “Doppelg?nger!” I snapped, the word bursting from my lips the moment I saw the murderous glint in my reflection’s eyes. Instinct kicked in, and I rolled to the side, seeking cover behind a twisted column of cracked mirrors. No sooner had I moved than the thing—my reflection—stepped through the mirror as if it were walking through a door made of crystal-clear water. It was eerie, like watching myself peel away from reality.

  My stomach twisted in knots. I'd heard the stories, but seeing it in the flesh—or whatever it was made of—was a different thing altogether. I was right: a Doppelg?nger. These creatures were first detailed by German occultists, long whispered about in the shadowy corners of magical circles. They were extra-dimensional mimics, entities from a dark dimension connected to mirrors and reflections. A Doppelg?nger could imitate a person perfectly—except that everything right was wrong, and everything wrong was right. They were like a twisted, funhouse version of you, down to the last unsettling detail.

  No one knew much about their motives, where they came from, or why they chose the people they did. But what we did know? They loved chaos. They loved to ruin lives, wreck relationships, and sometimes—if they could—they’d replace you entirely, slipping into your life like a snake sliding into a second skin.

  The thing wearing my face was faster than I expected, lunging for me with a snarl that twisted my own features into a grotesque sneer. Its hands clawed at the air, barely missing me as I scrambled backward, heart pounding.

  “Not today, you reflection freak,” I muttered under my breath, summoning a small burst of heat into the sunstone ring on my finger. Flames flickered to life, wrapping around my hand like a burning glove. It wasn’t much, but it’d buy me some time.

  The Doppelg?nger hesitated for a split second, eyeing the flames warily. I grinned. “Didn’t think so.”

  It hissed, baring its teeth—my teeth—and leapt again. This time, I was ready. I sidestepped, slashing through the air with the fire-coated ring, sending a flare of heat toward the creature. It recoiled, screeching as the flames licked its arm, the burning smell of singed flesh—or whatever passed for flesh—filling the air.

  I knew fire wouldn’t kill it, though. At best, it would keep it at bay for a bit longer. Doppelg?ngers weren’t just physical entities; they were tied to the mirror world, and fire alone couldn’t sever that connection. I needed to trap it, banish it back through the mirror before it decided to get even nastier.

  And while I dealt with that, there was still Rhonda to consider. She was watching the whole thing, her wide eyes flicking between me and the thing that had tried to replace me.

  Things had just gone from bad to worse.

  The thought barely had time to register before I ducked, narrowly avoiding the oversized carnival mallet that came whistling down where my head had been moments before. I glanced up, catching sight of a twisted version of Rhonda—her doppelg?nger—standing there, holding the mallet with a sadistic grin plastered across her face.

  This was very, very bad.

  See, here's the kicker that makes doppelg?ngers worse than almost any other supernatural mimic: they are you. Or, at least, they know you—down to the smallest detail. They know your moves, your fears, your habits. And that means they have your skills, your powers, and, to top it all off, your weapons and tools. It’s not just like fighting an evil twin; it’s fighting someone who knows exactly how you think, just in a weird, twisted, backwards kind of way. It’s like staring into a mirror and watching yourself do everything you were thinking a split second too late.

  I wasn’t just up against some evil, murderous entity. I was up against me. A darker, malevolent version of myself. And Rhonda? She had her own dark doppelg?nger too, and they both seemed pretty eager to turn this into a deadly game of "who can kill who first."

  It wasn’t just a fight—it was a chess game. And my reflection already knew my next move.

  “Okay,” I muttered under my breath, ducking behind one of the cracked mirrors to buy myself a second. “Think, Jess, think.” I glanced down at the sunstone ring, feeling the heat still radiating from it. Fire was a start, but it wasn’t enough. I needed something more.

  Rhonda’s doppelg?nger took another swing with the mallet, shattering one of the mirrors nearby as I narrowly dodged. Pieces of glass rained down, and I swore I saw something move in the shards—like reflections trying to crawl their way out. Great. Just what I needed.

  I had to end this, and fast. Otherwise, I'd be dealing with more than just the two of them. The doppelg?ngers would have their way, and if they managed to take us both out, they'd slip into our lives like it was nothing.

  I winced, glancing down at my arm where a shard of broken mirror had sliced through my jacket. It wasn’t deep—just a flesh wound—but the sight of my blood glinting against the mirrors set off alarm bells in my mind. Blood. Mirrors. My brain kicked into high gear, making connections that might just save my skin.

  Blood, mirrors, and magic were a volatile combination. I had to act fast. The doppelg?ngers were closing in, and if I hesitated, that would be the end of me—and Rhonda too. Quick and dirty magic it was.

  I took a deep breath, centering myself, and reached for the trick I'd learned from my mother—the one that could throw my enemies off balance. It wouldn’t last long, but it didn’t need to. Just enough to buy me time to turn the tables.

  With a snap of my fingers and a murmur of intent, the mirrors around us began to shimmer, catching the light in a way that wasn’t natural. The reflections within them rippled like water, and then, one by one, illusions of me began to step out from their surfaces. Not more doppelg?ngers, but glamors—pure illusions. They scattered in every direction, helter-skelter, sprinting between the maze of mirrors and making it impossible for the doppelg?ngers to know where I actually was.

  My evil twin froze, her head snapping to the nearest glamor as it darted through the funhouse. Rhonda’s doppelg?nger, still gripping the massive mallet, swore under her breath, eyes flicking wildly between all the identical versions of me.

  That gave me the opening I needed.

  As the chaos of dozens of glamors—each a mirror version of me—kept the doppelg?ngers off balance, I quickly found a large, unbroken mirror near the center of the funhouse maze. I had no time to second-guess. Moving on instinct, I pressed my bleeding hand against the glass, smearing a wide streak of blood across its surface. The connection between blood and mirrors is old magic, primal and powerful. I’d read about it, been warned about it, but now I was going to use it.

  With a sharp breath, I began drawing a pentagram on the surface of the mirror using my blood as ink. “Spirit, Air, Earth, Fire, Water,” I whispered, my voice low and focused, invoking each element as I completed the symbol. The air around me thickened, buzzing with magic, and I could feel the mirror growing warmer beneath my touch, its surface thrumming with a strange energy.

  I wasn’t just tapping into any magic now—I was reaching deep into the wellspring of power that ran through my bloodline. The Fairfax family had ties to the fey, and mirrors? They were more than just reflections. They were portals, windows into other realms, including the realm of the fey, a place where my ancestors had walked, and where deals were made with creatures far older and more powerful than any doppelg?nger.

  I knew I’d pay the price later. Calling on the fey always came with a cost, but I didn’t have the luxury of time to weigh my options. If I was going to survive this and save Rhonda, I needed something that these twisted mimics couldn’t replicate. I needed a champion. Something that could fight for me while I figured out how to close the gateway for good.

  “Come to me,” I whispered into the mirror, feeling the ripple of energy move through the glass. “Champion of the Fey, hear me and come.”

  “Through winter's fury and hoar frost bite you call upon a frozen knight” the woman's voice answered, well not a woman strictly speaking but a female fey.

  “Let a deal be wrought within my sight and swear my sword to your wicked delight” she continued her voice cold yet beautiful.

  “Fine, I sware three fold upon my magic that a favor in equal measure shall be owed!” I snapped back, it was risky and dangerous but my life, Rhonda’s life and the lives of whoever else these Doppelgangers targeted was at risk. I also know the fey, know how to deal with them, know how to mitigate the worst of any price I have to pay.

  "Then it is agreed upon," she replied, her voice cold and crystalline, like the first crack of ice over a deep winter lake. I watched as the surface of the mirror grew cold, the glass transforming into something more like frozen water, shimmering with a dangerous, otherworldly light.

  I had suspected it was an Unseelie faerie, a thing of the Winter Courts. Sometimes, in desperate situations, you have to fight fire with fire—or in this case, darkness with darkness. As she stepped through, she was a vision of inhuman beauty. Her skin was as blue as a winter sky at dusk, her ears long and pointed like a true sidhe. Her hair, white as snow, cascaded down her back in waves, and her body—tall, powerful, and graceful—was wrapped in baroque armor of dark blue-black metal that shimmered like ice. It showed far too much skin to be practical, but in the fae world, appearances were deceiving. The armor was likely woven with more magic than metal, protecting her better than full plate ever could.

  But it wasn’t her armor that commanded awe—it was the weapon she held. A crystal sword, far too large for someone of her slender build, yet she wielded it effortlessly. It was a thing of terrifying beauty, carved from a single, flawless diamond-like substance. The sword hummed in the air as she drew it from its sheath, moving with an economy of motion that bespoke centuries of combat experience, her every movement a lethal dance perfected over millennia.

  She looked at me, her icy gaze cutting through the air. “Stall or slay the doppelg?ngers while I rescue the human and figure out how to banish them,” I ordered, my voice steady despite the dread creeping up my spine.

  The sidhe warrior tilted her head ever so slightly, a cruel smile touching her lips, as though amused by my command. But she nodded nonetheless. “As you wish, witchling,” she said, her voice laced with a dark amusement, her icy breath visible in the cold air that surrounded her.

  Without another word, she turned and moved with the grace of a deadly predator toward the doppelg?ngers. Her sword shimmered in her hands, and I knew I had bought myself the time I needed.

  Now, I just had to rescue Rhonda and find a way to banish these twisted reflections for good.

  My glamour dissolved, the flickering images of me vanishing just in time for the knight of winter to make her move. With an elegance that was almost serene, the sidhe warrior descended upon the Rhonda doppelg?nger like a shadow falling across the land. Her crystal sword cut through the air, singing with an eerie resonance that sent a shiver down my spine. The Rhonda doppelg?nger barely had time to turn her head, let alone defend herself.

  With a single, devastating strike, the crystal blade cleaved through the doppelg?nger, not leaving blood but shimmering cracks that spread through its form like frost over glass. The doppelg?nger staggered, its twisted mockery of Rhonda’s face frozen in shock, before it shattered into fragments—splinters of darkness that dissolved into the cold, still air.

  The sidhe knight did not pause, her focus already shifting to my own doppelg?nger, who seemed to hesitate for a moment, calculating its odds. For all its mimicry, it knew it wasn’t facing just me anymore, but something far older, far deadlier.

  "One down," I muttered to myself, my heart still racing. But I couldn’t let my guard down. Rhonda was still in danger, and the other doppelg?nger—my doppelg?nger—was still out there, armed with my knowledge, my powers, and every twisted instinct it could muster.

  I turned my attention back to Rhonda, who was watching the scene unfold with wide, terrified eyes. I had to get her out before things escalated further. "Hang tight," I whispered, moving toward her, feeling the pressure of the magic I was about to unleash mounting in my chest. I was running out of time, and I still had a banishment spell to cast.

  My doppelg?nger was no easy prey. Unlike Rhonda's mimic, which fell swiftly to the sidhe's blade, mine had all my cunning, my magic, and the deep wellspring of arcane power I’d inherited from generations of witches. Every spell I knew, every trick I’d learned—the doppelg?nger had it too. And she was using it to full effect.

  The winter knight, graceful and deadly, lunged with her crystal sword, but my doppelg?nger was ready. With a wave of her hand, she summoned a shield of arcane force, deflecting the blade and sending shards of ice splintering into the air. My heart raced as I watched them clash, magic against magic, power against power.

  Part of me—the practical, calculating part—couldn’t help but feel a flicker of relief. If the doppelg?nger was giving the winter knight this much trouble, it would demonstrate just how dangerous I truly was. I’d learned long ago never to fully trust a faerie, especially one from the Unseelie Court. The Sidhe were notorious for finding loopholes in deals, and I had no illusions that this one was any different. But seeing how hard the knight had to work to keep my doppelg?nger at bay might give her pause before trying to double-cross me.

  Still, I couldn’t stand idly by while they fought. My doppelg?nger was me in every way, and that meant she’d eventually figure out a way to turn the tide. I had to move fast.

  “Hold her off!” I shouted at the Sidhe knight, as I turned my attention to the real task—figuring out a proper banishment spell. I knelt by one of the mirrors, drawing a series of runes in the dust on the floor, quickly piecing together what I needed. Blood, mirrors, and magic—this would have to be fast and dirty, but if I did it right, I could trap the doppelg?nger back where she came from.

  The battle went on as the Winter Lady clashed her icey blade deflecting green witchfire bolts that lanced from my Doppelgangers finger tips. I took a deep breath and focused on a shard of broken glass as I smeared my blood across it. I knew my mirror double would know what I was planning to do and she was going to get desperate and try and call up those deep magical reserves of mine. That was part of the reason I had made a blind summon, I didn’t know this Sidhes name and neither did mirror me.

  The clash between the Winter Lady and my doppelg?nger was an intense, brutal dance of magic and steel. The Sidhe’s icy blade moved like a deadly ribbon, deflecting the green witchfire bolts that my doppelg?nger flung with a flick of her fingers. Every impact of magic against magic sent shockwaves through the air, crackling with raw energy.

  I knew time was running out. My doppelg?nger was me in every sense, and I could already sense her desperation building. She knew I was up to something, and that knowledge would drive her to tap into the deeper reserves of our shared magical power. That was where things could get dangerous—if she accessed those raw, untamed energies, the consequences would be catastrophic for everyone involved.

  But I had a trick up my sleeve. I didn’t know the Winter Lady’s true name, and neither did my mirror double. That was key. I had summoned the Sidhe blindly, without any personal connection or prior knowledge, and that gave me the upper hand. My doppelg?nger couldn’t control what she didn’t know. She couldn’t anticipate the moves of a wild card, and in the world of magic, knowing a name meant knowing power.

  I took a deep breath, my pulse quickening as I focused on the shard of broken glass in my hand. Its surface glistened with the smear of my blood, an offering, a key to the spell I was weaving. The mirrors around us were more than just reflections—they were gateways, portals to realms that only those trained in the occult could truly understand. And I was about to turn that knowledge against my doppelg?nger.

  With the shard in hand, I pressed it against the dirt and began drawing a new set of symbols—runes of banishment and binding, meant to trap the creature that had stepped through the looking glass. My magic hummed, the air around me vibrating with tension. I could feel the pull of the mirror world, and I had to concentrate harder than ever to keep the spell contained.

  The Sidhe continued her onslaught, her ice-crystal sword deflecting my doppelg?nger’s attacks with precision. The mirror version of me was growing more frantic, her spells wilder and more erratic as she realized what I was doing. She knew I was planning to send her back, and that desperation made her dangerous.

  “Almost there,” I whispered to myself, my fingers tracing the final rune.

  As I finished, I felt the power of the spell surge through me. The mirror shard in my hand glowed with a faint, otherworldly light, its surface rippling like water. The connection was made.

  As I uttered the final words, there was a palpable shift in the atmosphere. The temperature dropped sharply, and the wind around us seemed to still, as if even the elements were waiting to see what would happen next. I felt the magic tighten, like a coil ready to spring, every syllable of the banishment spell woven with precision and power. My mother, Annabelle Fairfax, had drilled this into me: willpower is everything. You can have all the magic in the world, but without the sheer force of will to command it, you're nothing.

  "Return, return, return!" I shouted, my voice ringing with a strength that surprised even me. "I banish thee from this place! By my will and by my power, your time here is done, Acissej!" That name was her true name, that was what separated me from a novice. I knew that she was a backwards me and that the true name of a doppelg?nger was the mirror of the person it mimicked and true names, nothing holds power over another being quite like they do.

  The doppelg?nger—Acissej, the twisted version of me—froze. The name hit her like a physical blow, her features contorting in shock and rage. The magic crackled in the air, intensifying with each repetition of the name. I had her. She tried to fight it, her reflection flickering, her form starting to unravel at the edges as though her very existence was being pulled apart. The mirror version of me was strong, but she was bound by the rules of the reflection world, and now I was exploiting one of its oldest weaknesses.

  The doppelg?nger's mirror eyes flared with hatred, but she was powerless against the command. Her movements slowed, her attacks faltered. The Winter Lady took advantage, pressing her sword against the creature’s throat, forcing her further into submission.

  The reflection’s body began to distort, shimmering like a rippling surface of water, cracks forming along her skin. She let out a scream—a horrible, twisted version of my own voice—as the mirror world yanked her back, piece by piece.

  With a final burst of energy, she was pulled into the nearest mirror, shattering it on impact. Shards of glass exploded outward, but I was ready, raising my hand and summoning a protective shield. The glass rained down harmlessly, and the reflection—Acissej—was no more.

  The air felt lighter, the oppressive weight of dark magic lifting as the connection between this world and the mirror realm faded. My heart pounded in my chest, but a small smile tugged at my lips. I had done it.

  The Winter Lady stepped back, lowering her crystalline sword as she gave me a sharp nod of approval. "Well done, mortal," she said, her voice cold but not unkind. "Your will is strong. Our deal is complete. A favor will be owed in equal measure to my service, collected upon the winter solistice"

  I exhaled slowly, letting the tension release from my body. But I knew I still had work to do. Rhonda needed saving, and I had a broken-down carnival full of mirrors to deal with.

  I watched the Winter Lady melt into snow as she stepped back into her own world and moved to untie Rhonda and make sure she was ok, her injuries were minor, thank goodness. I tended to my own cuts but got her out and started heading back to town as soon as I could with her.

  In the end it turned out that Rhonda had started dabbling in mirror magic and attracted a doppelganger's attention a few weeks ago and was trying desperately to figure out how to get it to stop stalking her. I gave her a few magical tips and told her to wait on the Grimore until she has more basic elements down. I stayed in town for a few weeks after eager to spend the payment for my services and it turns out I was right, Rhonda is my kind of person and I genuinely enjoyed hanging out with her, even scoring a date, that was pretty nice.

  The police labeled it as a runaway attempt, her father and mother didn’t care how I found her, in the end they were just glad she was safe. It was nice to see that her parents loved her. I didn’t get much of that kind of affection from my family.

  Rhonda, well she has talent, real magical talent and while I can’t stay long enough to teach her too much I think she will do fine. She lived and learned a powerful lesson and she has a family that genuinely loves her something not every witch can claim.

  As for me, I’m still on the run, Northward bound and not looking forward to the Winter Solstice when I have to repay a favor to a beautiful and dangerous Sidhe.

  https://www.worldanvil.com/w/the-specials-universe-killerkorax)