Free Duplicity by N. K. Traver

Bond, iPhone armed. A yellow rectangle pops into the hallway.
    It’s quiet.
    I peek into the room.
    No icy splinters on the seashell-inlaid floor. No shards reflecting off the sandy counter.
    No broken glass. The mirror’s intact, perfect and whole and silent, hiding any evidence that it’s actually a demon portal. I don’t poke my head in far enough to see my reflection. I snap off the light and close the door like it’s an Olympic event.
    I click my phone and check the clock. Three-fifteen. Plenty of time to jet into town, grab some new dye and earring spikes, and start fixing the things Obran messed up. I’ll wait on the tattoos until I figure out a way to get rid of him. I am not doing whatever that was in the locker room again.
    I turn the music up on my phone, shut my bedroom door, pull off my sweatshirt—
    â€œARRRRGGGG!”
    Obran smiles at me from a new, full-length mirror standing near my window. My entire room reflects inside it. I lurch for the door, smash shoulder-first into something hard, and bounce back onto the floor. My dresser? I glare at the mirror. Obran shakes his head and waggles a finger. On both sides of the glass, the dresser blocks the exit.
    I’ve got to break the mirror. I search for something to break it with, but it seems Obran’s thought of that already. I can’t find the knife I keep in my desk, or any of my dusty textbooks, or even my boots. It won’t fit out my windows without jacking up the screens. Maybe I can hit it. I study my scabbed knuckles and think that’s not the best idea. Obran paces on the other side, but he’s not doing anything (why?), and finally I snatch a steel letter opener off my desk and go for the glass.
    Like my piercings, the handle vanishes in my fist. Obran clutches it instead, and for a blood-freezing moment I think he’s going to stab himself and I don’t know what that will mean. He doesn’t. He flings it at me. I duck, but the opener doesn’t get that far. The glass shatters, sliding to the floor in jagged shingles.
    Slowly, I inch around the bed toward the wreckage. My reflection—my real reflection—stares at me from a mosaic of silver-blue shards on the carpet, looking scared and pathetic but looking like me. I nudge a few with my toe. No Obran. I pick up one of the larger pieces. Make a face into it. It mimics me perfectly. Has Obran … destroyed himself? I doubt it’s that easy, but I should check one of the other mirrors—
    â€œBrandon?”
    Mom. I heave at the dresser in front of my door. It doesn’t budge.
    â€œBrandon, what was that crashing?”
    I shove again. It yields no more than an inch. How did stupid Obran move it so quickly? I’ll have to take the drawers out.
    â€œMom, go away,” I say.
    â€œI’m not going to go away, I’m—” She tries the door. “What are you doing in there? That Ginger better not be over again. I thought you two broke up!”
    â€œWe did, like a year ago! I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
    â€œYou let me in this instant or I’m going to get your father!”
    I yank out the bottom drawer, full of jeans (Folded? Did Mom fold them?) and shove it aside. Pull out the next one. Gape at its contents. Boxer shorts and socks, all in neat rows, and none of them mine. Tommy Boy, Calvin Klein, Lacoste. All plain colors. No AC/DC lightning bolts or skulls. My mismatched camo socks have changed to dull argyles of brown, black, and white.
    â€œBrandon, I’m going to count to three…”
    â€œMom, chill.” I rustle through the pairs, trying to find anything that’s mine. “Did you take my socks?”
    Pause. “Why on earth would I take your socks?”
    I jerk another drawer out, one that used to hold my old Goth things from my days dating Ginger: belts with poison symbol buckles, spikey collars, chains, armbands, and my small but loud