MirrorWorld

From the roof of the staggered pyramid that is the Neuro building, there are clear views of all four sides. But we’re only concerned about the parking lot, which is full. There are at least five hundred people, more trickling in, but the drive to the main road is mostly empty.

Shouting voices of the protestors, who seem to believe Neuro is polluting the groundwater and performing animal experiments, rise up from below. The human din is mixed with an otherworldly whispering that only I can perceive. If I could understand Dread, then we’d have a nice tactical advantage, but cognition wasn’t part of the DNA-altering package.

There are still thirty nonessential employees inside the building. Lyons wants them out. The official reason is for their own protection, despite assurances that the building is impenetrable—by means available to civilians. Oscillium plates have slid down beneath the windows on the first two stories. The entrances are locked, and anyone or anything that breaches the foyer will then have to get past the electrified floor, which I’ve been told has been reduced to a nonlethal voltage. Of course, anything Dread—if alone—will be cooked by microwaves. The oscillium-tinted windows on the higher floors are still vulnerable, but Lyons believes the Dread will stay true to form, remaining in the shadows, acting through influence rather than an overt physical assault.

The warm summer air is heavy with moisture. Dark clouds loom in the distance. Leaves all around the building flicker between shades of green as the wind kicks up. If there is any doubt that a storm is coming, the low rumble of thunder rolling through the sky erases it. According to Katzman, the storm won’t be enough to deter the Dread, despite lightning being a threat to denizens of all dimensions. They’ll pour on the fear until people ignore the instinct to flee from open spaces during a storm.

“This is a bad idea,” Katzman says, a slight quiver in his voice. Thus far, he’s been the pinnacle of bravery, except for the one moment he saw the Dread bull in the stairwell. I’m hearing that same kind of fear in his voice right now.

I turn around casually, glancing at the people with me—Allenby, Katzman, and two men from Dread Squad Alpha. As I turn, I let my vision slip into the world between frequencies, my shifting pupils hidden behind a pair of reflective sunglasses. The pain from the subtle shift in my physiology is intense, but lessoned, and I manage it with no outward sign of discomfort. My Dread muscles are getting stronger. The whispering grows louder, but I block it out. Four Dread hover above the others, vibrating waves of fear into them. It’s subtle enough that their emotions are being manipulated without setting off alarm bells.

Hello, mothmen, I think, as I look at the red-eyed, four-winged creatures. Like other Dread, veins cover the outsides of their bodies, but they’re not green, they’re luminescent red, a similar shade to the small Dread bat. Like the bull, their heads are domed and lacking noses and ears. Their four red eyes are positioned two on the outside, two in the middle, providing a wide range of vision. While vaguely humanoid with short powerful legs and long skinny arms, the thing also has an array of small hooked limbs lining the center of its torso, twitching madly. I can’t imagine what they’re for until a mothman descends on one of the Alpha Team. The tiny legs wrap around the man’s body, shaking in a way that reminds me of the way bees communicate. The man shivers and breaks out in a sweat.

“Katzman,” I say, casually. “Have you ever been to a magic show?”

“What?” He’s instantly annoyed. Fidgeting.

“My favorite act is the knife throwing.” This is all made up. I have no memory of going to a magic show. But I know the tricks and need to communicate cryptically. The Dread understand English, but might not be able to decipher a message cloaked by human context. “I know some are fake. The knife pops out of the backboard. But some are real.”

“You better be going somewhere with this. We’re on a schedule.”

I turn back quickly, like I’m looking over the roof, but I’m actually confirming that there is a mothman hovering behind me as well, vibrating fear toward me but not into me. That I haven’t been attacked outright means they don’t know who I am. They might know about me, but they don’t recognize me as the guy that can see them—yet. To keep that from happening, I shiver, doing my best to act mildly afraid, which is a stretch, like pretending to be a shark. But the Dread haven’t pounced, so that’s encouraging. Good thing they can’t see my eyes, though. The razor-sharp focus would broadcast my intentions.