Logan realized he was seeing a literal dead man in the mirror. He’d never be human again. In the mirror, his left leg was gone. Gone also were his landscaping business, his Uncle Bud, any chance of dating another human again. Realizing the finality of it all was a gut punch. He was dead. Or, at least, he had died and now he was something else. But then it dawned on him that he wasn’t the only one experiencing that loss.
Perhaps it was harder for him than the others because he knew absolutely nothing about this world. However, each of his teammates had likewise experienced the trauma and loss of the reaping. He stole a sidelong gaze at the other members of the Terrible Twelfth. In some ways, Marko wasn’t that different. In the mirror was a dark-haired human with a deeply tanned Mediterranean complexion, a wavy mass of dark hair, and an infectious grin. His eyes were the same color but didn’t have the weird goat pupils. And no horns. But basically similar.
Marko pointed. “True seeing. That’s me. That can’t be more me. But I have to say, I’m happy to be here with a tail. My old life was so... tailless. And I’m going to save a fortune on shoes. Hooves frickin’ rule.”
The satyr smiled that same friendly, lopsided grin. So did the human in the mirror.
Treacle Glimmerhappy frowned, sighed, and shook his shaggy head. Whereas Marko was remarkably close in appearance to his old self, the looming minotaur couldn’t have been more different. His reflection was only about two feet tall. Tiny. The Treacle in the mirror was the classic gnome, with a big white beard, a red cap, little blue overalls, and big black boots. He could’ve walked off anyone’s lawn. And yes, people still bought lawn gnomes.
Treacle moved his big minotaur head back and forth. The gnome echoed the movement. He stroked his bare bull chin.
“No beard.” He opened his mouth. “And my teeth are different. I have more stomachs now. Lost my life. Picked up more stomachs.” He paused. Shrugged. “Might not be such a bad deal, I suppose.”
“You don’t miss being royalty?” Marko asked.
“On Plimpkinny, I wasn’t very popular,” Treacle said softly, still feeling for his absent beard. “I was a gnome lord, sure, but I found the money boring. Plimpkinny gnomes love money. I liked crafting things, not to sell, but to use. I made machines in my workshop. My wife always complained I spent too much time out there. My wife always complained. She was very good at it. She mostly complained because we were so poor for a lord and a lady.”
“We’re not going to talk about how we got here, are we?” Marko asked uncertainly, eyes squinting, forehead bunching. For once, he wasn’t smiling.
“We don’t have to,” Logan said.
Treacle, though, kept talking. “How I got here? I had no idea I was being recruited, truth be told. Near Castle Candylick—that’s where I was the lord, though my wife did most of the lording work—we had an infestation of nickel chucks, these metal rodent critters who would devour anything and anyone they could. Those nickel chucks sure were an itch in our beards, so I made a very fine chucktrap and took it to their cave, which now I understand was a reaping dungeon.
“Long story short? My chucktrap worked too well, and I was reaped. Now here I am. I chose to be a minotaur. At the time, I didn’t care much. When Shadowcroft suggested I might like a labyrinth full of traps, it made a certain sort of sense.” He took a deep breath and sighed, deflating as though in defeat. “Suppose it doesn’t much matter, though. Not in the long run. I think I could’ve liked being a guardian, but I won’t live long enough to see that happen, I reckon.” Treacle, the little gnome, smiled wistfully. “Of all the things I miss, my workshop is at the top of the list. I don’t miss the complaining wife.”
The cogs in Logan’s head clanked to life, and he started slowly piecing it together. Treacle must’ve come from a world richer in Apothos than Earth, but the gnome lord hadn’t done much cultivating. That was why he’d wound up in the Terrible Twelfth. Marko and Inga, on the other hand, knew about cultivation and about the academy. So they must be terrible in other ways.
Marko didn’t laugh at the wife joke. He was sweating a little. “So, nice story, we can keep going. Check out the library. Maybe stop talking about this forever, because the past is the past...”
Logan patted Marko’s furry hand. “It’s okay, Marko, you don’t have to share.” He caught Treacle’s eyes. “So, you didn’t sign up for this. Did you do any cultivating? Before, I mean?”
“I still don’t quite understand how my core and my body work together. Or the thirteen Apothine energies. Or are there fourteen?” The minotaur shrugged one shoulder, apparently unconcerned by the lack of knowledge. “I can’t imagine I’ll survive long enough to really understand how they work together. There’s this Winnowing Professor Rockheart spoke of. It won’t matter once I’m winnowed.”
Marko tapped Logan on the shoulder and pointed at Inga. She hadn’t said a word, but instead stared entranced at the image reflected back at her in the unnatural mirror.
Tall and slender, the moth woman’s antennae drooped. Even her wings seemed to sag as she regarded the monstrous bird creature in the mirror. In her former life, she’d been a massive owlish creature with a long golden beak encrusted with jewels. Her feathers looked a tad bit greasy, but they shined white, black, and brown. She had golden eagle eyes as intense as burning embers. Those eyes filled with tears.
Logan recalled what Shadowcroft had said in their class that day... something about a beauty contest.
Inga sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “This does nothing but bring back bad memories. The life I had is gone.” She reached up a delicate pale hand and wiped away the tears streaking down her flawless cheeks. “We should get to the library, otherwise known as an athenaeum. There are many kinds of libraries, you know.” She spoke matter-of-factly, clearly trying to hide just how upset she was by the changes in her appearance. Logan could sympathize—though, honestly, he thought she’d made a heck of an upgrade. “Different words mean different things,” Inga continued. “For example, we use the word undercroft for this section of the castle, though it’s somewhat inappropriate because this isn’t a church. Regardless.”
“Less regard. I completely agree! No bad memories!” Marko pushed them all the rest of the way down the stairway and into a wide lobby where a turtle fountain gurgled.
Comfortable chairs surrounded the basin. To the left were two huge wooden doors, large enough to accommodate even the most formidable guardians. The entrance to the Codex Athenaeum. The entrance to the Tartarucha Cells was across the way. Whatever that was.
They moved to go into the library, but the doors were locked.
The water stopped flowing, and the turtle perched atop the fountain spoke. “Library hours are eight a.m. to eight p.m. daily. After-hours access is limited to advanced-level cultivators—Azure Branch or higher. Thank you for your interest. Knowledge is power!” The stone head stopped talking, and water flowed out once more.
“Like Schoolhouse Rock,” Logan muttered.
Inga stood with her arms crossed. “No books? How can I live even a single night without books? This can’t be happening.” She threw her arms up in obvious frustration. “It’s a nightmare, a genuine nightmare.”