Beyond Every Mirror

  • Round: Books: 5 Page Challenge

  • Genre:
    Fiction: Sci Fi/Fantasy, Romance
  • Submitted: July 13, 2011


Status: Elevated to Round 3

  • Want it elevated: 53%
  • Publishing Pro Rating: Under review.
  • 2%


  • 10%


  • 35%


  • 33%


  • 20%


% want it elevated


5 Page Challenge

Pages 1-5 | Extended Sample


They say love lives forever. For Dane, love is reincarnated beyond every mirror, portals to an anachronistic dimension in time where he must die so his true love can live.

Pages 1 - _


The Perfect Dream


Just a few more sips and he would be dead. She needed to feel his death. Yet her love for him prevented her from greedily taking that last swallow. She paused and licked at her lips.

Ah, the taste of human blood. In her mouth, on her tongue, warming its way through her body. She drew in a deep breath and raised herself from his throat. The sweet scent of red nectar embraced the odor of human flesh and caused a stirring in her loins.

He lay beneath her in complete submission and when she opened her eyes his dim blue gaze met hers. Wavy black hair splayed out on the floor beneath his head. He was so beautiful, yet she knew he could not live. She needed his blood, his strength, and his power to fill her. 

Though he spoke no words, his eyes pleaded, please spare my life. Don’t let me die only to rise again and feed your hunger repeatedly for all eternity.

But that’s exactly what he was—all he was! Sustenance to keep her strong and make her the most powerful in Mikaire – the most powerful of all the dimensions. How could she love him—a mere mortal born only for food, strength and immortality?  Yet she had paused and deep within she felt guilt for taking his life.

No more waiting, it was time! As the need for ultimate power grew stronger, the urge to take that last drink became overwhelming. His heart would stop and he would be gone—for now. Within the next yearly cycle he would return again, his blood more powerful, serving her needs yet again. Each year by her world’s calendar—every sixty-four human years—he would be there, forever.

Slowly, she sunk her fangs once more into the soft flesh of his throat…

Meira awoke, crying out his name.

 “Dane!” Her voice echoed from the wooden walls of her bedchamber.

Sweat soaked her night clothes, her hair stuck in wet wisps to her face and she was shivering. She brought slender fingers to her lips. Small drops of blood rested there and she licked them away—not human blood, but her own. She had bitten her lip.

But what did human blood taste like? She would never know. It was forbidden in her world – Sikkana’s world, where only he could drink from those that resided through the looking glass.

Meirah shivered again, not from the chill in the air, but from thoughts of the dream. She had been seeing through Sikkana’s eyes yet she was herself, feeling her own emotions. Tears welled in her eyes. Fear coursed through her veins.

“Dane,” she whispered to the air.

Soon it would be time and he would return to her world where she could touch his hair and look into his blue eyes—and time for her yet again to watch him die. 


The mirror reflects images,

Through false and mortal eyes,

But no image shows beyond the glass,

For the soul is in disguise

The image in the glass is but,

A vision of the mind,

But within the fragile human soul,

Is of another kind

Beyond every looking glass,

And inside every heart,

The truth is as a rainbow,

As a shining world apart

To see beyond the mirror,

Is to see beyond your eyes,

A heart that flames with fire and ice,

A soul shorn from disguise.


Chapter One
The Ultimate Purpose

South Carolina,
February 11, 1996

He had only arrived at the bookstore a few minutes earlier when it happened.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary as he stepped through the large glass double doors. Sparse customers mingled from aisle to aisle, employees stocked books on shelves, and the familiar scent of paper and the occasional suggestion of cologne or perfume wafted through the air. 

Work lay heavily on his mind, but motivation did not. He had just wanted something new to read, to pass the day, to avoid the inevitable. He had just plucked a paperback off the shelf and turned it over to read the back when a shiver clawed at his spine and the mental energy around him shifted. So as not to appear obvious, he hadn’t turned right around. He didn’t stare; just a slight glance to his right, a shift of his eyes. 

She only appeared in his peripheral vision; to his straight vision she was not in clear focus.  In his mind, however, her face was clear as a bell—the salt and pepper hair, well preserved yet creased face, sunken grey eyes.

She was of advanced years, maybe mid-eighties, and stood about eight feet to his right, gaping with wide eyes. He could just catch a slight whiff of Chanel No. 5 as a passing patron rushed the air in his direction. He didn’t remember having seen her before, but somehow he recognized her.

With a shake of his head and a slight tremble in his hands, he pulled the book closer to his face and tried to remain hidden in the unassuming task of studying the pages.  It did little good.  Within seconds, he heard the shuffle of footsteps come up behind him.  He was accustomed to attention from strangers, but not this kind.

The old woman gasped when he turned to face her, and he felt the congenial yet feigned smile he’d plastered on his face dissolve.  The step she took backwards brought her to a halt against a large stack of books that swayed with the impact.  His breath fell short as he expected a shower of books to hit the floor but the old woman’s frail form wasn’t enough to topple the pile.  And that’s when it happened. That’s when she accused him of being dead!

Sweat broke out on his forehead as if someone had suddenly turned the heat up and he shifted his weight just to give his feet something to do.  When another woman, in her forties or fifties – he didn't care at this point – rushed over, his shoulders slumped with temporary relief. 

 "Martha, it's okay.  What's wrong?" she said, gentle hands resting on the older woman’s shoulders.  Her eyes lifted to meet Dane’s and her mouth dropped open, green eyes widening, in a repeat performance of Martha's own gaping appearance. 

"Oh my God," she whispered. 

Dane glanced around.  Everyone in the store had paused, open books in hand, staring at the spectacle in the history aisle. 

 "You see, Barbara?" the old woman said. "It's him.  You see it too.  It's him.  He came back. He came back!"  She kept repeating those last three words, sounding more like a five-year old child than a woman of age.

"No, Martha," Barbara's stare remained locked to his face, her words lacking the conviction they claimed.  "It's not him.  He just looks like him."

Her expression finally softened apologetically as she drew the old woman close. 

"C'mon,” she cooed, like a mother to a child.  “We’ll go home – to New York.  Would you like that?"

"It's him,” Martha pushed, her voice lowering.  “I know it is.  I can feel it.  He came back.”  Tears welled on her lashes and one fell, weaving a path along the creases of her face.

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