He woke with a terrified start, convinced for the moment that Phipps was at the mirror and about to kidnap Cynthia. The room was dark; his heart felt as if it would burst his ribs before he could find the switch and assure himself that it was not so, that his beloved, waxy pale, still lay on the bed.
He had to examine the big mirror and assure himself that it did reflect the room and not act as a window to some other, awful place before he was willing to snap off the light. By the dim reflected light of the city he poured himself a bracer for his shaken nerves.
He thought that he caught a movement in the mirror, whirled around, and found that it was his own reflection. He sat down again and stretched himself out, resolving not to drop off to sleep again.
What was that?
He dashed into the kitchen in pursuit of it. Nothing—nothing that he could find. Another surge of panic swept him back into the bedroom—it could have been a ruse to get him away from her side.
They were laughing at him, goading him, trying to get him to make a false move. He knew it— they had been plotting against him for days, trying to shake his nerve. They watched him out of every mirror in the house, ducking back when he tried to catch them at it. The Sons of the Bird—
"The Bird is Cruel!"
Had he said that? Had someone shouted it at him? The Bird is Cruel. Panting for breath, he went to the open window of the bedroom and looked out. It was still dark, pitch-dark. No one moved on the streets below. The direction of the lake was a lowering bank of mist. What time was it? Six o’clock in the morning by the clock on the table. Didn’t it ever get light in this God-forsaken city?
The Sons of the Bird. He suddenly felt very sly; they thought they had him, but he would fool them—they couldn’t do this to him and to Cynthia. He would smash every mirror in the place. He hurried out to the kitchen, where he kept a hammer in the catch-all drawer. He got it and came back to the bedroom. First, the big mirror—
He hesitated just as he was about to swing on it. Cynthia wouldn’t like this—seven years’ bad luck! He wasn’t superstitious himself, but—Cynthia wouldn’t like it! He turned to the bed with the idea of explaining it to her; it seemed so obvious—just break the mirrors and then they would be safe from the Sons of the Bird.
But he was stumped by her still face.
He thought of a way around it. They had to use a mirror. What was a mirror? A piece of glass that reflects. Very well—fix ’em so they wouldn’t reflect! Furthermore he knew how he could do it; in the same drawer with the hammer were three or four dime-store cans of enamel, and a small brush, leftovers from a splurge of furniture refinishing Cynthia had once indulged in.
He dumped them all into a small mixing bowl; together they constituted perhaps a pint of heavy pigment—enough, he thought, for his purpose. He attacked the big beveled glass first, slapping enamel over it in quick careless strokes. It ran down his wrists and dripped onto the dressing table; he did not care. Then the others— here was enough, though barely enough, to finish the living-room mirror. No matter—it was the last mirror in the house—except, of course, the tiny mirrors in Cynthia’s bags and purses, and he had already decided that they did not count. Too small for a man to crawl through and packed away out of sight, anyhow.
The enamel had been mixed from a small amount of black and perhaps a can and a half, net, of red. It was all over his hands now; he looked like the central figure in an ax murder. No matter—he wiped it, or most of it, off on a towel and went back to his chair and his bottle.
Let ’em try now! Let ’em try their dirty, filthy black magic! He had them stymied.
He prepared to wait for the dawn.
The sound of the buzzer brought him up out of his chair, much disorganized, but convinced that he had not closed his eyes. Cynthia was all right—that is to say, she was still asleep, which was the best he had expected. He rolled up his tube and reassured himself with the sound of her heart.
The buzzing continued—or resumed; he did not know which. Automatically he answered it.
"Potbury," came a voice. "What’s the matter? You asleep? How’s the patient?"
"No change, doctor," he answered, striving to control his voice.
"That so? Well, let me in."
Potbury brushed on by him when he opened the door and went directly to Cynthia. He leaned over her for a moment or two, then straightened up. "Seems about the same," he said. "Can’t expect much change for a day or so. Crisis about Wednesday, maybe." He looked Randall over curiously. "What in the world have you been doing? You look like a four-day bender."
"Nothing," said Randall. "Why didn’t you have me send her to a hospital, doctor?"
"Worst thing you could do for her."
"What do you know about it? You haven’t really examined her. You don’t know what’s wrong with her. Do you?"
"Are you crazy? I told you yesterday."
Randall shook his head. "Just double talk. You’re trying to kid me about her. And I want to know why."
Potbury took a step toward him. "You are crazy—and drunk, too." He looked curiously at the big mirror. "I want to know what’s been going on around here." He touched a finger to smeared enamel.
"Don’t touch it!"
Potbury checked himself. "What’s it for?"
Randall looked sly. "I foxed ’em."
"Who?"
"The Sons of the Bird. They come in through mirrors—but I stopped them."
Potbury stared at him. "I know them," Randall said. "They won’t fool me again. The Bird is Cruel."
Potbury covered his face with his hands.
They both stood perfectly still for several seconds. It took that long for a new idea to percolate through Randall’s abused and bemused mind. When it did he kicked Potbury in the crotch. The events of the next few seconds were rather confused. Potbury made no outcry, but fought back. Randall made no attempt to fight fair, but followed up his first panzer stroke with more dirty work.
When matters straightened out, Potbury was behind the bathroom door, whereas Randall was on the bedroom side with the key in his pocket. He was breathing hard but completely unaware of such minor damage as he had suffered. ynthia slept on.
"Mr. Randall—let me out of here!"
Randall had returned to his chair and was trying to think his way out of his predicament. He was fully sobered by now and made no attempt to consult the bottle. He was trying to get it through his head that there really were "Sons of the Bird" and that he had one of them locked up in there right now.
In that case Cynthia was unconscious because—God help them!—the Sons had stolen her soul. Devils—they had fallen afoul of devils.
Potbury pounded on the door. "What’s the meaning of this, Mr. Randall? Have you lost your mind? Let me out of here!"
"What’ll you do if I do? Will you bring Cynthia back to life?"
"I’ll do what a physician can for her. Why did you do it?"
"You know why. Why did you cover your face?"
"What do you mean? I started to sneeze and you kicked me."
"Maybe I should have said, ‘Gesundheit!’ You’re a devil, Potbury. You’re a Son of the Bird!"
There was a short silence. "What nonsense is this?"
Randall thought about it. Maybe it was nonsense; maybe Potbury had been about to sneeze. No! This was the only explanation that made sense. Devils, devils and black magic. Stoles and Phipps and Potbury and the others.
Hoag? That would account for—wait a minute, now. Potbury hated Hoag. Stoles hated Hoag. All the Sons of the Bird hated Hoag. Very well, devil or whatever, he and Hoag were on the same side.