Chapter 72 - The Mirror's Fracture
"Over my dead body," I snarled, tensing the muscles in my thighs.
"That can be arranged instantly," the imposter replied, her thumb pulling the hammer back until it locked with a deafening metallic snap.
Before she could pull the trigger, Clara lunged from the tunnel shadow. She didn't hesitate, hurling the iron wrench with all the strength left in her uninjured arm. The heavy metal spun through the howling gale and struck the fake Clara squarely in the shoulder.
The shot went wide, the crack of gunfire echoing across the frozen chasm like thunder. The bullet ricocheted off an overhead girder, showering us in orange sparks.
I didn't waste a second. Twisting violently, I slammed my shoulder into the imposter’s ribs, tackling her off her knees. The lockbox slid across the frost-covered iron grating, spinning toward the edge of the catwalk where the sheer abyss opened into three thousand feet of swirling mist.
"Julian, the box!" Clara screamed, stumbling forward on frozen legs.
The imposter fought with terrifying military precision. Even pinned beneath me, her knee came up like a piston, catching me in the solar plexus. The air exploded from my lungs in a white puff of agony. She drove the heel of her hand into my chin, snapping my head back, and scrambled toward Lily, who had tumbled from my coat onto the grating, crying out in terror as the cold woke her.
"Lily!" I choked out, clawing at the steel floor.
The imposter reached for my daughter with one gloved hand while drawing a combat knife from her boot with the other. "She belongs to the Sovereign Council! Her blood is the final seal!"
"Get away from my baby!" Clara roared. She threw herself onto the imposter's back, wrapping her good arm around her sister's throat, digging her fingers into the surgical scars.
The two women rolled across the rusted platform, a blur of identical faces, snarling curses, and flying snow. The knife slashed through the air, carving deep gouges into the catwalk’s rusted safety rail.
I scrambled to Lily, pulling her against my chest and shielding her with my torso. With my free hand, I lunged toward the edge of the platform where the steel lockbox was teetering precariously over the void. The brass turn-lock clasp—the relic from Clara’s mother’s handbag—was still wedged firmly into the keyway.
My fingers caught the corner of the box just as a gust of wind lifted the lid. The black envelope, the antique communicator, and the encrypted diplomatic passport slipped loose.
Behind me, a bone-chilling shriek pierced the wind.
I turned my head just in time to see Clara drive the sharp, broken stem of the turn-lock clasp—which she had snatched from the platform floor—straight into her sister’s thigh. The imposter screamed, her grip loosening as she stumbled backward against the rusted guardrail.
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The ancient iron groaned under the sudden impact. Then, with the violent screech of failing metal, the railing sheared away entirely.
The imposter plunged backward into the empty abyss, her eyes locked onto mine until the white mist swallowed her whole.
