Images of rednecks getting their hands bitten off after putting them in the mouths of alligators filled my head as I approached the dragon. The beast could swallow me in a few tasty bites if it had a mind to, and I felt a trickle of nervous sweat slip down my spine. It opened its mouth wide as I stepped near, and I stared in amazement at the sharp, dagger-like teeth. Terrifying to behold, but just what I needed. To my credit my arm only shook a little as I reached into the dragon’s mouth and drew my palm across one of its incisors. I whipped my palm over to prevent any blood from dripping into the dragon’s mouth-just in case-and then trotted back to my compact. Squeezing my hand into a fist, I let several drops of blood fall onto the surface of the tiny mirror and then placed the tip of my index finger against the glass.

“Winter’s bite and moonlit snow,

To the land of frost let us go.

Castle Silverleaf let me see,

As I will, so mote it be.”

Closing my eyes, I formed an image in my mind. A castle surrounded by light gray stone walls, slender towers that stretched toward a pale blue sky dotted with thin white clouds, dark blue banners that snapped in the stinging wind. Familiar strains of music carried on that wind, as well as the sounds of voices lifted in song, laughter and conversation. A forest of barren, snow-dusted trees stretched to the north of the walls, and a frozen river ringed the castle like a moat. I opened my eyes and saw the image in the mirror, each minute detail just as I pictured it.

Rubbing my hands together, I smeared them with warm, slick blood. I reached down and brushed the edges of the image with the tips of my fingers, and taking a deep breath, I tugged them outwards. A sharp crack sounded as the plastic backing shattered, but the image expanded. With painstaking care I drew the edges of the mirror farther and farther out, stretching it like a piece of uncooperative dough across a cutting board. Blood continued to flow from the wound, and I used it to refresh the coating on my hands. All magic is based in blood, and my blood is strong. This, however, required a lot more blood than I was used to.

As I worked I lost track of time, focused on the task before me until finally the mirror that had once been small enough to fit in my pocket took up a space large enough to (I hoped) fit a dragon through. Standing up straight, I wavered a bit on my feet, lightheaded, and turned to my captive audience.

“Well, what do you think?”

The dragon studied the mirror. “Impressive.”

“After you,” I said, sweeping my arm out in an invitation. The dragon crept over to the image, standing at its edge as though it were a pond the beast was deciding to dive into. Its muscles bunched, and with a graceful leap the dragon sailed into the mirror and through it. Before the magic could fade I leapt through and found myself standing in a snowbank up to my knees, staring at the castle in the distance.

A shadow passed over me as the dragon flew away, a black silhouette against the afternoon sky. “Thank you!” it called out as it whooshed toward the horizon.

“You’re welcome,” I shouted after it. I held my hand above my eyes to block out the sun and suddenly remembered the cut I’d left open and bleeding all this time. “Uh-oh.”

Frantic, I tried to direct the cut to close itself, something I’m normally quite good at, but it stubbornly refused. I realized there was something wrong with my legs as well as they wobbled beneath me. My traitorous body was not letting me enjoy my victory, and a queasy lightheadedness washed over me before the world went black for the second time that day.

I awoke by degrees, lost in a sea of hazy dreams and nightmares that vanished as quickly as they appeared. I saw myself as a girl running through a forest and giggling madly as I chased after the white, winged figure that darted between the bare trees in front of me. I heard the cool crunch of snow beneath my boots and felt the occasional glimpse of faint winter sunlight on my face as it peeked through the gray clouds above. You can’t catch me, Kitty-kitty!

Then I saw the front door of my childhood home. I reached to open it, my hand small and smudged with dirt, and the knob turned easily in my grasp. As the door swung open I heard shouting, strange angry words, and it frightened me down to my core. I crept through the house back to the kitchen, everything around me now seeming sinister in the late-afternoon light. I paused as I passed the bedrooms, surprised to see two suitcases on the floor in front of my parents’ room. I hid behind the open basement door, sitting on the top step and making myself as small as possible as I listened to the voices. My father was yelling, my mother was weeping, begging him not to leave.

The dream changed, twisted. I was older. I opened the door of my home and found quiet, an awful silence. I stepped inside and turned to my left, looking into the living room. The smell hit me, the pungent, poignant stench of death. My mother’s body lay on the floor, tiny pools of her blood staining the carpet, her face pale like I’d never seen it before and twisted into a mask of terror and agony. Those lifeless eyes stared at me, pleading, warning. Home was no longer safe-her killers had been invited in. Invited by my father, to tear my mother apart and feast on the strong magic in her blood.

Fleeing the dream, my eyes blinked open to stare at the ceiling of my bedroom. I lay crumpled on the floor in front of my mirror, the scent of dried blood and faded cinnamon filling my nostrils. I pushed myself into a sitting position and surveyed my surroundings. My top hat had rolled off and was tipped on its side just out of reach. My unbound hair hung in dirty strings, and I absently pushed it out of the way. As my hand passed in front of my face I was startled by the dark, crispy coating of dried blood that stained it, and then I remembered how I’d stretched the mirror in the earthen room beneath the faerie mound.

“Out, out, damned spot,” I muttered, my voice dry and raspy in my throat. Shaking my head, I glanced at the alarm clock on my nightstand and was surprised that it read a little after four. I really hoped it was the following morning and I hadn’t missed any days during my misadventure in Faerie. It was entirely possible, considering I felt like I’d been run over by a truck. Stumbling to my feet, I wobbled over to the door and opened it. Spots danced in front of my eyes as a warning that I needed to consume mass quantities of coffee and pancakes, and soon. First I wanted to check the date, so I continued on into my living room and flopped down into my desk chair. I slapped my mouse to wake up my computer, raining flakes of dried blood onto the mouse pad in the process, and waited as the screen took its own sweet time to wake up.

At long last I was able to confirm the date: June 29^th, and a refreshing 4:36 a.m. Lovely. At least I hadn’t lost any days, just hours. For a few moments I sat in the chair and debated the pluses and minuses of showering first versus eating first. The shower sounded very appealing-I felt like hell, gritty and grungy like I’d been dragged through the mud. Eventually I settled on the shower in order to save myself the time and effort it would take to clean the blood trail I’d leave behind in the kitchen. I only caught myself losing my balance twice and managed to hold onto consciousness the entire time.

Go me.

Dressed in my fuzzy purple bathrobe and matching slippers, I puttered about in the kitchen, fixing my “Huzzah for survival” feast. Instead of coffee I forced myself to brew a strong herbal tea, one I knew had healing properties in it. As usual I decided to comfort myself through the cunning use of fattening food-cheesy scrambled eggs, sausage links and chocolate chip pancakes. And, most importantly, nothing that included cinnamon, which was how I realized I was no longer alone in my apartment when the scent of it wafted down the hallway halfway through my meal. I stared down at my eggs, and decided I was too tired to get up and go to her.