The ink on the page of my journal felt like a stain I couldn't scrub away. I had spent the entire morning in a trance, the black feather from the cemetery tucked into the back of my phone case like a secret I was afraid to touch but couldn't bring myself to throw away. The school day had passed in a blur of muffled voices and flickering fluorescent lights, but the only thing that felt real was the memory of Silas's hand trembling in the mist.
"Lyra? Are you even here?"
Bonnie's voice snapped me back to the present. We were standing by my car in the parking lot, the afternoon sun casting long, skeletal shadows across the asphalt. She was looking at me with that intense, focused expression she got whenever she thought she was "sensing" something.
"I'm here, Bonnie. I'm just tired," I lied, my internal monologue screaming at the exhaustion of maintaining the facade. I'm not here. I'm still standing by my father's grave, feeling the air turn to ice.
"You're vibrating," Bonnie whispered, reaching out to touch my arm. She winced, pulling her hand back as if she'd been burned. "Lyra, you're freezing. And the air around you... it feels heavy. Like it's waiting for a storm."
"It's just the weather, Bonnie. I have to go. I... I left my history book in the library."
I didn't wait for her to answer. I got into the car and drove. I didn't head for the library. I headed for the Ridge.
The Thorne estate was a place parents warned their children about—a sprawling, decaying relic of the 1800s hidden behind a wall of overgrown oak trees and rusted iron. As I drove up the winding, unpaved road, the trees seemed to lean in, their branches scratching against the roof of my car like skeletal fingers. The air here was different—thicker, smelling of damp earth and something sweet and cloying, like lilies left too long in a vase.
I parked at the base of the driveway. The house loomed over me, a Gothic nightmare of grey stone and jagged gables. It looked dead, yet it felt intensely occupied. I could feel eyes on me from the dark windows, a thousand hidden gazes watching my every move.
What are you doing? I asked myself, my hand hovering over the door handle. You're walking into the lion's den because you're addicted to the way he looks at you. You're looking for a reason to stay alive in a house built of death.
I stepped out of the car. The silence was absolute. No birds sang here; no insects buzzed in the tall grass. I walked up the stone steps, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I reached the massive oak door and knocked.
The sound echoed deep inside the house, a hollow, booming noise that seemed to vibrate through the soles of my boots. I waited, counting the seconds. Ten. Twenty. I was about to turn back, convinced that I was chasing a ghost that didn't want to be found, when the door creaked open.
It wasn't Silas.
Jax was leaning against the doorframe, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just a pair of dark trousers, his skin as pale and smooth as marble. He looked at me with a lazy, predatory grin, his blue eyes tracking the movement of my throat as I swallowed.
"Well, well. The little bird flew all the way up the hill," Jax drawled, his voice a low, melodic vibration. "I'd ask if you're lost, but we both know you're exactly where you wanted to be."
"I... I came to see Silas," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "I found his journal in the cemetery. I wanted to return it."
It was a lie—the journal was in my bag, but it wasn't his. I just needed a reason to be there.
Jax pushed off the doorframe, stepping onto the porch. He was too fast, his movements fluid and silent. He stopped inches from me, the scent of bourbon and cold air rolling off him in waves. He leaned down, his face so close I could see the tiny flecks of silver in his icy blue eyes.
"Silas isn't here," Jax whispered, his breath cold against my ear. "He's out playing 'Good Samaritan.' He's very dedicated to the role. But I'm here. And I'm much more entertaining."
"I don't want to be entertained, Jax. I just want to give him this."
Jax reached out, his fingers brushing the strap of my bag. I felt a jolt of electricity shoot through my arm, a sharp, stinging cold that made me gasp. He didn't pull away. He traced the line of my collarbone with his thumb, his touch light as a feather but heavy with a terrifying intent.
"You're so warm," Jax murmured, his eyes darkening until they were almost black. "I'd forgotten what that felt like. The heat of a heart that's still beating. It's intoxicating."
"Let go of me," I snapped, finding a sudden spark of courage in my fear.
Jax laughed, a sharp, jagged sound. He stepped back, raising his glass in a mock toast. "You have fire, Lyra. I like that. Silas likes it, too. He thinks it's beautiful. I think it's just something that eventually burns out."
He turned and walked back into the house, leaving the door wide open. "Come in or don't. But the shadows are getting long, and you don't want to be on the porch when the sun goes down."
I hesitated. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to run, to get back in the car and never look back. But the pull was stronger—a magnetic force that dragged me toward the darkness of the hallway. I stepped over the threshold.
The interior of the Thorne manor was a tomb preserved in amber. Dust motes danced in the shafts of fading light that filtered through the grime-streaked windows. The furniture was draped in white sheets, looking like huddled ghosts in the corners of the room. There was no sound but the ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere in the depths of the house.
I walked down the hallway, my footsteps muffled by a threadbare Persian rug. The walls were lined with portraits—men and women in Victorian dress, their faces stern and unyielding. I stopped in front of one. It was a painting of two young men. One had emerald eyes and a look of quiet sorrow; the other had eyes of ice and a smirk that hadn't changed in a century.
1864, the brass plaque at the bottom of the frame read.
"They haven't aged a day, have they?"
I spun around. Jax was sitting on the stairs, watching me with an unreadable expression.
"How is that possible?" I whispered, my hand reaching out to touch the canvas.
"Good lighting. A clean diet. And a very, very long memory," Jax said, standing up. He walked toward me, his gaze fixed on the portrait. "We lived here, once. In a world that made sense. Before the fire. Before the hunger."
"What hunger?"
Jax didn't answer. He reached past me and opened a set of double doors leading into a large study. The room was filled with books—thousands of them, their leather spines cracked and peeling. In the center of the room sat a desk, and on that desk was a photograph in a silver frame.
I walked toward it, my breath hitching in my chest.
It was a woman. She was wearing a high-collared velvet dress, her hair pinned back in elaborate curls. She was beautiful, with a look of sharp, piercing intelligence in her eyes.
It was me.
It wasn't just a resemblance. It was a mirror. Every curve of the jaw, every lash of the eye, the exact shape of the lips—it was my face staring back at me from a century ago.
"Her name was Kora," Jax said, his voice directly behind me. I could feel the cold of him pressing against my back. "She was the sun. She was the moon. And she was the reason this house burned to the ground."
"I... I don't understand," I stammered, my head spinning. "How can I look like her? I'm Lyra Vance. I'm from Mystic Ridge."
"Are you?" Jax leaned in, his hand gripping the edge of the desk on either side of me, pinning me in place. "Or are you just the latest version of a tragedy that never ends?"
He turned me around to face him. His blue eyes were burning now, a manic light dancing in their depths. He reached out and cupped my face, his fingers sliding into my hair. I could feel the strength in him—a power that could crush my skull like an eggshell.
"Silas thinks he can save you," Jax hissed, his face inches from mine. "He thinks if he keeps you safe, he can make up for what happened to her. But he's wrong. You're not a girl, Lyra. You're a ghost. And ghosts don't need saving. They need to be laid to rest."
He leaned down, his lips brushing mine. They were cold—so cold they burned. I tried to push him away, but his grip was iron. Just as I felt the sharp, stinging pressure of his teeth against my lower lip, the front door slammed open with the force of a gale.
Silas stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes a terrifying, brilliant green.
"Jax!" he roared, the sound echoing through the house like thunder. "Get your hands off her!"
Jax pulled back, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He didn't look afraid; he looked delighted. He let go of me, stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender.
"You're late for dinner, brother," Jax laughed. "I was just showing our guest the family album."
Silas was across the room in a heartbeat. He grabbed Jax by the throat and slammed him against the wall, the wood cracking under the impact. The two of them were a blur of motion, a violent, silent struggle that defied human physics.
"I told you to stay away from her!" Silas hissed, his voice a jagged edge.
"Why?" Jax gasped, his smile never wavering even as his face turned a bruised purple. "Because you're afraid I'll tell her the truth? That you didn't save her because you loved her? You saved her because you're a coward who can't let go of a corpse!"
Silas threw him across the room. Jax hit the heavy oak desk, the silver frame of Kora's photograph shattering on the floor.
I stood in the center of the room, my heart stopping, my eyes fixed on the broken glass.
Silas turned to me, his expression shifting from rage to a desperate, agonizing fear. He took a step toward me, reaching out a hand that was stained with his brother's blood.
"Lyra, I can explain—"
"Don't," I whispered, backing away. "Don't touch me."
I turned and ran. I ran through the dark hallway, past the staring portraits, out the heavy oak door, and into the freezing night air. I didn't stop until I was in my car, the engine screaming as I tore down the driveway.
I looked in the rearview mirror as I reached the gate. Silas was standing on the porch, his silhouette framed by the amber light of the hallway. He didn't follow me. He just watched me go, his hand resting on the doorframe, as the first drop of rain hit my windshield.