Chapter 4

Cora locked the NDA forms in her desk drawer. She grabbed the printed blueprints of the crypt and headed back to her apartment.

By the time night fell, a cold, steady rain was beating against her thin windowpanes.

Lena knocked on her door around eight. She let herself in, holding a few extra copies of the structural layouts.

Lena spread the large papers across Cora's tiny, scratched dining table. She excitedly pointed to the center chamber on the map.

Cora leaned over the table. Her eyes traced the complex, Victorian architectural lines of the crypt.

Without warning, a massive, crushing wave of grief slammed into her chest.

She stared at the geographical coordinates printed in the corner of the map. Her eyes filled with hot, unexplainable tears. Her throat tightened so hard it ached.

Lena looked up and saw Cora's pale face. "Cora? Are you okay? You look exhausted."

Cora blinked rapidly, forcing the tears back. She forced a weak, fake smile. "I'm just dizzy. I think I need to get some sleep before the trip."

Lena nodded sympathetically. She gathered up the extra papers. "Get some rest. I'll see you in the morning." She walked out and shut the door.

Cora walked over to her tiny kitchenette. She filled a glass with tap water and swallowed two melatonin pills. She turned off the overhead light.

She curled up on her narrow twin bed. She listened to the rain hitting the glass until the pills pulled her under.

The nightmare hit her like a freight train.

Suddenly, her vision was blinded by the glaring light of a massive crystal chandelier.

She looked down. She was wearing an incredibly heavy, suffocatingly tight gilded-age corset and a massive lace gown.

The sound of a waltz played in the background, but the air in the room was thick with pure, toxic hatred.

A woman stood in front of her. The woman had a breathtakingly beautiful face, but her eyes were venomous. It was Isolde.

Isolde's red lips moved. She spat out vicious curses and mocking insults that cut like glass.

In the dream, Cora-who knew with absolute certainty that her name was Seraphina-felt a tearing physical pain in her heart.

Isolde lunged forward. She shoved Seraphina hard in the chest.

Seraphina lost her balance. She fell backward. The surrounding aristocrats erupted into cold, cruel laughter.

The sensation of falling was instantly replaced by the terrifying weight of damp soil covering her nose and mouth.

She was in the dark. Someone was frantically shoveling dirt on top of her. She opened her mouth to scream, but only dirt rushed in. She was suffocating.

In her apartment, Cora convulsed on her bed. Her hands gripped the cheap bedsheets like a vise.

She shot up into a sitting position, her eyes snapping open. She gasped violently for air, her lungs burning.

Cold sweat soaked her t-shirt. Her dark hair clung to her forehead and the scar on her cheek.

She looked frantically around the dark room. She saw her dresser. Her window. She was in New York.

But the metallic smell of wet dirt and the sound of Isolde's cruel laughter still echoed loudly in her skull.

Cora threw off the blankets. Her bare feet hit the freezing hardwood floor. She stumbled toward the door.

She yanked the apartment door open and stumbled out into the hallway. She needed oxygen.

The motion-sensor lights flickered on. Cora leaned her back against the cold tile wall, clutching her chest, trying to force her heart to slow down.