Chapter 4

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die.

Mine flashed while I watched my sister marry my fiancé.

I sat in the back row of the garden, surrounded by two hundred guests who'd come to celebrate a dying girl's last wish.

It should have been perfect.

Seraphina appeared at the end of the aisle on Dad's arm, and I heard the collective gasp. Her wedding dress—my wedding dress, really—trailed behind her like a river of silk. She was glowing. Not the pale, sickly glow of someone with two weeks to live. She looked radiant. Healthy. Alive.

I looked down at my own hands, bone-thin and traced with silver veins that pulsed with each heartbeat.

No one noticed. They were all watching Seraphina.

The ceremony began. I forced myself to stay conscious, to witness this moment. I owed myself that much.

"Dearly beloved," the minister said, "we are gathered here to join Marcus Blackwood and Seraphina Ashford in holy matrimony."

Pain shot through my chest. The silver markings under my dress flared hot, like someone had pressed a branding iron to my skin. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.

Marcus took Seraphina's hand—my hand, it should have been my hand—and smiled at her like she was the only person in the world.

"Do you, Marcus Blackwood, take Seraphina Ashford to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do."

Something inside me broke. Not my heart—that had broken weeks ago. This was different. Like a tether being cut, a bond severing. I felt it snap.

"Do you, Seraphina Ashford, take Marcus Blackwood to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do!"

Her voice rang out, joyful and clear.

Then the sky went dark.

Not the gentle dark of sunset, but wrong. The temperature plummeted. Guests looked up as blood-red clouds rolled in from nowhere, blocking out the sun. Wind whipped through the garden, scattering rose petals like snow.

"What's happening?" someone said.

I tried to stand, tried to slip away before anyone saw. My legs gave out. The world tilted sideways and I hit the ground hard, my vision blurring at the edges.

"Someone collapsed!"

"Oh my God, is she okay?"

Finally, finally, people were looking at me.

Mom turned around, her face going pale. "Elara!"

They rushed over—Mom, Dad, Marcus, even Seraphina in her white dress.

"Call 911!" Dad shouted.

"Wait." A voice cut through the panic. Old, sharp, certain.

Madame Corvina pushed through the crowd. I'd barely noticed her among the guests. She was ancient, her face a map of wrinkles, but her eyes were sharp as she stared down at me.

She went very, very still.

"No," she whispered. Then louder, "NO!"

She dropped to her knees beside me, yanking down the collar of my dress to expose my left shoulder. The crescent birthmark was split open and bleeding, glowing an angry red in the weird light.

"The Covenant Mark," she breathed. Then she looked up at my parents, her face twisted with rage. "How could you not SEE this?"

"What are you talking about?" Mom's voice was shrill. "You said Seraphina—"

"I said the one whose blood BOILED!" Madame Corvina's hands shook as she pointed at me. "This girl bears the TRUE mark! She's the sacrifice!"

The words hit like a physical blow. I watched understanding dawn on my parents' faces, watched it crack them open.

"That's impossible," Dad said, but his voice had no conviction.

"The samples," Madame Corvina said, standing up. "Someone must have switched them. Or labeled them wrong."

A woman stepped forward from the crowd, tears streaming down her face. I recognized her—Mrs. Brown, who'd worked as a nurse for our family decades ago.

"I did," she whispered. "I labeled the blood samples. I... I made a mistake. Sample A and Sample B. I must have written the names wrong." She looked at me. "I didn't realize until years later. I was too scared to say anything."

Mom made a sound like she'd been punched. She fell to her knees beside me, her hands hovering over me like she didn't know where to touch.

"Oh my God," she kept saying. "Oh my God, oh my God, we were preparing the wrong girl."

"For eighteen years," Dad said, his face gray. "We loved the wrong daughter."

"No," I managed to say, my voice barely a whisper. "You loved one daughter. You just forgot about the other."

Seraphina stood frozen in her wedding dress, Marcus's arm still around her waist. "I'm not going to die?" she said, like she couldn't quite believe it.

Then she looked at me. Really looked at me. "You knew," she said. "Didn't you? You tried to tell us."

"You didn't listen," I said. "None of you listened."

Marcus finally moved, dropping down beside me and grabbing my hand. "No, no, no. Elara, stay with me. We'll fix this. We'll break the covenant—"

"It's too late." Madame Corvina's voice was flat. "The mark is complete. Tonight is the full moon. The sacrifice must be made."

As if summoned by her words, the first chime of midnight echoed across the garden.

One. Two. Three.

With each chime, the temperature dropped further. Guests huddled together, their breath misting in the sudden cold. The blood-red clouds overhead swirled faster.

Twelve chimes. One for each hour until dawn. One for each hour I had left.

Black mist began seeping from the edges of the garden, thick and wrong, moving with purpose.

People screamed. Some tried to run, but the mist formed walls, trapping us all inside.

"Silence."

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. Deep. Cold. Absolute.

A figure emerged from the mist at the garden's edge. Tall and pale, dressed in a black suit that looked Victorian, antique.