Chapter Twenty-Three
Lilith
The dream was unlike any Lilith had before.
The floor was cold as ice under her bare soles. She wrapped her arms around herself and gazed down the hallway of mirrors
stretching into forever.
Whispers echoed through the air, muffled and distorted, like the apparitions at Brackenmere Manor.
“Hello?” The volume of her voice came out small, her words swallowed by the vastness of the place.
Where was she?
The speed of the murmuring voices intensified, making her flesh crawl. She surveyed her strange surroundings, the world dark
beyond the hallway of gold rococo-style mirrors, as if floating in space.
“Hello?” she called uselessly once more, walking forward.
That’s when she noticed she had no reflection.
The mirrors faced one another, a long line of gleaming panes of glass, like a snake with no tail. No matter which way she turned, there was only the image of infinity. One without her.
Her breath caught, stomach clenching in fear.
She checked the next mirror. Then another and another.
On and on down the line, turning from one side of the hall to the other until the truth punched her in the chest.
Not one reflected her image.
As if she had ceased to exist.
Panic jabbed the back of her brain, and her breathing came in ragged gulps.
Run.
The cry was more base instinct than thought, and her legs pumped under her, propelling her down the hall at breakneck speed.
The icy ground blazed with heat, singeing her soles, and the whispers began to crackle, like firewood burning and popping.
Thick plumes of smoke curled around the mirrors to form a disorienting nebulous haze.
The fumes sucked into her lungs, and she choked, coughing.
A mirror appeared in front of her, and she began to slow.
The smoke cleared, the floor now cool enough to stand on.
Lilith gasped a breath.
Finally, the end had come.
A figure materialized in the mirror, dressed in a white shift, a cap on her head.
Sybil.
The woman clutched the inside of her right arm as if in pain, and an answering ache lanced through Lilith’s birthmark.
In the mirror, Sybil’s lips moved.
The fire was roaring now, making hearing impossible.
Lilith shook her head. “What?”
Sybil’s face contorted in agony, and she shouted, “You’re running out of time.”
Then, she disappeared, leaving Lilith standing in front of an empty looking glass, her reflection missing once more.
Lilith jerked awake with a cry.
Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs, as if trying to escape from her chest. The odor of smoke still lingered, leaving grit
in her mouth.
She peeled herself out of bed. The floor was cold, bringing back the recollection of the dream. Suppressing the urge to shudder,
she padded toward the bathroom, the stink of smoke redolent in her hair.
The door to her bathroom was almost completely closed. She paused, a sudden spike of fear nailing her in place.
But she scoffed at herself. She was being ridiculous. With a roll of her eyes, she pushed into the bathroom, clicked on the
light, looked into the mirror.
And screamed.
She had no reflection.
Lilith jerked awake with a cry.
What the hell was that?
She lay in the dark, gasping in fear. The crescent moon birthmark still ached.
August 27.
The date echoed in Lilith’s mind, prodding the wound of her legacy.
Her heart stuttered in a hard, painful beat.
Did that mean she had until August 27?
If so, she only had…
She reached for her phone and glanced at the screen, reflecting a few minutes past midnight.
The white numbers displayed over her background picture of Amara: Saturday, August 24.
Three days.
Three days to save Sybil—if the dream was indeed a warning.
You must help her.
Or you will cease to exist.
Chills skittered over Lilith’s flesh.
Three days to save Sybil.
And three days to save herself.