Chapter 2
DELANEY
My eyelids felt impossibly heavy when I finally dragged them open.
A deep, throbbing ache pulsed through my skull, and my mouth tasted dry and metallic.
It took me a moment to realize I was lying on my back on something hard and unfamiliar.
The air around me held the scent of old stone, faint incense, and dust. The kind that settled in places long forgotten.
I tried to move my arms and hissed at the sharp burn circling both wrists. Twisting my neck to look up, I found a thick, coarse rope wrapped around them. I’d been tied up long enough for marks to have been left behind on my pale skin.
My confusion gave way to rising panic.
Glancing back down, I realized I no longer wore the jeans and soft sweater I’d put on this morning.
I was now dressed in an ankle-length gown of delicate ivory linen.
The fabric felt lightweight but old-fashioned, with a high neckline that brushed my throat and long sleeves that ended in gentle cuffs.
There was just enough light for me to see that tiny pintucks and faint hand embroidery decorated the bodice and hem. On my feet were soft slippers that historically matched the gown. They were thin and completely useless for any practical purpose.
My hair had been up in a ponytail earlier, but now it was down and smoothed carefully around my shoulders.
I lay slightly elevated on what felt like a stone altar or heavy wooden platform draped in linen.
My breathing grew shallow as horror clawed up my throat.
I turned my head slowly, wincing at the pain, and that’s when I saw her.
Another woman lay a few feet away, arranged in a funerary repose on an altar.
She wore an ivory gown that was identical to mine.
Her body had been arranged with terrifying precision, her head resting on a folded piece of preserved fabric, her chin tilted downward, and her neck elongated in a graceful line.
Her hands were folded neatly just below her rib cage, her fingers meticulously intertwined with one hand resting lightly over the other.
Beneath them, someone had placed sprigs of dried lavender and rosemary.
Her ankles were crossed delicately, the hem of the dress arranged in perfect folds around her legs.
She looked deceptively peaceful.
And then I saw the large painting propped on a dais between us. It was a Victorian memorial portrait of two young women lying side by side in mourning poses, hands folded and expressions serene. One looked eerily like the woman beside me.
The other looked like me.
Same soft features, shade of blond hair, and delicate build. The artist had even captured the faint flush that often sat on my cheeks.
The warped reverence of it all was horrifying because I knew the significance of these poses. I studied Victorian mourning photography during my coursework, in which families posed their deceased loved ones to look as if they were merely sleeping. It helped them be remembered as sleeping beauties.
Except I was alive, and my parents had nothing to do with my being here.
I didn’t know who’d taken me, but the eighteenth-century burial preparation rituals made it painstakingly clear that they didn’t intend for me to survive whatever they had planned next.
Not when everything had been staged like we were exhibits in some twisted historical reenactment of death.
Tears burned my eyes as the full weight of my situation crashed over me. I’d been kidnapped as part of something calculated that had been planned with obsessive care.
The soft scrape of a door opening echoed through the space. I tensed against the platform, every nerve screaming as Dr. Kinghorn stepped into view. He moved with the same unnatural calm I’d seen in the lab, his steps unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.
He didn’t look at me with anger or excitement. Just clinical focus, similar to the way he examined artifacts under the lights. He carried a small wooden box in one hand and set it down on a nearby table, opening it with precise movements.
“You’re awake.” His voice was detached, as if he was commenting on something as inane as the weather. “Good. The timing is important.”
I swallowed, fighting to keep my breathing even. “Dr. Kinghorn, why are you doing this?”
He ignored the tremor in my voice and continued preparing whatever was in the box. Glass clinked softly, and fabric rustled.
“Preservation requires order. Structure. The modern world corrupts beauty so quickly. It rushes everything toward decay.” He glanced at me briefly, his eyes devoid of emotion. “I simply intervene before that happens.”
My skin crawled. This wasn’t the respected academic who praised my steady hands. This version of him felt hollow, like a shell performing motions.
He lifted a small vial and examined it in the low light. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment since your first day at the museum. I’d just recently acquired this particular portrait, and the visual similarities were quite striking. I keep things beautiful forever, exactly as they should be.”
Terror clawed up my throat. What scared me most wasn’t the ropes or the strange room.
It was how completely emotionless he sounded.
No rage or excitement, like one would expect from someone who’d just kidnapped them.
Just calm, clinical certainty, like he was discussing pigment analysis back in the lab.
“Then as I saw your work, I came to appreciate your respect for the past. With your attention to detail, I knew you would appreciate the care I take. You’re truly the ideal preservation subject.”
I forced myself to stay observant, noting every small movement he made. It was all so meticulously arranged.
“You understood the significance of the portrait right away.” He pulled out two preserved flowers. “And I’m sure you’re aware that these lilies represent innocence and resurrection. I chose them specifically for you, Delaney. Because of the goodness you exude.”
No matter how brilliant he was, this level of detail didn’t happen overnight.
“Have you done this before?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Ignoring my question, he adjusted something on the table. “The ritual demands precision. Each step must be exact.”
My pulse hammered in my ears. Panic threatened to choke me, but I bit the inside of my cheek and held it back. I couldn’t scream or cry. I needed to watch and listen for any small detail that might help me survive this.
He turned toward me again. “You will be perfect.”
The quiet confidence in his tone sent ice through my veins. I lay there, trapped on the altar he’d tied me to, fighting desperately to keep my mind clear while fear screamed through every part of me.
An alarm blared, and Dr. Kinghorn froze mid-motion. He pulled his phone from his pocket and stared down at the screen. For the first time, I saw a flicker of irritation cross his face. “Unfortunate. I suppose it’s a good thing I have a secondary site ready to go.”
As he put the phone down, I caught a brief glimpse of the screen, which showed a car parked in a wooded area with its lights still on.
Before I could even think to scream, on the off chance that it was from a security camera outside this building, he was already pressing a cloth soaked in something bitter over my mouth.
I tried to twist away, but the drug hit fast. My limbs turned heavy as the world blurred around the edges.
The next stretch of time came in fragments. I felt myself being carried, then placed inside a vehicle. The engine rumbled as I drifted in and out, vaguely aware of movement and the press of rope still circling my wrists. Every time I tried to fight, the fog pulled me back under.
Eventually, the car jerked hard and slowed to a stop. I heard Dr. Kinghorn curse under his breath as he got out.
My body felt sluggish, like I was moving through thick syrup, but this was my only chance.
I forced my eyes to remain closed and my breathing steady when he popped the trunk. He gently nudged me further back to pull out the spare tire and equipment he needed to change it.
It seemed like forever until I heard the sound of a tire iron hitting the ground while the car dipped a little lower. I pushed upright and slowly crawled out of the trunk. Peeking around the side of the car, I found Dr. Kinghorn struggling to put the spare onto the wheel.
Rushing forward, I lunged for the tire iron, my fingers quickly closing around cold metal even though my hands were still tied together. He turned at the sound, and I swung with everything I had left, catching him hard across the side of the head. He staggered, but I didn’t wait to see if he fell.
I ran.
My thin slippers tore almost immediately on the rough ground.
Branches and roots sliced at my bare legs and arms as I crashed through the edge of the woods and swampy undergrowth.
Pain flared with every step, but I kept going, gasping for air.
The ivory linen dress tangled around my legs, slowing me down.
Somehow, I managed to work the loosely tied rope off my wrists while stumbling forward. I threw it aside and pushed harder, my lungs burning as my vision swam from the drugs still in my system.
Finally, I burst out of the tree line, my feet stumbling onto asphalt. Exhaustion and the lingering sedative made the world tilt.
A motorcycle headlight suddenly cut through the darkness, bearing down on me fast. I tried to move, but my body wouldn’t obey.