Chapter 2
Chicago—Marcelle
A few hours later, Marcelle met her own eyes in the mirror.
Every strand of her auburn hair lay in a flawless bob.
Her eyes sparked; color sharpened her cheekbones.
A bold, vamp-red lipstick coated her lips.
She dabbed perfume—sandalwood, amber, vanilla—into the hollow of her neck.
Before putting on her shoes, she pulled up the decorative garter and secured the flask.
Bastien yelled, “Marcelle. Are you ready?”
“Almost.”
He strolled into her bedroom in a black Armani tuxedo, an expertly tied bow tie, and his sax hanging from a neck strap. “Are you going to play?”
“Sure.” He pivoted the instrument to his mouth and played “My Heart Will Go On.”
After two measures, she picked up her trumpet from the bedside table, and sound snapped into place.
When they finished, she said, “I miss playing with you. We’ll have a great time in New Orleans.
” She dropped the trumpet on the bed and reached for her phone.
“Let’s take a selfie.” They posed, and she sent one to Rachel.
Bastien picked up the new brooch. “This is beautiful. Very Scottish.”
“A local shop owner bought it at an estate sale. I think it looks amazing with this dress.”
“It does. Old—not vintage, but antique.”
“I thought so, too.”
“I’d take it to an appraiser experienced in antiquities.”
“If it’s that old, I shouldn’t wear it.”
“Of course you should—and you might meet someone who can recommend an appraiser.”
“It might be worth more than I paid.” She reached for the clasp. “Oh, no. It’s broken. Look at the crack.”
“Let me see.” Bastien took the brooch and inspected it. “It’s not broken. It opens. Look at this little hinge. It might be a locket.” He pried the stone open with his fingernail. “There’s no picture, but there is an inscription.”
“What does it say?”
“It looks like Gaelic—maybe. Did the store owner say where it came from?”
“An estate sale in Dallas. Here—let me see.” She’d grown up around Scottish keepsakes; the shapes of the letters didn’t feel entirely foreign. Marcelle sounded out the words. “Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an gaol ach ’s ann le neart anama.”
Within seconds, a peat-scented fog seeped up from the floorboards, first in thin, gauzy tendrils and then in thick, rolling waves. It smelled of damp earth and rot—something long buried, newly torn open. The mist curled around their ankles, cold and insistent.
Bastien reacted instantly, yanking Marcelle back against his chest. “Move—now!”
They stumbled sideways, but the fog surged after them with hungry persistence that made Marcelle’s skin prickle. Her stomach lurched.
“It’s coming from the brooch.” Horror sharpened her voice as realization struck. She flung it away. It clattered once against the floor before disappearing beneath the roiling mist. “Let’s go!”
They bolted for the doorway, but the fog surged after them, faster now, as if enraged. Panic detonated in Marcelle’s chest. Her pulse thundered. What’s happening? Her breath came in ragged, useless gasps.
She clutched Bastien’s arm and screamed, the sound tearing from her throat—but the townhouse remained eerily silent. Her neighbors were gone for the weekend. No help. No witnesses. The realization struck with sickening clarity.
Bastien dragged her into the living room, his grip vise-tight. “Come with me.”
“What’s happening to us?” Fear ricocheted through her body, raw and ungoverned.
“I don’t know,” he said, eyes scanning, calculating even as dread crept into his voice. “But don’t let go of me.”
The fog climbed higher, coiling around their waists, their ribs, its chill seeping through fabric and skin. It reeked of soil and rot. Marcelle gagged as it brushed her throat.
“Bastien!” She coughed, eyes stinging. “Make it stop!”
“I can’t.” His voice broke as he shoved her away with sudden force. “Quick! Move away from me!”
The separation ripped through her like a physical wound. She staggered back, arms reaching for him, but the fog thickened instantly, closing the distance with suffocating intent.
“It won’t let me go!” she screamed. The mist surged upward, engulfing her face, pressing in on her mouth and nose. Every breath tasted of dirt and stone—primordial, unforgiving. “Bastien!”
Nothing answered.
The pressure vanished in an instant.
Marcelle fell—not downward, but away—her body dissolving into weightlessness. Sound, gravity, and fear slipped from her grasp as the mist absorbed her. Then, just as suddenly, the fog thinned and peeled away.
She was sealed inside a transparent bubble, suspended in a vast, silent expanse. Stars blazed all around her—brilliant, endless, impossibly close. She turned slowly, heart steady now, searching desperately for another bubble, for any sign of her brother.
There was nothing. No Bastien. No tether back.
And yet—there was no fear.
Drifting through the cosmos felt familiar, like stepping into a long-forgotten dream.
A memory surfaced, hushed and glowing—a Viking warrior carrying her through the stars, his presence protective.
He had taken her to a land of waterfalls and lush gardens, where standing stones rose from green grass, and birds flashed in colors she had no names for.
Her toes dipped into a pool of crystal-clear water—the coolness soothing, and then falling asleep in peace.
When she had awakened, she’d been safe in her bed, the dream hovering like a blessing.
Marcelle smiled now, amazement dawning where terror had been moments before. The fear loosened its hold, replaced by anticipation.
She pressed her palm against the inner surface of the bubble, the stars winking softly back at her like a promise, and drifted—open to whatever waited beyond the next breath.