Clara's heart pounded as she and Lucien raced through the secret tunnel. Dust fell from the ceiling as another blast shook the castle.
"In here," Lucien whispered, pulling her through a secret door. They slipped inside just as footsteps thundered past.
Clara looked around. They were in a small room with no windows. A single torch burned on the wall, making long shadows.
"We'll be safe here for now," Lucien said, listening at the door. "Erynn's witches can't sense us through these walls."
Clara nodded, trying to catch her breath. Her cut finger throbbed under its bandage. So much had happened so fast—the blood, the mirrors showing her from ages ago, and now this attack.
"Why is she hunting us?" Clara asked.
"Not us. You." Lucien's silver eyes gleamed in the torchlight. "She needs your blood to complete a ritual. She's tried in every lifetime."
Clara shivered. "Every lifetime? So it's true? I've lived before?"
Before Lucien could answer, Clara felt a strange pull from behind her—like a magnet tugging at her chest. She turned slowly.
At the back of the room stood another door. It was made of dark wood with a silver handle shaped like a crescent moon—just like her scar.
"What's through there?" she asked, already moving toward it.
Lucien stepped in front of her. "Clara, no. That room is locked for a reason."
But Clara couldn't stop. The pull was too strong, like the door was calling her name.
"I need to see," she whispered, reaching past him for the handle.
To her surprise, Lucien stepped aside. "It always ends this way," he said sadly. "You always find it, no matter where I hide the key."
Clara frowned. "What key? I don't have any—"
But as she touched the door handle, her locket grew warm against her skin. The door clicked and swung open on its own.
"Your locket is the key," Lucien stated. "It always has been."
Clara stepped into the room, and lights flickered on by themselves—dozens of candles lighting all at once. What she saw made her gasp.
The room was a perfect circle, with images covering every inch of the walls. And every single picture showed the same face—her face. Different clothes, different haircuts, but always her eyes, her nose, her smile.
"What is this place?" Clara breathed, turning slowly.
"My memory room," Lucien said quietly, following her inside. "Every version of you I've known. Every life we've shared."
Clara moved from painting to painting. In each one, she wore the same ring around her neck. The dates beneath the portraits covered centuries—1645, 1745, 1845, 1945...
"This isn't possible," she whispered. "I'm just Clara. Just a normal girl from a small town."
"You've never been just anything," Lucien said. He pointed to the oldest picture, from 1645. "This was the first time we met. You were a healer in your village. I was already a vampire, but newly made."
Clara stared at the picture. The woman wore a simple dress with an apron, herbs tied at her waist. She looked exactly like Clara, but her eyes seemed older somehow.
"What happened to her—to me?" Clara asked.
Lucien's face darkened. "Erynn happened. She wanted to use our connection for a ritual to merge the three worlds—human, vampire, and witch. But you sacrificed yourself to stop her."
Clara moved to the next picture, from 1745. This woman wore a fancier dress, her hair piled high.
"And her?"
"You were a nobleman's daughter. We met at a masked ball. You recognized me instantly, though you had no memories of your past life."
Clara touched the painting. "And I died again?"
Lucien nodded. "Erynn found us. Every time you start to remember who you were, she comes."
Clara continued around the room, seeing herself in clothes from every century. In some works she looked happy, in others worried or sad. But in every single one, she wore the locket.
"Why does she want me?" Clara asked, stopping at the most current painting—a girl who looked exactly like her in modern clothes.
"Your blood is special. You're born of two bloodlines—Isolde's witch blood and my human bloodline from before I turned. When mixed with my vampire blood during the full moon, it can break the walls between worlds."
Clara touched her throat, feeling her heart race. "So all these women—all these me's—died for their blood?"
"For our love," Lucien corrected softly. "When we fall in love, your memories return. When your memories return, Erynn senses you. It's a curse we haven't broken in four hundred years."
Clara stopped at a picture hidden behind a curtain. "What about this one?"
Lucien moved quickly, but not fast enough to stop her from pulling the curtain back.
The picture showed Clara in a white dress, lying dead in Lucien's arms. His face was twisted in sadness, tears of blood running down his cheeks. Around them, a traditional circle burned with blue fire.
"That's from 1995," Lucien said, his voice hollow. "Your last life. You remembered everything too quickly. Erynn found us before we could prepare."
Clara backed away from the picture, bumping into something. She turned and found herself facing not a picture, but an empty frame.
"Why is this one empty?" she asked.
"It's waiting," Lucien said quietly. "For this lifetime. For you."
Clara felt cold all over. "You think I'll die too? Like all the others?"
"I don't know," Lucien admitted. "But something is different this time. You're remembering faster than ever before. Your powers are stronger."
"Powers? I don't have any powers."
As if to prove her wrong, the candles in the room suddenly flared brighter in reaction to her emotions.
"You've always had magic in your blood," Lucien said. "Witch blood, passed down from Isolde's line."
Clara was about to ask who Isolde was when she noticed something strange. On a small table in the middle of the room sat an old book.
Without thinking, she opened it. Inside, page after page of scribbling—her handwriting, though she'd never written these words.
"My journals," she whispered, somehow knowing. "From my past lives."
Lucien nodded. "You always keep a journal. It's how you try to warn your future self."
Clara flipped to the last written page and read aloud:
"If you're reading this, I've died again. But listen carefully—the answer isn't running from Erynn. The answer is in the blood bond. Look for the witch in the woods. Trust no one with silver eyes except Lucien. And never, NEVER—"
The last words were crossed out, the page covered with what looked like blood.
"What was I trying to say?" Clara asked, looking up at Lucien.
Before he could answer, the castle shook violently. The door they'd come through slammed shut.
"She's found us," Lucien said, pulling Clara close.
The lights went out, plunging the room into darkness. Only the emergency lights flickered on, throwing an eerie red glow over the paintings—over all the dead versions of herself.
A voice rang through the walls, beautiful and terrible at once.
"I smell the blood of a witch-born girl," sang the voice. "How nice of you to bring her home, Lucien. She always was most powerful in the castle."
Clara pressed closer to Lucien. "What do we do?"
Lucien's silver eyes glowed in the darkness. "There's only one way out now." He moved to the wall and pressed a secret panel. A section of the floor slid open, showing a dark stairway down.
"The tunnels?" Clara asked, somehow knowing what they were.
Lucien looked at her in surprise. "You remember?"
Before Clara could answer, the room's only door burst inward. In the doorway stood a woman with flame-red hair and eyes as black as midnight.
"Hello, little Clara," Erynn said with a wicked smile. "Ready to die again?"