The First Thread

The Whispering Pines Ashram smelled perpetually of damp cedar, ozone, and crushed sage. To Clara Sterling, it had been the scent of salvation. For three weeks, she had hidden within these mist-shrouded mountains of the Pacific Northwest, a runaway wife fleeing a life of sterile, unimaginable wealth that had slowly been grinding her bones to dust.

She sat cross-legged on the woven mat in the meditation hall, the steady rhythmic chanting of the Head Guide washing over her. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering amber light of a dozen beeswax candles. Clara closed her eyes, forcing her breathing to slow, trying to banish the lingering scent of Julian’s bespoke sandalwood cologne from her memory.

*“Breathe into the dark,”* the Head Guide murmured, her voice a soothing drone that seemed to vibrate in Clara’s very teeth. *“Find the source of the blockage. Follow the pain back to its origin.”*

Clara was here for the phantom pains. For months before she fled the Sterling Penthouse, she had been waking up gasping for air, her hands flying to her throat to claw at invisible fingers. Doctors had prescribed sedatives. Julian had prescribed rest, looking down at her with those dark, bottomless eyes that held far too much gravity. But the pain wasn't medical. It was spiritual. She felt, quite literally, as though her soul was being siphoned out through her lungs.

*“Deeper,”* the Guide commanded gently.

Clara let herself fall backward into the trance. The scent of cedar faded. The temperature in the room plummeted, the damp chill replaced by a biting, freezing wind. The darkness behind her eyelids shifted, coalescing into shapes, textures, and colors.

She felt rough, uneven cobblestones beneath her thin leather shoes. She could smell coal smoke and raw sewage. Rain was lashing against her face.

She wasn't Clara Sterling anymore. She was someone else, yet she was entirely herself. She was wearing a heavy wool dress, soaked through to the skin, shivering uncontrollably in the shadow of a stone bridge.

Footsteps echoed over the rain. Slow, deliberate, unhurried.

Clara tried to turn, but a terrifying paralysis gripped her limbs. A figure stepped out of the fog. He wore a tailored 18th-century velvet coat, the collar turned up against the chill. As he stepped into the faint glow of a gas lamp, Clara’s heart stopped.

It was Julian.

His face was exactly the same as it was in the modern era—the sharp, aristocratic jawline, the pale skin, the utterly cold, obsidian eyes that absorbed all light. He did not look like a man from history; he looked like a predator stepping out of time.

*“You ran so far this time, my little bird,”* the man who was Julian whispered. His voice was a velvet rasp, identical to the voice that had murmured goodnight to her in their Seattle penthouse a month ago.

He reached out. His hands, clad in fine leather gloves, closed around her throat.

Clara wanted to scream, but the air was instantly cut off. He didn't squeeze with rage. He squeezed with terrifying, methodical tenderness.

*“Do not weep,”* he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead as her vision began to spot with black stars. *“This is the vow. From dust to dust, your light is mine. I will find you again. I will always find you.”*

He inhaled deeply as Clara felt her life force tear away from her physical body, rushing upward into his open mouth.

Clara gasped, her eyes snapping open. She scrambled backward on the meditation mat, her chest heaving, a strangled scream dying in her raw throat. The beeswax candles flickered violently in the hall.

The Head Guide was kneeling in front of her, her weathered face lined with concern. “Clara? Child, what did you see?”

Clara dragged her shaking hands to her neck. Her skin was flushed, burning with the phantom imprint of leather gloves. She couldn't speak. She could only tremble, the horrific realization settling into her bones like lead. The night terrors weren't stress. They were memories.