Like long, blazing tongues, flames lick at the sides of the farmhouse and sweep across the roof, shattering my insides until there's nothing left but tiny pieces. Windows explode, beams cave in. Floorboards on the porch groaning as they curl up in the heat.

I don't have much time.

My gaze darts to the road, my armpits sliding with sweat. The townspeople will be here soon, hauling their torches and wielding their knives. There's a dagger in the barn; the one Papa used to disembowel livestock. Where I'm going, I'll need it.

Gasping for breath, I crash through the snow as beads of perspiration rise along my forehead. Wind lashes at my clothing and pulls at my hair, but my legs pump harder beneath my skirts. When I reach the barn, I release the latch and a gust of wind wrenches the doors wide open. They smash against the building with a deafening crack. I go straight for Papa's tools, my fingers trailing over every piece of equipment, tossing aside smaller blades meant for smaller tasks.

A sob rips through my chest. It has to be here somewhere!

I whip around in a circle, scanning the building. The animals are on edge. Their hackles raised, ears pushed back against their skulls. They're smart. They know something's wrong. There's no time to comfort them, but the least I can do is set them free.

I hurry to each stall and fling open the gates. At first, they're hesitant, not knowing what to do. Then one by one, they scamper out of their pens and into the cold, never once looking back.

As the last horse leaves, a table off to the side catches my attention. The remnants from Papa's last kill still scatters across the surface. Beaked head, round torso, clawed feet. Half-frozen blood and feathers sit in a bucket nearby.

Pushing the mutilated parts around the table, I search through the snake-like guts and gelatinous organs until I spy a wooden handle. Blood smears along the blade.

Voices. Out front, on the road. The townspeople are here. I need to find a different way out. One where they won't see me.

Gripping the wooden shaft in my clammy palm, I kick out broken boards at the back corner of the barn and squeeze through the jagged opening, my legs catching in the folds of my skirts. I tumble face-first into the snow. I'm on my feet in an instant, a scream clawing at the back of my throat. I can't get to the woods fast enough.

Tears blur my vision, but I push forward, my eyes fixed on the tree-line ahead. The forest tilts in front of me like a seesaw, the garlic necklace thrashing against my chest. Shouts from the townspeople whip around in the breeze.

I'm almost in the clear; just a little further to go. When the forest finally swallows me, my boots slip on the needle-covered floor. My knees slam into the earth as the sting of vomit rises in my throat. I try to swallow past it, but it rages in my stomach and erupts from my mouth like a volcano until nothing's left.

I wipe my lips with my sleeve and allow one last glance over my shoulder. The townspeople didn't see me. They gather around my house with their mouths gaping open, a wild, hissing fire reflecting in their eyes.

The only home I've ever known, engulfed in flames...with my father inside.

Memories of my family flicker behind my lids. Papa working in the field with our oxen at his side, waving as Honor and I returned from school. The smell of Mama's embrace when she'd tuck us into bed. Like cinnamon cookies, even when there were none in the house. And Honor's wide, toothy grin; the way he'd hold his arms up as a toddler, asking to sit in my lap.

I did everything I could to save them, but it wasn't enough. All I have left are the images in my head and a giant hole in my heart.

With shaky legs, I push myself to my feet, gripping a bare tree trunk for support. A sudden cough ransacks my body, the tang of copper filling my mouth. I double over, my free hand pressing against my lips. When I pull it away, blood drips between my fingers.

I don't have time for this. Honor and Thomas need me, and I'm going to get them back. Even if it means cutting the heart from Mr. Baptiste's chest.

Another cough leaves me breathless. I lean against the tree, wheezing, my lungs desperate for air. I'm so tired; my muscles weak and limbs heavy. A black fog creeping through my brain. All I want is to curl into a ball and fall asleep. But I can't. Not yet. Need to stay awake just a little while longer.

A branch snaps behind me. Prickles race along my scalp.

I'm not alone.

The trees obscure like shooting stars as I turn toward the sound. Before I can make it out, a hand clamps over my mouth and Papa's dagger falls from my grip. My arms and legs flail as I claw at my assailant, twisting against their bulk, fighting their hold with what little strength I have left.

But they're bigger than me, and so much stronger. I can't see who it is. It's not someone from town; they're distracted by the fire. There's only one person it can be.

Mr. Baptiste.

An arm wraps around my waist, lifting my feet from the ground. Using the last of my energy, I kick and heave as I'm dragged through the trees, my boots lashing out to hook on a trunk or gnarled root.

But it's no use.

"Let me go!" The words muffle beneath his palm.

Can't stop trying. My head reels back and connects with his face. For a brief moment, he staggers, but doesn't let up. Continues pulling me through the trees.

My eyes roll, the forest spinning around me in a blur. But I'm not giving up. "Please—" My chest is on fire. "Don't do this..."

"Then stop fighting me!" The voice comes out like a snarling growl. Only it doesn't belong to Mr. Baptiste.

It's Thomas.

A cry dies in my throat, my thoughts slowing as I slip into total darkness.

When I awake, I'm curled on my side with my head buried in a down pillow. The stem of a goose feather pokes through the fabric and stabs me in the cheek. Thick quilts lay over the top of me, pinning me to a bed, the sheets beneath my body soaked in sweat. When I wiggle my toes, my boots are missing. So is my coat.

I have no idea where I am.

My eyelids flutter open. I'm facing an open window trimmed in velvet, the same shade of green as the pine forest. Crashing waves fill my ears and the icy breeze rustles the hair around my face, sending prickles across my flesh. When I lick my lips, a salty residue coats my tongue.

Squinting against the blinding gray light from outside, I roll onto my back.

Across from me is a massive wooden wardrobe and matching washstand, their legs carved into beast-like claws. A stone fireplace bathes the room in a flickering orange glow and silver-framed photographs line the mantle, though I can't make out the images inside.

"Bonjour, ma chére."

Exhausted, I shift toward the voice. Mr. Baptiste is next to me in a chair.

"Comment allez-vous?"

I push myself up in bed. The room spirals, its contents softening. The fancy furniture and velvet drapes. The stone fireplace and silver photographs. Everything melts into a giant swirl of colors before my eyes.

My throat smolders, my voice raspy and quiet. "You have my brother." It hurts to talk.

My Baptiste studies me for a long moment before pursing his lips. There's an eerie calmness about him; a strange glimmer in his gaze. He runs a hand over his snow-white hair. "You're a very smart girl." And then he smiles. "I admire your fearlessness."

I don't care what he admires. I just want my brother back. "Where is he?"

His head tilts, his expression amused. "Honor's resting right now. He had a difficult night."

That doesn't answer my question. My jaw clenches. "I'm going to find him."

Throwing the layers of blankets aside, I swing my bare feet over the edge of the bed. Blackness eats away at the fringe of my vision, and I fall back onto my elbows.

With feline-like grace, Mr. Baptiste rises from his chair and helps me back to the pillow. As he attempts to tuck the blankets around my shoulders, I take a swing at him, but my arms are heavy, like they're clawing through mud.

He resumes his seat and crosses one leg over the other. "You're weak, mademoiselle. You should sleep. We can discuss this matter once you've gotten more rest."

Is he insane? I'm not going to sleep! My lips tighten together, my fingernails digging into my palm. "What did you do to Honor and Thomas?"

Mr. Baptiste stares at me, but says nothing.

My lips tremble as a ripple of fear shudders through me. "Have you killed them?"

His eyebrows arch. "On the contrary, mademoiselle. I'm giving them another chance at life. The same as I'm giving you."

Another chance at life—what does that mean?

Unless ...

My breath goes still in my chest. "Am I...Undead?"

Whatever the truth is, I need to know. Even if it destroys all of my beliefs.

The logs shift in the fireplace, making the flames hiss and spit.

"Am I?" My question cuts through the fragile air between us, splitting it apart.

A dark cloud moves past the window, casting a shadow across Mr. Baptiste's face. "You are not."

But the scratches Andrew gave me. They're not...normal.

"Then why won't these go away?" I pull my arm from the covers and hold up my wrist. And then pause. Gauzy fabric wraps around my hand all the way up to my elbow. I stare at it, confused. "What is this?"

"You have quite an infection. In your weakened state, your body is not working as it should. I took the liberty of applying medication and dressing your wounds. I hope that's all right." He doesn't wait for a response. Instead, he leans back in his chair, his features more relaxed than they have any right to be. "May I tell you a story?"

His face blurs. I close my eyes against the pounding in my skull. "I'm not interested in your stories. I just want my brother."

"In time. But I think you'll want to hear what I have to say first."

The words poke at me like a taunt. And despite myself, I am curious. My eyes open as wind from the ocean tugs at my hair.

Mr. Baptiste plants an elbow on the arm of the chair. "Not very long ago, I lived in a place called France. Have you heard of it?"

I have. But I'm not giving him the satisfaction of an answer.

He must understand my silent rebellion. "During my time in Paris, I worked in a hospital as a physician. But as the need for caregivers grew, I played a more prominent role in education, advising medical students on how to care for the sick and dying. It was there that I met a nurse named Georgiana." A distant look consumes his eyes. "We fell in love quickly and married shortly thereafter. She birthed our children; first, a daughter named Emeline, and several years later, our son, Jean-Luc."

His back stiffens and he folds his hands in his lap.

"Two years ago, Jean-Luc grew ill. One minute, he was a strong and healthy boy playing games with his older sister. And then he just...wasted away. We didn't understand. How could a child so full of life deteriorate so quickly? I documented the stages of his illness with the hope of finding a cure, but could not. It wasn't long after he passed that Georgiana followed." His gaze wanders to the photographs on the mantle before finding their way back to me. "This same fate afflicted families across Eastern Europe, and rumors began to circulate that the deceased were rising from the dead to consume the blood of their relatives. Much like what's taking place in South Harbor."

He does know what's happening. I knew he did!

I clear my throat. "Did your wife and son come back for you and your daughter? Is that why you're here—to escape the Undead?"

He shakes his head. "My great aunt left this property to me in her will. After our loss, Emeline and I decided to start over in America. My daughter is very much alive, though not well. She grew ill on our voyage over."

A knot of dread tightens in my stomach. "Emeline is here, in this house—and she's sick?"

Mr. Baptiste nods.

The half-dead girl. She's his daughter! If she's not well, none of us are safe.

Once again, I push the covers away and struggle to sit up. "I need to save Honor before it's too late!"

Mr. Baptiste rises from his chair and comes to the bed. With a gentle hand, he grasps my shoulder. "Your brother is fine, mademoiselle. Emeline poses no threat."

His voice moves like sludge through my brain, his words not making sense. I don't know what to believe. "I need to see him for myself!" I try again to get up, but the blankets hold me in place.

"There's more..." Someone else is here. Thomas stands in the doorway, looking as handsome as ever. There's a healthy glow to his cheeks, his eyes filled with concern.

My muscles go limp and I sag back into bed.

"Faith!" Thomas rushes to my side. He sinks into the mattress next to me as wind from the open window blows wisps of hair across his forehead. "Are you okay?"

A breath shudders through me. I shake my head, too overwhelmed to speak.

His brows crease as he reaches for my hands. "I tried to come for you. But when I saw the fire, I was so afraid it was too..." His voice breaks off.

That's right. Thomas brought me here, when all along he promised to keep me safe.

I shrink away from him, unable to meet his eyes. "You said you'd bring Honor home. Now we're all stuck here and I don't know what to believe!"

Thomas flinches as though I've slapped him. "Please, Faith. Listen to what he has to say." Emotion chokes his voice as he squeezes my hands, his fingers trembling along mine.

I've never seen him this way before. So unsure and...afraid? Whatever this man has told him, Thomas wants me to hear it, too.

My gaze shifts to Mr. Baptiste, the hairs rising on my arms as I wait for him to continue.