“I know it sounds crazy.” Bram shrugs. “And believe me, I’ve got plenty more where that came from. But here’s the thing, I’ve attended enough goth festivals through the years to know the real from the fake. And Dani, this ain’t fake.”

Lucian’s hands are at my waist, while his lips push at my ear, and I know he wants me to kiss him again, more fully this time, while we still can. And even though I want to, even though I know that he’s fading, just barely hanging on—I can’t. Not when Bram’s looking at me like that. Not when Camellia’s freaking out. Not when there’s still so much left unsaid.

“Did you check out your painting in the hall?” Bram shakes his head. “Is that creepy or what? But here’s the thing. It wasn’t painted in 1896, that’s just what they want you to think. It was probably painted sometime last week.”

“How would you know?” I say, thinking how ridiculous it is that out of all the things he’s told me, that’s the one I choose to question. But when I remember how touching the painting felt like touching myself, I narrow my gaze even further.

He shrugs, deciding not to push it when he says, “Anyway, I digress, that’s hardly the point.”

“So what is the point?” I lift my shoulder to my ear, so Lucian will quit lapping at my neck.

“The point is, none of this is what you think. They’re using you. You’re their missing link. Your whole reason for being here is to paint the dead guy, raise the dead guy, kiss the dead guy, and bring him to life. Oh, and in case you haven’t noticed, those two”—he points toward Camellia and her friend—“they’re indentured servants, bound to the house. They live and die with it. It’s a package deal.”

And when I look at them again, I know that it’s true. Camellia isn’t Violet’s daughter—they’re one and the same. And the red-haired guy is the driver, the creepy old man who brought me here.

“Different flower, same girl.” Bram shrugs, reading my expression. “Seems you and your paintings have restored them all.”

“But—how?” I squint, confused by just about everything he’s said. None of it makes the slightest bit of sense.

He looks at me, face composed and serious when he says, “They lured you here for the restoration. Trust me, Dani, this is no art school—or at least not the kind you were hoping for. There was never any real contest, no other students delayed by the mist—no other students at all! It’s just one big, carefully orchestrated ruse to get to you. It was always about you, Dani. They needed your dreams, your vision, your talent—it’s your artistic gifts that completed the restoration, returned everything back to its former glory. But as for your connection to the place—the way it feels so familiar—so homey—or in your case, even better than home, perhaps?” He quirks a brow and takes me in. “That’s their influence. It’s not real.” He pauses, allowing enough time for the words to sink in. “You don’t have to do this, you don’t have to do their bidding. You’re the one in charge here. All of this, everything you see, including them”—he motions toward the servants behind him—“depends entirely on you, and your willingness to go along with their plan.”

And he’s just barely finished when Camellia/Violet runs up behind him, gazing deep into my eyes when she says, “Don’t ruin this for us—please! We only want what’s best for the house—that’s all we’ve ever wanted. And look! Look how beautiful ’tis again! You belong here, Lily—this is your home, and we live to serve you and Master Lucian!”

I glance from her to Lucian, the guy from my dreams. He needs me.

He’s tremulous, faint, unable to speak. Neither alive nor dead—trapped in some kind of limbo state.

I’m sure of only one thing: This is my duty, my reason for being. My connection to this place is real, of that I’ve no doubt. I’ve never felt so at home, so content, so happy just to stay within these old walls. Besides, it’s like Bram said, they’re depending on me.

Hearing Bram’s voice at my ear, whispering urgently, “Listen, Dani, I get that you’re wrestling with some issues at home, really, I do. But still, you don’t really strike me as the suicidal type. But hey, if I’m wrong, don’t mind me, just go ahead and kiss him already, that should do the trick.”

I glance over my shoulder, annoyed by his constant interruptions and eager to get on with my destiny.

“Even though he appears animated—or at the very least, upright and visible—in order for him to be truly alive, he needs your soul. And to get it, he’ll kiss you, suck it right out of you, extract the life force, and then spit out what remains so he won’t have the burden of all that goes with it. Leaving you no more than an empty shell, which he may or may not send home in a box so your poor dad can bury you. Seriously, Dani, it’s not just the stuff of horror movies—in this case it’s real. See that red glow emanating from his chest? That’s the void he needs to fill. Is that what you want? To be a soul donor for him?”

I swallow hard and turn back toward the guy from my dreams, the guy I came here to help, promised to help. But when I glance over my shoulder at Bram, a real live, flesh-and-blood person who’s only trying to help me—save me from doing something risky that may not end well—that’s when I choose.

Hearing Camellia’s agonized scream crying out from behind me, as I push away from Lucian and rush straight toward Bram.

His arms circle around me as his mouth presses against mine—the feel of his lips so familiar, my mind floods with memories stretching far before my time.

Moving across my face to my cheek before working his way to the space below my ear, brushing my hair to the side, and he whispers, “This is forever,” as his fangs sink into my flesh.

When I wake, Bram’s leaning over me, all cleaned up with a new set of clothes and freshly washed hair, gazing at me with loving concern when he says, “Sorry, Lily. I didn’t mean to surprise you like that.”

“My name’s not Lily,” I mumble, struggling to sit up, though I’m far too weak to even lift my head.

“Well, it used to be.” He smiles, running his finger down the length of my cheek. “But if you prefer, I’ll call you Dani—or even something else entirely. We’ve got an eternity to get it all figured out, no need to rush into anything.”

I look at him, gazing into eyes that look just like Lucian’s, wondering how I got it so wrong.

Realizing my thoughts are no longer private, haven’t been all along, when he says, “You didn’t. You didn’t get it wrong, or choose wrong. The fact is, Lily-Dani, you chose the exact same way you did before. Over a hundred years ago. And apparently Lucian never got over it.” He shakes his head. “Though I guarantee you he’s over it now. I’m afraid my brother won’t be visiting anytime soon.”

“Your brother,” I whisper as my hand flies to my throat, wondering which is more horrifying—the two sets of puncture marks, or the fact that I’m no longer breathing.

“Listen.” He climbs onto the divan and grasps my hand in his. “The only thing I lied about was your connection to this place.” He pauses, eyes gazing into mine when he adds, “Well, that and the painting. I painted it, over a hundred years ago, and you painted the one of me just beside it, but everything else was true.”

“How could I have possibly painted that when I’m only seventeen?” I cry, his words not making the least bit of sense, even though deep down inside, I know them to be true.

“I’ve waited a long time to find you,” he says. “Gave up on that reincarnation crap years ago. But then, when I heard about the restoration, I swung by to see for myself, and the moment I saw you, I knew. And when I saw your Doc Martens, I knew for sure. You always had that independent, rebellious streak, and well, you know the rest.”