Rebirth (Lost Souls #1)

Chapter 1

A stabbing pain in my head is the only thing that I’m aware of at first, and it takes great effort to open my eyes. When I finally manage to, I find myself staring up at a ceiling that I don’t recognize. Panic surges through me, and my heart rate spikes at this oddly familiar feeling of waking up in a strange place.

My hands clutch the sheet as I sit up, knuckles white from the force I exert. I frantically look around the room, trying to take everything in. The walls are done in burnt umber, with dark-brown wooden wainscotting and a matching hardwood floor. The room has a wardrobe, a desk and chair, and the large bed that I’m sitting in. All are made from the same wood as the skirting boards. What stands out the most is the lack of windows, which makes the room resemble a chest.

Or a coffin.

Rows upon rows of shelves line the wall to my left, all stacked with burning candles—the only light in the room. The flickering of the flames is mesmerizing. The smell of wax manages to put me at ease, at least a little bit. It’s as if it’s breathing life back into me, knitting my mind together and clearing the last remaining bits of fog from my head. I inhale, and for a moment the scent of apples and nutmeg overtakes the burning wax. It brings a frown to my face and makes me wonder why candles meant to bring illumination have such an oddly specific scent. It’s gone as quickly as it came, though. Was it just my imagination?

Looking at the rest of the room, it all seems too real to be a figment of my imagination.

In the far-left corner, almost hidden behind the candles, is a door. My arms shake as I wrap the sheet around my naked body and carefully walk toward it on wobbling legs. The metal of the doorknob is cold in my hand and, unsurprisingly, the door is locked. A whimper of frustration leaves me when I pull the knob a second time. Something presses at the back of my head—a memory, something about being locked in another room. Even though I don’t know what it is, it makes me highly uncomfortable.

I rest my forehead against the door, take a deep breath, and exhale slowly, my nails digging into the frame. Something is wrong, so horribly wrong. My memories are all mixed up. A red room and yellow eyes. Another room, one much like this one. Green eyes. I don’t know, I don’t remember. In this moment, I barely remember to breathe through the rising panic clawing at me from deep inside my chest. My memories are as locked away as I am. Only a lingering feeling of dread rises to the surface, urging on the hysteria inside me.

Breathe. I need to breathe.

It takes a few more moments of looking around before I manage to push the feelings down, searching for a way out.

There is a second door behind me, so I turn slowly and shuffle toward it. Behind it is a large bathroom with a marble sink, cabinets, a standing mirror, a large bathtub, and more shelves with candles. No window. Why isn’t there a single window in this place?

On a chair next to the sink lies a pile of neatly folded clothes: undergarments, a Yale blue silken dress, and a plain back-laced corset in the same color. My body trembles as I drop the sheet and change into the clothes .

I’m still standing in the middle of the bathroom when a key turns in the lock from the other door. Peeking through the open bathroom door, I watch it open. A woman enters. Her eyes immediately find mine as she puts a tray of fruit and a bottle of water on the desk. She looks stern, undoubtedly sizing me up as much as I am her. Her skin is the color of hazelnut, with a beautiful golden glow. Over her shoulder hangs a braid, her hair a dark color, almost black-brown. I’m caught off guard by her piercing emerald-green eyes that remain trained on me.

Green eyes, yet not the right green.

I nervously bite my lower lip while I look her over. She wears a white dress that hits mid calf with a pair of white pants underneath covering the rest of her legs. Over the dress she wears a long-sleeved, golden-yellow jacket, closed with a white fabric belt. The gold fabric of the vest is adorned with richly embroidered flowers in green and red. On her feet she has a pair of slippers in the same golden yellow. The whole outfit makes her look as if she’s used to riches. Perhaps she is.

“Took you long enough,” she snarls. “I was starting to think that you weren’t going to wake up at all.”

She looks me up and down again with that condescending gaze and adds something inaudible under her breath. She starts to leave, and I sprint out of the bathroom.

“Wait!” My voice is weak, croaking from not being used for who knows how long.

But she doesn’t look back as she slams the door shut in my face and turns the lock once more. I smack against the door, fists pounding on it, that panic from earlier right back where I left it.

“Please, come back! Don’t leave me!”

My chest constricts until I’m unable to breathe. My hands clutch the fabric of my dress, ready to rip it right off as my knees give out and I sink down on the hardwood floor. My whole body shakes, and I bury my head in my arms, shutting my eyes and hoping that a moment of darkness will put me at ease. Minutes pass and slowly, so very slowly, the shaking subsides. My muscles relax, and I manage to hold back on the sob that so desperately wants to escape. Carefully, painfully, I uncurl my limbs and get back to my feet, my hands back on the door for stabilization.

Turning around, my eyes fall on the food and drink left on the table. It takes tiny steps with trembling limbs, but I get there. I chug the bottle of water and pop a few grapes in my mouth. After only a few bites, I feel full; I’m not as hungry as my body initially made me think. A sigh leaves me, and I plop down on the bed.

My eyes wander around once more, and I start to get a vague idea of the situation that I’m in. The panic from earlier is replaced by frustration and a slight twinge of paranoia. Fumbling with the bed sheets, my eyes fall on my left hand and I frown. Looking at my fingers, it feels like I’m missing something. Annoyance gnaws at me because I don’t remember what it is. It’s something important, something that has to do with my husband, my Henry. But what?

And then, just like that…

Has Henry even noticed that I’m missing? Is he out there looking for me?

Aware of the answer to this question, fresh tears well in my eyes. Yet underneath lingers a completely different emotion. One that scares me in its familiarity. One that, above all, I’ve always tried to keep buried deep, deep down. Anger . Anger that I know he won’t come to rescue me. Anger that I’ve been taken again and that he doesn’t even care. Wait... Again?

The thought is like a bucket of ice water over my head. No, it can’t be. I’m confused, I must be. It all feels so wrong—my feelings, my thoughts, my body—and I can’t discern why. It’s as if I’m broken and put back together incorrectly.

My stomach turns when I crawl under the sheets. Shivers run through me, and I clutch the material tighter, trying not to think—even if for just a moment.

The silence in the room is deafening and only brings more focus to the gnawing feeling in my chest. The timelessness makes me wonder if it’s been a minute, an hour, longer? The more unknown time that passes, the emptier I become. The hurt slowly drips away, leaking out of my pores and evaporating until nothing is left. Until I’m unable to conjure any kind of emotion, until I’m unable to care. At least for now.

Every now and then, she comes inside with a platter of fruit and water. I know that I should go up to her, rage against her. But right now, I can’t. Right now, I just need to be.

I do manage to untangle myself from my cocoon in the bed and drink the water. But having lost my appetite, I seldom touch the fruit. The absence of hunger makes it even more difficult to keep track of time. It doesn’t help that she doesn’t speak, doesn’t even give me her name. Perhaps that’s for the best, for I have come to realize that I don’t even remember my own name. It makes me feel as if I’m nobody, like I don’t exist in this world anymore. And perhaps I don’t, because when I search through my memories… It's like looking into a black hole. The last thing I remember is leaving home on an errand, and then I woke up here.

Next time, I should confront her and demand answers. She has to know something, or she has to at least allow me to leave this room. Being stuck in here is driving me insane. It crosses my mind that I could try to force her to let me out if she doesn’t willingly let me. But to be honest, something about her scares me.

I sit huddled on the bed, a position that feels familiar in a dreadful kind of way.

I used to be different, but years of marriage have changed me. It’s almost scary how docile I am after so long as an obedient housewife. On the other hand, it also makes me able to recognize a hopeless situation when I’m confronted with one. The fact that I can’t put my finger on why I know this to be true doesn’t make it any less so.

When hunger truly leaves me, sleep follows. On the rare occasions that I do manage to drift off for a moment, I wake up nauseated to the point of vomiting. Every time I do, all that comes out is blood. So much that my legs become too weak to carry myself back to bed. It’s almost as if my body is rejecting itself. It makes me so weak that I roll myself into a ball of misery on the cold tile of the bathroom floor.

It’s as if I’m dying. And I don’t know what terrifies me more: that it doesn’t seem like a wrong assumption or that it might not be the first time.

At some point, I come to and find myself shivering heavily and covered in sweat. It takes me a tremendous amount of effort to get up and run a bath. It takes even more effort to take off my clothes. Shaking, I catch sight of my naked body reflected in the tall standing mirror in the corner. I’m covered in bruises, as if I was thrown down the stairs like a ragdoll. It’s an accurate representation of how I feel inside—beaten, broken, exhausted.

Looking at myself like this only intensifies the idea that something is wrong. It’s almost as if this body isn’t my own, despite it looking and feeling like mine. Relatively pale skin from always being indoors. Wavy, dirty-blonde hair that hits halfway down my back. Bright blue eyes that look back at me without emotion, as if my soul were stripped away from them. The only thing that I do notice is that I seem a little fuller than I last remember being, less starved.

Shaking my head, I turn away from the mirror and step into the bathtub. The hot water is soothing, just like it used to be. My eyes are closed, and my mind starts to wander back home, back to Henry. I see him clearly before me, with his amber-brown eyes, caramel-blond curls, and his charming smile. Thinking about him makes me tear up once more. It makes me hate myself. The past is in the past, and I know that I can’t change anything about it. Yet I can’t help but cry, wondering if I’ll ever see him again. Wondering if I ever want to see him again, for what we had was far from perfect.

It’s only when the water turns cold that my tears subside. The wave of sadness that took over me morphs into something else—determination. I need a way out of here, a way back home.

I hoist myself out of the tub. Finding a big, fluffy, white towel, I dry off before wrapping it around myself and heading to the bedroom. Opening the wardrobe, I grab clean undergarments and a dark-gray gown and get dressed.

Moments later, she enters the room, this time without the usual food. I move to say something, to demand answers, but she shushes me with a gesture of her hand and her usual stern look.

“Let’s go,” she snaps as she turns around.

Cautiously, I follow her into a hallway. The walls here are made of stones in the same burnt umber as the walls in my room, intersected with a framework of crossed arched ribs that lead up into a high arch for the ceiling. Burning torches are mounted against the heavy stones, creating a contrast with the gothic-looking architecture. The flames flicker violently, as if they’re alive. I touch my hand against the wall to make sure I’m not dreaming. The stones are solid under my touch, cool and so very real. I almost start crying in relief even though I’m standing in nothing but a barren hallway.

She eyes me from over her shoulder, her face showing only contempt. “My name is Isra, by the way,” she tells me while she continues down the hallway.

I hurry to follow her, frowning, unsure what to do with this information and how to reply. I have no name to give her in return.

Isra notices and shakes her head at me, misunderstanding my silence and confusion. “Your old name means nothing here,” she says. “He’ll give you a new one as soon as he deems you ready. ”

Her words only confuse me further. He? Am I… someone’s pet to be given a name?

At least that’s what it looks like, apart from being a prisoner. The idea sets alight a spark of fear in my chest. A feeling of foreboding, telling me that I need to get out of here.

Run. Run fast and far.

And yet at the same time, there’s a soft hum below my skin that has me absentmindedly rubbing my sternum.

We turn a corner and emerge through a high doorway into a garden. We stand on a path under a stone archway with that same style of pointed ceiling. The archway has multiple open windows and is richly decorated with detailed traceries in intricate line patterns, showing the greenery that lies beyond. The path continues to the left and right, slightly bending as if to form a circle. There is light beyond the archway—natural light not coming from torches or candles—and I squint my eyes while they adjust to the unexpected brightness. Seeing what lies beyond, it’s as if I can suddenly breathe again. Really breathe. The joy that fills me from seeing something as simple as trees, bushes, grass… It's unbelievable.

A garden, a real garden, is right in front of me. It’s mesmerizing after seeing nothing but that room for who knows how long. Isra watches it all play out on my face, her own disgust clear for all to see.

“Remember this marking.” Isra taps a symbol carved into the stone wall next to the hallway that we came from. She continues to ignore my newfound joy, clearly not sharing my feelings of wonder. “It marks your quarters.”

She turns to a garden that looks more like a park, scanning the many trees as if looking for something. Or someone. While she does, I look up, expecting to see the sky, and find myself unprepared for what I find instead. A ceiling from those same stones. Thick ribs that lead up and up into what can only be described as the highest, most intricate pointed arch in existence. My first thought is in wonder, wondering why it is bright as day in here despite this roof above us. And then, I wonder how this is even possible.

“The whole place is closed off,” comes Isra’s voice, not putting my mind at ease at all.

“Why?”

“So, you do speak,” she notes, her voice cruel and cold as she looks at me. Then she responds, “Because this place is a prison.”

I swallow at that. “How is that”—I point above us—“possible?”

Isra shrugs, and I don’t know if that means she doesn’t know, doesn’t care, or simply doesn’t feel inclined to share the knowledge with me. She starts to walk down the path that encircles the garden, and I hurry to follow her.

“What is this place? Besides a prison.” Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t look back at me. “Why are we here? How are we here? How do we get out?”

Isra spins back around to me, her eyes ablaze with anger and irritation at my many questions. “Don’t,” she bites. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Do you… do you not want to get out?” I ask, slightly taken aback by her reaction.

“There is no way out, you idiot. We’re here and we’re not leaving. Ever.” And that’s all she has to say to me on the matter.

I hold back my own frustration, refusing to accept her answer. But there is no point in prodding her any further. The way she looked at me tells me that she’d much rather rip my throat out than tell me anything.

Isra reluctantly continues to show me around, and I don’t understand why she’s even bothering with her tour at this point. It’s clear that she considers me to be a nuisance. Her eyes keep darting around us, searching. Perhaps she’s only doing this because he told her to.

Perhaps she fears him. Whoever he is.

We pass a few other hallways with different markings, but she only points out her own. One of the hallways that we pass is closed off with a pair of black, wooden doors engraved with intricate symbols.

I place the palm of my hand on the wood, the feel of it against my skin making my stomach clench. I’m curious to find out what’s behind these doors, even though instinct tells me not to ask about it. Something behind it draws me closer, my arm already bracing to push the doors open. I swallow and pull away, immediately feeling like I made a mistake.

“This is the library.”

We stand next in front of a tall pair of doors made from the same dark-brown wood that this place seems to have in abundance. I reach out to them, eager to go inside. Isra doesn’t notice or doesn’t care as she moves on, leaving the path and wandering into the garden. Slightly disappointed, I continue following her. I promise myself right there and then that I’ll properly explore later.

“There is an open space with a few benches in the middle of the garden.” At this point I’m only half listening as I keep looking over my shoulder—back to the library. It’s what almost makes me bump into Isra when she comes to an abrupt halt.

“Darn it, she’s here.”

We have reached the open space that she mentioned, and I immediately see who she’s referring to. On one of the benches sits a woman with long, brown hair braided on top of her head. She has chestnut-colored eyes, her skin is slightly tanned, and her stature is tall and regal. Her white pleated dress is simple yet manages to make her look even more elegant, even combined with the simple white sandals on her feet. On her lap lies an open book, all her attention focused on its pages .

“That’s Sophia. The First,” Isra tells me.

“The first?”

“She was here first.”

I nod in understanding, distracted by the necklace around Sophia’s neck. The jewel is a deep orange-red, like the flames of an all-devouring fire. It’s looped around her neck with a patina-finish silver chain.

“You would be wise to stay away from her,” Isra warns me.

Despite her words, the tone in her voice makes me think that Sophia isn’t the one that I have to look out for.

M y door remains unlocked, allowing me to roam around freely. Meaning that I spend most of my time outside of my room. I love the garden; just sitting in the grass under a tree makes me feel alive. It makes me smile and feel more like myself with each passing moment that I’m not confined to solitude. My new room reminds me too much of another one, despite not being able to actually remember said room.

The garden is like my anchor, and it takes a while before I’m confident enough to explore the rest of the grounds. There are many hallways just like mine, most of them with empty rooms resembling a coffin as much as my own does. Not a single one of them has a window.

I avoid Isra like the plague, deciding that the less I see of her, the better. Something about her rubs me the wrong way. Like she could turn on me at any given moment. Even though she might be able to give me answers, I don’t think that she’s the one to whom I should pose my questions.

Sophia’s hallway has me curious, but it doesn’t feel appropriate to intrude on her space uninvited. Instead, I tell myself that I have to try and pick up a conversation with her casually, if only to satisfy my own curiosity. Perhaps she’ll be more willing than Isra to help me. Meaning I should put in the effort of befriending her even though I haven’t had a friend for a long time.

Then there is the hallway with the black doors. That pull inside me urges me there, time and time again. It almost yells at me to open the doors and step inside, telling me that if I want answers—real answers—that is where I’ll find them. My instinct, on the other hand, warns me away. For now, that’s what I choose to listen to, slightly fearful of what I might indeed end up finding behind those closed doors. So, every time my hand touches that black wood, that’s all that keeps me from giving in. All that has me walking away whenever I find myself there.

There are a number of smaller rooms littered around the archway that surrounds the garden. Some with hidden doors of which I only find the first one by mere coincidence when leaning my back against the wall. The door clicks, opening inward and, with a yelp, I practically fall inside a large storage room. It’s filled with kitchen utensils despite there not being a kitchen, plates, glasses, or silverware. But there are also all kinds of storage containers, ranging from boxes to the smallest glass vials.

I don’t know what it is, but something in that room triggers me, bringing my mind back to Henry, to home. Stumbling over my own feet, I flee outside, where I find myself a seemingly secluded spot and sit down in the grass with my knees pulled up against my chest, my head low and covered with my hands and arms. Memories of him flood my mind, and I’m unable to hold back the tears. Emotions that I don’t want to feel are suddenly there, and I don’t know what to do with them. They’re mine, yet they feel so very alien.

If only I hadn’t been such a fool, such an idiot. Always listening, always doing as I was told. Such a meek, obedient little housewife. Even though I don’t remember what happened, I do know that Henry was the one that sent me out that evening—during those last moments. My gut tells me that it isn’t a coincidence. That he’s the reason why this happened. It doesn’t make any sense, not really. Or does it?

There is a rustling in the leaves, and a soft hand on my shoulder makes me look up. Sophia stands beside me, a sad smile on her face. I look at her, and my own sadness changes into embarrassment, my eyes undoubtedly as red from the tears as my dress is wet. Using the backs of my hands, I quickly wipe the tears from my eyes.

“Everything will be fine.”

As she speaks these words, I notice that her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. A lie. One to make me feel better, but a lie nonetheless. It makes me wonder if she herself believes the words. Perhaps that’s why she spoke them so softly, like a whisper in the wind.

I nod at her with a sniffle, unable to form words and kicking myself for it. I should try to talk to her and instead I’m a disgusting, sobbing mess.

A male voice sounds behind me, calling to Sophia. The sound sends an almost violent jolt through me, accompanied with a feeling that I can’t quite place. I fight the urge to look back, keeping my attention on Sophia instead. It allows me to see her smile fade while she turns and walks past me, toward the voice. Curiosity wins out after all, and I look over my shoulder—only to find myself alone once more. That same pull I feel at those black doors lingers inside me, making me unable to look away now that I have given in. It’s a strange kind of attraction that confuses me and plants a new seed of fear deep inside my stomach. Whoever he is, I should indeed be fearful of him.

Before I fully realize what I’m doing, I curl up on the ground. Closing my eyes, I focus on the grass and the earth under my touch with the hope that it will ground me. I faintly remember a time when I didn’t feel like this, when I was able to do what I needed to do to set myself free.

Why can’t I remember?

Someone shakes me, yells at me, but I find it nearly impossible to return from the peaceful darkness. When I eventually do, Isra stands over me, panic clear in her eyes. Sitting up, I notice that the darkness has followed me to the waking world—the garden is clad in it. The air is filled with a sense of urgency, like a storm that is about to break.

“We have to go. Now.” No, it’s not panic that Isra emits; it’s terror, pure and unadulterated terror.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, her fright rapidly becoming my own and making me feel sick.

Isra pulls me to my feet without offering an explanation, and I flinch under her touch. Her hands are clammy, and she keeps looking over her shoulder, as if she expects to be jumped. Once I’m on my feet, she starts to run, dragging me behind her with her hand clasped firmly around my wrist.

She looks behind her again—to something in the distance. Her face pales, and her emerald eyes grow big with fear.

“What’s going on?” I ask her again when the leaves of the trees start to rustle in a wind that isn’t there.

“He’s angry, which means you don’t want to be out here.” Isra shoves me into my hallway and takes off without sparing me another look.

I look at the garden that seems almost alive with the swaying trees. The sound of the rustling leaves is deafening. There’s something else underneath it as well. Something that I can’t name but that makes unease bubble up inside me. My own kind of terror. It makes me somewhat understand what Isra was feeling.

Remembering the look in her eyes, I sprint toward my room and slam the door shut behind me. I barely manage to turn the key in the lock before something starts to storm through the hallway. It sounds like a flurry of thousands of feathers—wings—coming and going, again and again.

The sound of it scares me and makes me do something that I haven’t done since I was a child. I crawl in bed and hide myself under the covers.

My heart beats heavily inside my chest while that horrible sound comes and goes.

Once more unable to tell how much time goes by, I stay where I am, eventually dozing off. Awaking briefly, I notice the sound growing weaker until it fades into a soft rustling. Still unsure, I remain as I am. The sound in the background is almost comforting now, and I doze off again.