Chapter 17 · The Thirteen Faces of Lena

"Get away from them, Calder. Now!"

I didn't just say it. I screamed it. I shoved my shoulder into his chest, desperate to put a wall of muscle and spell-officer arrogance between me and the thirteen glass coffins lining the room.

Calder didn't budge. He was a stone pillar. His hand clamped around my wrist—not to hurt, but to stop me from lunging. His palm was searing, his pulse hammering against my skin in a frantic rhythm that matched my own.

"Look at them, Lena," he rasped. His voice sounded like it had been dragged through gravel.

I looked. I couldn't not.

They were me. Every single one. Same messy hair. Same stubborn jaw. Same small scar on the chin from a childhood fall. But they weren't copies. They were... versions.

Some looked exhausted. Some looked terrified. One, at the far end, had a cold, predatory stillness in her eyes that made my stomach flip.

"What the hell is this?" I yanked my wrist. "A sick joke? A backup drive for humans?"

"Not a joke. A cycle."

Calder stepped closer. His breath was warm against my ear, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibration.