The Progeny

Praise for
The Progeny

“An intricately woven tale that is intriguing and romantic. I literally couldn’t put it down.”

—Jennifer L. Armentrout, #1
New York Times
bestselling author

“Tosca Lee is a masterful storyteller who has created a rich and engaging tale of adventure, mystery, and loyalty in the face of perpetual betrayal, which kept me on edge from the first page until the last.
The Progeny
is a fantastic first installment that will leave you wanting more. I can’t wait to see where the story goes from here.”

—Jobie Hughes, #1
New York Times
bestselling author

“Dark, tense, and gripping,
The Progeny
by Tosca Lee has all the ingredients thriller fans crave. Heart-stopping danger, ancient conspiracies, secret societies, peril around every corner, and a chilling connection to the ‘Blood Countess’ Elizabeth Bathory, the most prolific female serial killer in history. Take the day off from work.
The Progeny
begs to be read in one sitting.”

—Joe Moore, internationally bestselling coauthor of
The Blade
and
The Tomb

“Gifted storyteller Tosca Lee artfully weaves an intriguing centuries-old legend into an absorbing, fast-paced supernatural thriller.
The Progeny
strikes a perfect balance of mystery, adrenaline, and romance. I devoured it in a day.”

—Laura McHugh, award-winning author of
The Weight of Blood

“A brilliant read and a thrilling ride—all the more fantastic because it is set in the real world and based on historic facts and secrets. Anyone could be a Progeny. Even you.”

—Michael Napoliello, Radar Pictures

“What a fabulous premise—and what a wonderful thriller. Tosca Lee has outdone herself with this twisty, intricate story. I can’t wait for the sequel.”

—J.T. Ellison,
New York Times
bestselling author of
No One Knows

“
The Progeny
is the best kind of page-turning thriller, a spellbinding tale that makes the reader question every character’s veracity. Exotic and lush with crackling dialogue and stunning twists, the pounding heartbeat of this story is a puzzle from the past that comes together masterfully by the last page. Lee is a phenomenal talent known for bringing history to the present, making it exciting and relevant while never forgetting that love is the ultimate motivator. Think
The Da Vinci Code
meets
The Blacklist
.”

—Lissa Price, internationally bestselling author of
Starters
and
Enders

“Tosca puts the
thrill
in thriller. Be warned: once you start this book, it’s impossible to put down!”

—Maria V. Snyder,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Poison Study

“One
killer
story. . . . A roller-coaster ride that picks up speed, racing to the gasp-out-loud conclusion.”

—Ronie Kendig, bestselling author

“Twisting and chilling. . . . A headlong, haunting thrill. With action and romance in spades, this is one to read.”

—Kate Brauning, author of
How We Fall

“With each chapter of
The Progeny
, I became a bigger fan of Tosca’s. Wow! What a ride. Tosca has done it again.”

—Randy Goodwin, actor (
The Vampire Diaries
) and director (
The Job
)

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F
OR
B
RYAN
.

O
URS IS MY FAVORITE STORY
.

T
HE
C
ENTER

N
o one speaks when you enter the Center for the final time. There’s no need. You’ve gone through the counseling, tests, and a checklist of preparations to get the plastic bracelet you wear the day of treatment. The one that saves a life. They don’t need to know why you’re doing it anymore. Or that you lied about it all. Just the scratch of the stylus as you sign your name on the screen one last time.

A nurse takes me into a room and I lie down on the table. I give her the sealed packet—the only thing I brought with me. There’s cash, meds, and an address inside, the one for “after.” It’s a thousand miles away. She’ll pass it to the companion assigned to me. No point meeting her now.

I’m twenty-one years old and my name doesn’t matter because it’s about to be erased forever. I’m choosing to forget the ones I love, and myself, in the process.

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. But they don’t tell you that every detail comes screaming back to life. That you taste each bite of every meal you savored, feel the shower of every rain you walked in . . . smell the hair against your cheek before that last, parting kiss. That you will fight to hold on to memory like a drowning person gasping for poisoned air.

Then everything you knew is gone. And you are still alive.

For now.

1

T
here’s a figure standing by the window. Arms crossed, outlined against the fuchsia sky, looking out at what must be a spectacular sunset. When her chin lifts I wonder if she’s seen something in the trees.

I push up from the cabin’s lone sofa. An afghan with a giant moose stitched on it is tangled around my legs. It in no way coordinates with the moose valance in the kitchen or the fixture in the bathroom. Despite the name of the lake—Moosehead—I’ve yet to see a real moose anywhere since arriving here four weeks ago.

“You’re awake.” My caretaker, Clare, turns from the window. Her blond hair is pulled back in the loose ponytail she’s worn every day since we arrived and she set up house. Going into town for groceries as I slept, taking me through two-hour assessments in the afternoon, complimenting my recent attempts at dinner, including the underseasoned chicken casserole I made last night. It was the first time I’d tried it, I said, but I don’t know if that’s true.

“Yeah, finally.”

My name is Emily Porter. I’m twenty-one years old and I am renting a cabin on a tiny island in the north woods of Maine for reasons I no longer remember.

I go through this mental routine each time I wake, if only to assure myself I didn’t get the lobotomy I joked about yesterday before sleeping—what, fifteen, twenty?—hours until just now. I don’t even remember going to sleep. Nor do I remember where I lived before this, where I went to college, or the name of the high school with the blue lockers and squeaky gymnasium floor where I graduated. Including what happened to the garnet ring on my index finger as I accepted my diploma, or the name of the woman who gave it to me other than simply Mom.

Names, identifiers, faces up to age nineteen and everything in the two years since. All gone.

“A certain amount of postprocedure depression is normal. That will change, in time.”

I slide my hand to the curve of my skull just above my left ear. To the stubby patch concealed by the longer hair above it. Not so stubby anymore. It could almost qualify for a military cut.

“As will that.”

“Not fast enough.” I flip the afghan off my legs, pop two pills from the bottle on the coffee table, already trying to decide what culinary disaster I’ll create tonight.
Caretaker
is a misleading word; ever since I reached the two-week observation and recovery mark, Clare has seen to it that I cook, do laundry, find a job and my way around town as though I were already on my own.

“I’m thinking I should stay away from casseroles for a while. How do you feel about tuna quesadillas?” I get up and pad toward the kitchen, wash my hands. When she doesn’t respond, I glance at her and say, “That good, huh?”

That’s when I realize she’s wearing the same blouse and skirt she wore the first day, the wooden tao cross hanging just below her collar. It looks like a capital
T,
which is what I thought it was the first time I saw it, for her last name: Thomas. And then I see the suitcase by the door.

A surge of panic wells up inside me.

“Today was my last day, Emily,” she says quietly. “I was just waiting for you to wake.”

“Oh.” I put down the dish towel, finish drying my hands on my sweatpants. Look around me, lost.

Clare tilts her head. “We talked about it when you got up for a while this morning—remember?”

No. I don’t remember. But I don’t need to turn to see the calendar hanging on the fridge behind me, to follow the line of
X
s through each day in September to today—the twentieth—to know she’s right.

“Are you sure you want to go now?” I say. “I mean, it’s almost dark.” I gesture to the window, already in shadow.

I’m not ready for this.

She comes to stand in front of me and lays her hands on my arms. Her left brow is angled a few degrees higher than her right. But instead of making her appear asymmetrical, which all faces are, it intensifies her gaze.

“You’re doing fine, Emily. Your procedure was a success. You have your fresh start. It’s time to live.”

A fresh start. A weird concept when you don’t know what you’re starting over from.

She gives me a squeeze and shoulders her purse. “I could, however, use a lift to shore and into town.”

“Right. Of course.” I pull my jacket from the peg near the kitchen door. I knew this day was coming. Then why do I feel like I’m being abandoned?

I shove my feet into my boots and grab my keys, but the questions that came at me like a horde of insects those first few days—before Clare firmly counseled me to trust my decision—have come swarming back, louder than ever. I push them away, but when she meets me at the door there’s something in her hand. An envelope.

The handwriting on the outside is mine.

She holds it out. “You wrote this before your treatment.”

I take it slowly. It’s sealed, my initials scribbled across the flap where it’s stuck shut.

“Most patients choose to write a letter to reassure their postprocedure selves. You can read it when you get back.”

I nod, but a part of me wishes she hadn’t shown it to me at all. I slide it onto the counter. “Okay.”