Page 29 of Where The Devil Kneels

I duck my head slightly, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. “I suppose I should be flattered to be the first owner you’ve revealed yourself to,” I say, my fingers tracing the edge of my journal. “Or do you consider me just another temporary occupant of your domain?”

He inclines his head slightly, his gaze lingering on me with an intensity that makes my skin warm. “You are not temporary, Elara,” he says, voice dropping to nearly a whisper. “Which makes our situation all the more unique.”

I stand too, not wanting this to be over but feeling his restlessness like a shift in the air. The candles have burned way down, wax pooling in the little silver dishes he’d set out with obvious care. I can’t see any difference in the dark outside, but he’s clearly reading something I’m not. That’s probably what happens when you spend decades as the nightwatchman of a house like this.

He steps toward the door with that same grace, then hesitates, hand slipping into his pocket. “There is something I wish for you to have,” he says, the words coming with uncharacteristic awkwardness. “Something that marks you as… one of us, I suppose.”

From his pocket, he withdraws something small and dark, holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger as he extends his hand toward me. A feather, glossy black, perfectly formed, catching the candlelight along its edge. My breath catches as recognition flares. It’s identical to the one I’d found on the gravel path after returning from town hall, the one I’d absently tucked into my coat pocket, thinking it strangely perfect to have appeared exactly when I needed a sign I wasn’t alone.

I accept the feather carefully, the same glossy black as the one I’d found on the path last week. “You left this for me before,” I whisper, understanding dawning.

“Yes.” His eyes never leave mine as he explains, “In my family’s tradition, we mark those under our protection with such tokens. It serves as both a reminder and signal, to ourselves and to others who understand its meaning.”

The implications spread through my mind like ripples in still water, a network of sanctuaries across who knows how many towns, each with its own guardian, its own secrets, its own underground railroad helping people disappear from dangerous situations. Not just a family mission but something larger, older, more organized than I’d imagined.

I close my hand around the feather, feeling its delicate spine press against my palm. “This means more than you know,” I whisper, meeting his eyes. “I won’t lose it.”

He nods once — quiet approval — then moves toward the door. He pauses at the threshold, his sharp profile cutting a dark shape against the hallway’s deeper shadows. “The morning light makes watchers of us all,” he says, voice low. “Keep the curtains drawn until midday. Garrow sends people to circle the property when he’s been riled up.”

With that practical warning, he slips into the hallway. I hear no footsteps, no creak of floorboards, just the soft click of a hidden panel somewhere beyond my perception, and then silence.

I sink back into my chair, still holding the feather like it might disappear if I loosen my grip. The library feels different now, as if the air itself is holding onto what was said there. All these books around me aren’t just dusty old volumes anymore; they’re pieces of his life. Secrets and stories and all those careful notes kept over decades of watching this place.

The windows frame a sky going from black to dark grey. He was right about dawn. In a few hours, Garrow’s people might drive past looking for anything that seems off, and I know I should be scared about that. I’m not, though. This house feels different now — not just old walls and creaky floors, but something alive and purposeful. And somehow, impossibly, I fit here in a way I never expected to fit anywhere.

I run my finger along the feather’s edge, feeling each tiny barb. It’s funny how things change. Any other version of me would be absolutely losing it at the idea of someone watching me. Now? I can’t stop thinking about him, this man who chose darkness over daylight, who gave up everything ordinary to keep this quiet, strange family tradition alive. There’s something almost beautiful about that kind of sacrifice. Almost.

Morning light creeps across the library floor as I tuck the feather between the journal pages where I’ve scrawled down everything that happened tonight. My handwriting gets progressively more unhinged as the hours go on, but whatever. Garrow and his threats, all the decisions hanging over me about this place, they’ll still be there in a few hours. But something’s shifted. It settles over me slow and warm, undeniable: this weird old house with its secret guardian and its hidden passages and its walls full of other people’s stories? It’s home. Finally, actually, home.

Chapter ten

The Committee's Judgement

Thetowncouncilsummonsappears fancy, all cream-coloured parchment with an official seal and elegant handwriting, but the threat is obvious. I hold it carefully, reading Lyle Garrow’s signature for the third time, hoping it will seem less threatening. He even sealed it with dark red wax and the town emblem. Nothing says 'we’re about to make your life hell' quite like official stationery.

“The Town Council of Rosewood requests your presence to discuss matters pertaining to the historical property currently in your possession…” I read aloud to the empty kitchen, my voice bouncing off the copper pots hanging above the ancient stove. The document uses terms like “cordially invited” and “valued input required,” but what it really means is “show up, or we’ll come for you.” The meeting’s scheduled for tomorrow evening, giving me precisely twenty-two hours to prepare for whatever inquisition Garrow has planned.

I drop the summons on the counter and watch it curl back into a roll, as if my counter isn’t good enough for it. I drum my fingers on the old butcher block, thinking through what might happen. Maybe they just want to welcome me with some passive-aggressive talk about property taxes. Or maybe they’ve figured out what this house really is, a century-old escape route for people in trouble, with hidden rooms and a watchful guardian who could be behind any wall.

The doorbell’s harsh chime cuts through my thoughts, making me jump like I’ve been caught doing something illegal. Which, depending on how youinterpret harbouring a man who technically doesn’t exist while helping people disappear, might not be far off.

Through the peephole, I see Officer Jonah Peck on my porch, shifting from foot to foot like he really needs the bathroom. His uniform is freshly pressed, and his badge flashes in the morning sun. Great. Police at 9 AM. That’s not suspicious at all.

I pull the door open with what I hope passes for innocent confusion. “Officer Peck. This is unexpected.”

His Adam’s apple does a nervous bobbing thing as he forces a tight smile. “Miss Hale. Sorry to disturb you this morning.” He clutches a small black notebook in one hand, his knuckles white with tension. “Mind if I come in? Got a few questions that might be easier discussed inside.”

I step back and gesture for him to come in, realizing right away that I made it too dramatic. My heart skips around, not sure if it wants to fight, run, or just give up. 'Sure. We can talk in the front foyer.'

Peck follows me through the foyer, looking around like someone trained to notice every detail. I wonder what he sees: an old house with worn floors and old fixtures, or a historic estate that’s hiding more secrets than it shows?

“Nice place,” he offers, the platitude falling flat in the tense air between us. “Been making progress with the renovations?”

“Slowly,” I reply, settling into an armchair and gesturing for him to take the one opposite. “What can I help you with, Officer Peck?”

He perches on the edge of the seat like he’s afraid it might swallow him whole, flipping open his notebook with clumsy fingers. “Just following up on some ongoing investigations.” He clears his throat. “Town’s had a few disappearances lately. Routine to check with newer residents, get a sense of their observations, whereabouts, that sort of thing.”

My mouth goes sandpaper dry. I nod slowly, remembering his visit weeks ago when he’d knocked on my door with that same notebook. “Disappearances,” I repeat. “You mentioned you might be back with more questions about this when you stopped by earlier this month.”