Page 52 of Where The Devil Kneels

“Not officially,” Nora explains, blowing ripples across her own tea. “But since Garrow threatened his daughter, he’s been… let’s call it ‘selectively competent’ in certain matters.”

The whiskey-laced tea warms me from the inside out, burning away the last of the clinic’s sedatives from my system. With each sip, my thoughts sharpen, the fog of forced compliance lifting like morning mist. “What happens now?”

Nora exchanges a glance with Marta. “Now, you come see what we’ve found.” She rises with surprising agility, leading me through a beaded curtain into what must once have been a formal dining room but now serves as her personal archive.

“I’ve been the unofficial town historian for fifteen years,” Nora explains, moving with practised ease through the paper labyrinth. “Gives me access to archives most people don’t even know exist.” She reaches beneath a pile of documents, extracting a wooden box inlaid with symbols I recognize from Silas’s collection. “Like these.”

She opens the lid, revealing objects that seem to radiate malevolence despite their innocuous appearance: a small knife with a bone handle carved into disturbing patterns, a set of carved figurines stained dark with what I desperately hope isn’t blood, and a leather-bound journal whose cover bears the Garrow family crest.

“Ritual objects,” Nora explains, her normally bubbly demeanour entirely absent as she lifts the journal. “Dating back to the town’s founding. The Garrow family has been performing what they call ‘necessary sacrifices’ for generations. The disappearances Rebecca witnessed? Just the latest in a very long tradition.”

I stare at the objects, my stomach churning with revulsion and horror. “And the town just… allows this?”

“Most don’t know the full truth,” Marta says, joining us at the table. “They just understand that crossing the Garrows brings misfortune. Bad things happen to enemies of the family.”

“These records connect seven generations of Garrows to unexplained deaths and disappearances,” Nora continues, flipping open the journal to reveal pagesof meticulous handwriting. “Silas’s family has been documenting it all, working to protect potential victims, but they’ve never had enough proof for outside authorities to intervene.”

At the mention of his name, my heart stutters painfully in my chest. “Where is he?” I ask the question again. “Silas—where is he now?”

Nora’s eyes dart to Marta, her lips pressing into a thin line. She reaches for a stack of papers, shuffling them with trembling fingers, the corners catching and bending as she aligns them against the table with three sharp taps. Marta drops her gaze, suddenly fascinated by a hangnail on her thumb, picking at it until a tiny bead of blood appears. The clock on the wall ticks seven times before either woman breathes again.

I slam my teacup down so hard the saucer cracks, and the tea sloshes over the rim, burning my fingers. I don’t flinch. “Where is he?” Each word drops like a stone into the silence between us. My hands are trembling not from pain but from the effort of restraining myself from reaching across the table and physically shaking the truth from them. “Don’t you dare protect me from this.”

Marta cracks first. “He went after Garrow,” she admits, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Said he was done watching from the shadows while Garrow hurt people. Done letting history repeat itself.”

Cold dread pools in my stomach. “What do you mean, ‘went after’?”

“He’s gone to confront him directly,” Nora says quietly. “Breaking his family’s code of non-interference. The Merricks have always been watchers, documenters, protectors, but never direct actors against the Garrows. Too dangerous.”

My fingers go numb around the teacup. All those hours at the clinic, staring at the ceiling as they injected me, convinced Silas had left me. Now I know the truth. The bitterness disappears, replaced by fear—not for myself, but for him. The Merricks survived by staying hidden, never confronting the Garrows. Silas gave that up. For me.

“When?” I whisper. “When did he go?”

“This afternoon,” Nora answers, checking her watch. “About six hours ago.”

“And you just let him go? Alone?” My voice rises with each word, fear transforming to angry disbelief.

“Nobody ‘lets’ Silas do anything,” Marta says with a snort. “And he’s never truly alone. The network has eyes everywhere.”

“But no confirmation he’s safe,” I press, reading the worry they’re trying to hide. “No word since he left.”

Theirsilence is answer enough.

Hours go by before I get them to promise they’ll wake me if there’s news. I climb the narrow stairs to Nora’s spare room. The ceiling is so low I have to duck, and the window shows only darkness and rain. I should feel safe here, but the sound of rain on the roof keeps me on edge. Every drop sounds like footsteps, like someone searching. Not for me, but for him.

I lower myself onto the edge of the narrow bed, my ears straining in the silence. The floorboard that should creak under an unseen weight remains quiet. No shadow shifts in the corner where moonlight doesn’t reach. The air hangs undisturbed around me, lacking the almost imperceptible current that once signalled I wasn’t alone. For weeks, Silas has been my invisible companion, a presence I’d grown so accustomed to that only now, in its absence, do I recognize how much space it occupied in my awareness.

Unable to sleep, I move to the small writing desk tucked beneath the window. The leather journal that never leaves my possession lies where I placed it earlier, its familiar worn cover offering at least one constant in this shifting reality. I light the candle Nora provided, electricity in this old house being temperamental at best, and open to a fresh page.

My pen hovers over the blank paper, hesitating before committing thoughts to permanent record. What if Silas never returns? What if Garrow has finally succeeded in eliminating the shadow that’s documented his family’s crimes for generations? The possibility creates a hollow ache beneath my ribs that surprises me with its intensity.

I begin to write, the words coming in a rush once the first sentence breaks the dam:

I’ve been angry at the wrong person. While I lay restrained and sedated, blaming Silas for not intervening, he was planning to risk everything to protect me. His absence wasn’t abandonment; it was preparation. The feather wasn’t an empty symbol but a promise: I see you. I’m coming for you. Wait for me.

My hand trembles slightly as I continue:

I don’t know exactly when it happened. Perhaps when we fought the fires together, moving in perfect synchronization without needing words. Maybe earlier, when he first revealed himself, trusting me with secrets generations old. Or perhaps it was inevitable from the moment I inherited a house that came with its own guardian, a man whose devotion to protecting others has cost him any chance at a normal life.