Page 54 of Where The Devil Kneels

“Same exit strategy. Get out through the root cellar.” Rafe’s expression hardens. “Two hours, Elara. If you’re not back here in two hours, I’m coming in after you.”

The conviction in his voice leaves no room for argument. I check my watch—6:17 AM—and mentally note the time. My hand moves to my jacket pocket, confirming what I already know is there: my leather journal tucked safely inside, its familiar weight against my ribs somehow reassuring. The small flashlight from Nora’s emergency kit. And most alarmingly, the knife borrowed from her collection, an ornate thing with symbols etched into the blade that made her hesitate before handing it over.

“It’s old,” Nora explained, wrapping it carefully in cloth. “Belonged to families who opposed the Garrows generations ago. Ceremonial, but the edge is real enough.”

Now the knife sits heavy in my pocket. It’s both comforting and unsettling. I’ve never carried a weapon before. I never thought I’d need one. But now I’m getting ready to face dangers I couldn’t have imagined just a month ago.

“Ready?” Rafe checks his watch, voice low and steady.

I nod, but I’m not really ready. I’m scared, determined, desperate—but not ready.

“Remember.” Rafe grips my arm briefly, eyes level. “Whatever you see in there, whatever you find, the house knows you. It was built to protect, not just people passing through, but its own. You’re a Hale. The estate will recognize that.”

With that cryptic reassurance, he rises from our hiding place and strides toward the main gate, transforming before my eyes from furtive ally to indignant professional. His voice carries clearly across the morning air as he approaches the guards, waving documents and demanding immediate access.

“—structural integrity compromised! Possible subsidence affecting the north wall foundation! As the contracted structural engineer for this property, I have a legal obligation to—”

I don’t wait to hear more. As soon as the guards meet up at the gate, attention drawn by Rafe’s performance, I move quickly. I stay low, using trees and shrubs for cover, circling wide along the eastern perimeter. My heart hammers against my ribs with each open stretch I cross, expecting shouts of discovery that never come.

I find the blackberry brambles where Rafe said they’d be, wild and tangled, the fruit dried up on the vines. I drop to my knees and feel the thorns catch my jeans, scratching my skin. I push aside the thick vines, and after a few tense moments, I find what I’m looking for: old wooden doors, almost hidden against the ground.

The latch gives with a groan of metal surrendering after years of resistance. The door creaks open just enough to reveal stone steps descending into darkness, and the musty scent of undisturbed earth rises to meet me.

I take one last look back—guards fixed on Rafe’s performance, smoke-stained walls, windows where Silas might be watching, might be imprisoned, might be…

No. I refuse to finish that thought.

I slip through the narrow opening, close the door behind me, and go down into the darkness that smells like wet earth and old memories.

The darkness is complete. My fingers are numb as I fumble for the flashlight, and when I finally switch it on, the beam barely reaches anything. The stairs are slick, creaking underfoot. I press one hand to the cold wall and move slowly, the light jumping with my shaking hand. The air grows heavier with every step, smelling like wet stone and something old I can’t name.

Eight steps. Twelve. Fifteen. How deep did they build this thing? The temperature drops noticeably with each foot of descent, raising goosebumps along my arms beneath my jacket. My beam catches on gossamer threads that cling to my hair and face, generations of spiders having claimed this forgotten space as their undisputed territory. I swipe frantically at the sticky webs, fighting the childish panic of imagined crawling across my skin.

The stairs finally end, opening into a low-ceilinged passage that forces me into an uncomfortable crouch. My spine protests immediately, muscles already stiff from hiding in the underbrush with Rafe. The earthy floor is surprisingly solid beneath my feet, packed hard by years of use before being abandoned to darkness and time. I sweep my light across ancient shelving units built directly into the stone walls, empty now save for the brittle remains of what might once have been storage crates or baskets.

I move forward slowly, each step measured, testing the ground before committing my weight. The passage narrows further, closing in around me until my shoulders brush the walls on either side. My breathing sounds obscenely loud in this confined space, quick, shallow pants that betray my rising claustrophobia. I force myself to slow down, to breathe deeper despite the musty air.

“Keep moving,” I whisper to myself, needing to hear something besides the thundering of my own pulse. “One foot in front of the other. Nothing to it.”

My light catches a straight line breaking the darkness ahead—the inside door. Relief hits me so hard I almost cry.

The door is simple wood, swollen with decades of moisture. No handle, just a flat panel designed to push inward. I press my shoulder against it, bracing for resistance. It gives way with surprising ease, swinging open on hinges that protest but don’t betray me with squeaks or groans.

Beyond lies the kitchen pantry, its shelves still lined with the preserves and canned goods I’d organized just weeks ago in that other life, the one where my biggest concern was whether the plumbing would survive the winter.

I step from dirt onto smooth tile, from suffocating confinement into the relative openness of the pantry. But something is immediately, deeply wrong. The air inside my home, my sanctuary, carries a sharp bite that scrapes against my sinuses and coats my tongue with metallic bitterness. Ash. Burnt offerings. And beneath it, something coppery and organic that triggers primitive warning signals in my brain.

Blood.

I kill my flashlight, tucking it away as my eyes adjust to the diffuse grey light filtering through kitchen windows. The silence presses against my eardrums with physical weight, not the comfortable quiet of an empty house, but the deliberate stillness of a space being listened to. I stand frozen, straining for any sound that might indicate Garrow’s men inside, but hear nothing except the subtle creaking of old timber adjusting to the warming day.

I move through the kitchen, hugging the walls, every step a balance between speed and silence. My hand finds the knife and grips it tight. It feels wrong to hold, but I can’t let go.

The kitchen shows signs of hasty searching, drawers partially opened, cabinet doors flung halfway off. But nothing like the destruction I’d feared. I move through the butler’s pantry into the main corridor, hyper-aware of every shadow, every potential hiding place. The smell grows stronger as I approach the center of the house, the metallic undertone becoming more pronounced.

I reach the arched entrance to the main hall and stop dead, my brain struggling to process what I’m seeing.

The grand space that once welcomed visitors with warm elegance has been transformed into something ancient and terrible. The antique furniture has been pushed against walls or removed entirely, creating an open expanse where elaborate symbols now cover the hardwood floor. Circles drawn in ash, precise, deliberate markings that form an intricate pattern that I recognize with sickening clarity from Nora’s archives.