Page 58 of Where The Devil Kneels

“They have fabricated warrants and corrupt officials,” Silas cuts in, knuckles white on the shelf. Fresh blood seeps through the bandage on his temple. “Garrow doesn’t want surrender. He wants the property empty and the witnesses silent.”

“And what exactly is your plan?” Maeve whirls toward him, eyes wild. “Fight off an entire police force with what? Books? That knife Elara’s carrying? Officer Peck’s single service weapon?”

Silas pushes himself away from the shelf, swaying slightly before finding his balance. I fight the urge to go to him, knowing he’d hate appearing weaker than he already does.

“This house wasn’t built just to shelter,” he says, breathing laboured. “It was built to defend. There are passages Garrow doesn’t know about, drainage systemsthat flood on command, floors that give way.” His hand trembles as he gestures at the table. “The east wing has a secondary electrical system. The main hall has—”

Maeve’s eyes spark with contempt and panic. “Listen to yourself,” she snaps, hands thrown up in wild disbelief. “You sound completely delusional. Booby traps? Secret passages? This isn’t a damned gothic novel!” I wedge myself between them, shoulder squared to shield Silas. The movement surprises me, my blood stands before me, yet I’ve positioned myself as guardian to a man the world calls a stranger.

Officer Peck shifts, caught between them, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“I understand both positions,” he says, his boyish face creased with distress. “But Ms. Calder-Hale is right: my badge won’t stop Garrow’s men if he’s ordered guns blazing.”

“Then what do you suggest, Officer?” I ask, hearing the edge in my voice, but unable to soften it.

He looks torn, his uniform weighing him down. “I—I don’t know. The evidence against Garrow is strong, but without backup...”

“Which you won’t get,” Silas interjects flatly. “Not in this town.”

Maeve makes a sound of pure frustration and comes at me like she’s cross-examining someone.

“Elara, you need to think clearly. This man—” she jabs a finger toward Silas, “—has been living in your walls for years. Years! Watching, hiding, becoming increasingly detached from reality. And now you’re taking survival advice from him?”

Something snaps. I slam my palm on the table, pain shooting up my arm.

“You want me to trust YOU?” My voice shakes. “The same cousin who watched them strap me to a hospital bed? Who nodded while they pumped me full of sedatives because I dared tell the truth? Who has paperwork ready to hand my inheritance to the man currently trying to BURN US ALIVE?”

“I was trying to protect you!”

“You tried to control me!” I get in her face. “You’ve pushed me to abandon this place since the day I got here. What scares you so much about it, Maeve? That it’s something you can’t litigate away?”

Maeve’s mask slips, showing something raw. “This house destroyed us! It consumed Grandmother, isolating her from everyone. Now it’s doing the same to you, turning you against your own blood for a recluse with a hero complex!”

“Silas has been nothing but honest with me,” I fire back. “Which is more than I can say for my ‘flesh and blood.’ He’s shown me the truth about this town, about Garrow, about the people who’ve disappeared. While you’ve been busy trying to discredit me at every turn.”

“Because I don’t want to lose you!” Maeve’s voice cracks. “Can’t you see what this is doing to you? The conspiracies, the hidden doors, the invisible protector — it’s the same thing that took Grandmother. The same thing that shut her away from everyone.”

For a second I see it — fear behind the anger, and it’s for me, not herself. Then Silas snaps upright.

“Get down!” he shouts, lunging forward with surprising speed despite his injuries.

The warning comes too late. Glass explodes inward as a bottle trails flames, spinning before smashing against a bookshelf. Fire erupts, orange and yellow racing up the curtains. Gasoline fills the room, acrid and chemical.

Dr. Rao grabs a throw rug and smothers the flames. Jonah’s jacket is off before I can blink, beating at the fire.

“You see?” Maeve shrieks, backing away from the growing blaze. “This is what your resistance gets us! They’re going to burn us all alive!”

But I’m watching Silas. He isn’t panicking. He’s scanning the room like he’s running numbers.

“Second bookcase from the left,” he tells me urgently. “Behind ‘Architectural Digest of New England Homes.’ There’s a lever disguised as a bookmark. Pull it all the way down, then push it back up twice.”

I move without question, finding the volume exactly where he described. The lever is a leather bookmark, tassels concealing its function. I follow his instructions, feeling it click into place each time.

Somewhere inside the walls, something groans. Gears grinding awake after decades of sleep. The ceiling above the flames slides open and a torrent of water pours down, killing the fire in seconds.

We stand there dripping. Steam curls off the curtains. Even Maeve is speechless, hair stuck to her forehead, mascara tracking down her cheeks.

“That,” Silas says, “is one of thirty-six fire suppression systems in this house. Which is why I think we have more options than surrender or death.”