Page 63 of Where The Devil Kneels

“Stay put, Merrick,” he snaps, pulling a handgun from his jacket. “Centuries of hiding in walls and you still don’t know when you’re beat.”

Silas freezes, eyes locked on the weapon now aimed casually at his chest. Blood seeps through his bandages from wounds reopened in the explosion, but his face remains impassive, giving Garrow nothing.

“What do you want?” I demand, finding my voice despite the fear clutching at my throat.

Garrow turns back to me, eyebrows raised in mock surprise. “What do I want? My dear, I want exactly what my father wanted, and what his father before him wanted. What every Garrow has sought since your self-righteous ancestors first built this monument to interference.” He begins circling me like a shark scenting blood. “Your family built sanctuaries. Mine understood true power comes from control.”

He moves to the centre of the room, commanding the space like he’s delivering a lecture to an eager audience. “The Hales, with their bleeding hearts, created hiding places for the weak. The Garrows recognized that weakness deserves its natural consequence.” His voice drops to a near whisper. “And that power requires sacrifice.”

“Murder,” I correct him, my voice sharper than I intend. “You mean ritual murder. Let’s not dress it up, you creep.”

He actually laughs. “How refreshing. What you call murder, we call transformation. This town thrives because my family makes it thrive — every business, every development, all of it fed by generations of careful... selection.”

Garrow reaches into his jacket again, this time withdrawing a leather-bound journal that makes my blood run cold. Even from here, I recognize the dual crests embossed on its cover, the Hale family tree intertwined with what must be the Garrow insignia, a bird of prey clutching something in its talons.

“Your great-great-grandmother kept meticulous records,” he says, almost fondly. “Including her attempt to stop my ancestor’s ritual in 1893. She failed, of course. Just as you will. I’ve always admired the Hales’ dedication to lost causes.”

A commotion at the library entrance draws everyone’s attention. Two more of Garrow’s men appear, dragging a struggling figure between them. My stomach drops as I recognize the dark braid, the thin frame now hunched in pain.

Marta.

Her face is a mess—split lip, blood crusting around her nose, one eye already swelling shut. Her hands are bound behind her back, shoulders wrenched at an angle that must be excruciating. When she sees me, her good eye widens with a mixture of relief and terror.

“Found her outside,” one of the men says, shoving Marta to her knees. She lets out a muffled cry. “Had a bag full of these.” He tosses a handful of homemade smoke bombs and firecrackers across the floor. Her rescue attempt didn’t even get started.

Something shifts in Silas’s expression, a flash of raw anguish that vanishes almost instantly beneath his careful mask. But I catch it, and so does Garrow.

“Ah,” Garrow says softly, moving to stand behind Marta. “The guardian has a weakness after all. How touching.”

He pulls a knife from his pocket — old, curved, etched with the same symbols from the ritual circle. My breath catches as he presses it to Marta’s throat.

“Now, Ms. Hale,” Garrow says, completely calm, “surrender the estate — deed, rights, everything — or this girl becomes the latest sacrifice to Hale family idealism.”

Marta’s eyes find mine, fierce despite her fear. “Don’t you dare,” she hisses, earning herself a cruel tug on her braid from one of the men.

I look from her to Silas, whose body has gone rigid with tension, to Dr. Rao and Jonah watching helplessly from their restrained positions. My options are evaporating with each passing second, the weight of Garrow’s knife pressing not just against Marta’s throat but against generations of my family’s purpose.

“The ritual calls for the blood of those who watch from shadows,” Garrow continues, almost casual. “Traditionally, that means a Merrick.”

His eyes flick to Silas. “But this young lady has been watching quite diligently as well, hasn’t she? I’m sure the old gods aren’t terribly particular, as long as the watcher’s blood flows freely.”

The knife presses deeper, drawing a thin line of red against Marta’s pale skin. A bead of blood wells up, bright as a ruby against the blade’s edge.

“Tick-tock, Ms. Hale,” Garrow whispers, his smile never reaching his eyes. “Your family’s misguided ideals have cost enough innocent lives over the years. Will you add another to the tally, or will you finally accept that some battles cannot be won?”

My mind races. Surrender the house or watch Marta die — those can’t be the only options. Then I remember what Silas showed me earlier. The defences. The hidden mechanisms. The one near the fireplace.

If only I could distract Garrow long enough to reach it.

Garrow holds the knife against Marta’s throat, but Silas’s eyes are talking to me across the debris-strewn library. His gaze flicks to the ornate fireplace mantel, then back to me, a micro-movement so subtle I would have missed it a month ago. Now, I read it like neon. The decorative panel, one of dozens of triggers he showed me during our defensive preparations. My heart thunders in my chest so loudly I’m sure Garrow can hear it. I need to create a distraction, need to keep Garrow’s attention fixed on me while Silas inches toward that panel. Every second feels stretched thin as wire, ready to snap.

“You know,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady as I take a careful step forward, drawing Garrow’s focus, “for someone obsessed with my family history, you seem to have skipped a few chapters.”

Garrow’s eyebrows lift slightly, the knife still pressed against Marta’s skin. “Is that so?”

“That journal only tells half the story,” I say, nodding toward it. “My great-great-grandmother didn’t fail in 1893. She exposed your ancestor and buried the evidence that would’ve let him finish what he started. That’s why your family’s been scrambling to get this estate ever since.”

It’s a complete shot in the dark, but Garrow’s eyes narrow fractionally. I’ve hit something. From the corner of my eye, I see Silas shifting position, using my distraction to edge closer to the fireplace.