Page 65 of Where The Devil Kneels

“Looks like the town’s doing just fine seeing you for what you really are,” I reply, watching as more people squeeze through the doorway, passing Nora’s evidence among themselves with growing outrage.

Something shifts behind his eyes, a decision made, a line crossed. “If I can’t have the estate,” he whispers, “neither will you.”

It happens so fast I barely register the movement. Garrow’s hand darts into his jacket and emerges gripping the ceremonial dagger he must have retrieved during the confusion. The blade catches the dawn light streaming through the windowsas he lunges toward me, all pretense of civility abandoned. His face contorts with generations of thwarted ambition, of rage at being denied what he considers his birthright.

I try to step back, but debris from the explosion blocks my path. My foot catches on a splintered board, throwing me off-balance. The blade arcs toward my chest with terrible precision, and time seems to slow, stretching each millisecond into painful clarity.

Then Silas is there, materializing between us as if conjured by my fear. His body slams into mine, pushing me aside with his remaining strength. The dagger, meant for my heart, sinks deep into his chest instead. The sound it makes, that wet, soft puncture, will haunt my nightmares forever.

Silas crumples to the floor, blood immediately spreading across his shirt in an alarming bloom. The dark stain expands with each beat of his heart, each pulse taking more of his life with it. His eyes find mine as he falls, and I see no regret there, only a fierce, unwavering certainty.

“No!” The scream tears from my throat as I drop to my knees beside him.

My hands press against the wound, warm blood seeping between my fingers in a horrible parody of intimacy. The metallic smell fills my nostrils, making my head swim. “Silas, stay with me. Please stay with me.”

Something breaks open inside me—not fear, not panic, but something older and more dangerous. I’ve spent my life being reasonable, measured, controlling my reactions. The good girl. The stable one. The Hale who wouldn’t cause a scene.

But here, now, with Silas’s blood coating my hands, something primal rises from that shattered place within me. A rage so pure it feels like clarity, like purpose distilled to its most essential form.

I turn to face Garrow, who stands frozen in apparent shock at missing his intended target. The dagger hangs limply from his fingers, Silas’s blood dripping from its ornate blade to the library floor.

With a sound I’ve never heard myself make before—half scream, half growl—I launch myself at him. My body moves without conscious thought, operating on instinct and fury alone. My fist connects with his jaw in a blow that reverberates up my arm, pain shooting through knuckles never before used as weapons. The impact sends Garrow crashing backward into the remaining pile of books, his head hitting the floor with a sickening crack. The dagger clatters from his suddenly slack fingers.

Silence falls across the library, broken only by my ragged breathing. Garrow lies motionless among the scattered volumes, blood trickling from his split lip, eyes closed. For one terrible moment, I think I’ve killed him, then his chest rises slightly. Unconscious, not dead.

I stare at my own hand in disbelief, trembling violently as adrenaline courses through my system. My knuckles are already swelling, skin split across two of them. “I’ve never hit anyone before,” I whisper, my voice small with shock. The admission feels ridiculous in the aftermath of everything that’s happened, yet somehow critical to understanding the transformation occurring within me.

The gathered townspeople watch in stunned silence, their expressions a mixture of shock and, is that respect? This moment of violence from the supposedly reserved Hale heir seems to affect them more deeply than all the documentary evidence Nora provided.

Then I hear Silas struggling to breathe and I’m back on my knees beside him.

“Let me,” Dr. Rao says, already beside us with her medical bag open. Her hands move with practised efficiency, cutting away the fabric around the wound. “The blade missed major arteries, but he’s lost blood, and there may be damage to the muscle and connective tissue.”

I cradle Silas’s head in my lap, my injured hand forgotten as I stroke the hair back from his forehead. His skin feels clammy, too cool under my touch. “Stay with me,” I murmur, bending close enough that only he can hear. “We’ve only just started. You can’t leave now.”

His eyes open, finding mine with effort. “Not… going anywhere,” he manages, though each word seems to cost him. “Guardian duty… not finished.”

“Damn right it’s not,” I tell him, forcing a smile through tears I didn’t realize were falling. “The house needs you. I need you.”

Sirens grow louder outside, and through the windows, I see county police cars pulling up, officers pouring out with weapons drawn. Officer Peck meets them at the entrance, his authoritative gestures explaining the situation. Several officers immediately move toward the still-unconscious Garrow, handcuffs glinting in the morning light.

“County jurisdiction,” Jonah explains, joining us as the officers secure Garrow. “Outside Garrow’s influence. They’ve been building a case for months, just needed concrete evidence and witnesses.”

I barely register his words, my focus entirely on Silas as Dr. Rao works to stabilize him. The wound looks horrific up close, a deep puncture surroundedby bruising that’s already spreading across his chest. Yet Dr. Rao’s expression remains calm, her movements sure and swift.

“He’ll need surgery,” she tells me quietly, “but he’s stable for transport. The ambulance is on its way.”

Only then, with that reassurance, do I allow myself to look around the devastated library. Broken glass glitters among scattered books. Blood, both Silas’s and Garrow’s, stains the antique carpet. The panelled wall gapes open where Garrow blasted his way through our defences.

Yet for all the destruction, something has been preserved, something more important than furniture or books or even walls. The purpose of this house, its true function as a sanctuary and stronghold, remains intact. Not because of supernatural protection or mystical barriers, but because of human determination. My ancestors’ careful architectural design. Silas’s vigilant protection. And now, my own fierce refusal to surrender what matters most.

As paramedics arrive and carefully transfer Silas to a stretcher, his fingers find mine, squeezing weakly. “We did it,” he whispers, pain making his voice rough at the edges. “Together.”

“Together,” I echo. I walk beside the stretcher as they carry him out, past the gathered townspeople who step back to make a path. Morning light comes through the windows, catching the dust still settling in the air.

Garrow is carried out in handcuffs, still unconscious, his carefully constructed empire crumbling with each piece of evidence being catalogued by county officers. The ritual knife is sealed in an evidence bag, its centuries of power reduced to an exhibit number.

Outside, still holding Silas’s hand, I look at the estate differently. Not the imposing, slightly sinister inheritance I first showed up to — a fortress disguised as a home. Built by my family to stand against exactly this. Its power was never supernatural. It was just people, generation after generation, refusing to let it fall.