Page 95 of Where The Devil Kneels

I stand, clutching the sheet around me, suddenly aware of our bedroom’s large windows. Even with the specialized security glass Silas installed years ago, the feeling of vulnerability crawls across my skin. Silas notices immediately, moving to the windows to activate the hidden shielding system that drops micro-perforated steel between the glass panes.

“We’re moving to the library,” I tell Maeve, already reaching for clothes. “Call us there in fifteen minutes with whatever else you find.”

I dress quickly, choosing comfort and mobility over style, dark jeans, boots with reinforced toes, and a sweater that won’t restrict movement. Silas is already fully clothed, checking the small firearm he retrieves from the hidden compartment in our headboard, a precaution I once found extreme but now accept as necessary.

“Five years of peace made me careless,” I mutter, pulling my hair back into a tight ponytail. “I should have noticed them watching.”

“No,” Silas counters, his voice gentle despite the tension radiating from his frame. “This isn’t failure. It’s an evolution of threat. They’ve adapted their approach specifically to counter our awareness.”

He crosses to me, hands framing my face with unexpected tenderness, given the circumstances. “Remember what we built here,” he says firmly. “Not just security systems and safe rooms. Partnership. Balance.”

The steadiness in his eyes centres me, slows my racing heart. He’s right, we’ve spent five years not just managing the sanctuary but strengthening ourselves, building networks of support, refining our response to threats.

“Library,” I agree, squaring my shoulders. “We need to map their movements against our security protocols, identify any patterns.”

We move through the hallway with practised efficiency, his body slightly ahead and to my left, the position that optimizes his ability to protect while maintaining clear sight lines. The house responds to our movement, subtle shifts in lighting guiding our path, while security systems silently activate in our wake.

This isn’t how either of us planned to spend our anniversary night, but the transition from intimacy to vigilance happens without comment or complaint. This, too, is part of the life we’ve built together, the understanding that peace is precious precisely because it’s temporary, that protection requires constant evolution against emerging threats.

As we descend the main staircase toward the library, I catch my reflection in a darkened window, face set with determination, Silas a step behind me, his attention divided between me and the shadows beyond the glass. No longer justthe inheritor and her guardian, but partners in every sense, facing whatever comes with the strength of five years’ shared purpose.

The library door closes behind us with a solid click, and Silas immediately moves to the security panel to activate enhanced protocols. Whatever Garrow has planned, whatever his followers intend, they’ll find us ready, not hiding, not running, but standing our ground in the home we’ve transformed from inherited burden into chosen sanctuary.

The library maps spread before us like battle plans, the estate rendered in precise lines and measurements that Silas updates meticulously with each renovation. My finger traces the perimeter wall where we reinforced security last spring, searching for vulnerabilities a professional might exploit. Silas stands opposite me, shoulders tense under his shirt as he marks potential entry points in red pen, his handwriting tight and controlled despite the urgency humming between us. Five years of peace have refined our sanctuary, not weakened it. Yet something about this threat feels different, more personal, more targeted. When Silas’s eyes meet mine across the table, I see my own concern reflected back, shadowed by something deeper. Not fear, we’ve moved beyond that, but the grim acknowledgement that our anniversary night has transformed from celebration to siege preparations.

“The east garden wall,” Silas murmurs, circling a section where ornamental stonework creates potential handholds. “We delayed the reinforcement to preserve the historical detail. They’ll know that from the preservation society newsletter published last month.”

I nod, mentally calculating response times. “The motion sensors should still—”

The lights die. Not flickering, not dimming gradually, complete darkness descends in a heartbeat, the kind of absolute blackness that feels almost alive against the skin. My body tenses, but I don’t gasp, don’t speak; five years of Silas’s security drills have trained reflexive silence into my muscles.

Three seconds pass. Five. Eight.

The emergency system should have engaged immediately.

When the backup lights finally flicker to life, they’re wrong, some corridors illuminated while others remain dark, the pattern haphazard rather than followingthe carefully designed emergency protocol. Through the library window, I see the east wing completely dark while the north blazes with light, creating a patchwork of visibility that makes tactical assessment nearly impossible.

“Sabotage,” Silas states, already moving toward the security panel concealed behind a first-edition Dickens. His fingers fly across the keypad, but the usual confirmation beep doesn’t sound. “Remote override has been compromised.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands up, not from his words, but from something else. Something wrong. In the momentary silence between his statement and my response, I feel it, the subtle shift in air pressure that signals we are not alone in this wing. Not a sound, not a movement, but a presence that doesn’t belong.

“Silas,” I whisper, the name barely audible even to my own ears.

He freezes, reading everything in that single word. His head tilts slightly, listening, scenting the air like the predator that always lurks beneath his civilized surface.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Not the emergency alert tone this time, but an ordinary text notification that feels obscene in this moment of heightened tension. I withdraw it slowly, screen illuminating my face with ghostly blue-white light.

Unknown number. Words that turn my blood to ice:

Did you think prison walls could contain true devotion? He taught us how to watch, just as your guardian taught you.

Silas is beside me instantly, reading over my shoulder. Something changes in his posture, a subtle shift I’ve witnessed only twice before, during the most dire threats to our sanctuary. His movements become liquid, shoulders lowering as his centre of gravity drops. Even his breathing changes, becoming shallower, quieter. The civilized man recedes, replaced by something older, something that remembers when humans were both hunter and hunted.

“They’re inside,” he breathes against my ear, voice pitched to carry no further than my skin. “Multiple entry points breached. Someone who knows our systems.”

The secondary generator finally engages with a distant hum. More lights flicker on, creating a strobe-like effect in the hallway outside the library. In that stuttering illumination, I catch a fleeting glimpse, a shadow where no shadow should be, moving with deliberate purpose toward the east wing.

Where Marta is staying during her college break.