Saints above—and that ruined Tar.
Leena knew with dark clarity that the discovery of the spoiled drug would be fatal. She prayed that they were all back in Golborne before this could happen.
They turned a sharp corner where the corridor forked in two directions. It was similar to the rest of the passages that St. Silas had led them through on their arrival, but this time he hesitated. He swung his light from the left to the right, observing each passage carefully, then shook his head.
“Are we lost?” Leena asked.
After a moment of deliberation, he started forward. “This way.”
They took the left.
The smell of still water and mildew began to emanate from thewalls and the ceiling. Somewhere far off, the sound of falling water droplets echoed.
Leena halted suddenly.
A cold sweat broke out across her forehead.
That creature was back, stalking them in the dark.
She dropped her lantern to reach for her copper coins, striking the metal together once, twice, three times. Ahead of her, both St. Silas and Rami turned sharply at that now familiar sound.
This time, the coins had no effect.
Her shaking eyes became unfocused as the creature’s dark power intensified, swallowing her up. She clawed her nails down the flesh on her arm to keep herself conscious.
If St. Silas or Rami was trying to speak to her, hold her, shake her, she had no awareness. All her focus was on the overwhelming energy scorching inside her.
She finally understood that it was a demon and not a spirit that lurked in these halls, older and more powerful than Mrs. Van or Orley.
The demon tugged at her consciousness, and she fought it—wildly, desperately—the demon rearing back as if surprised by her ferocity.
Do not think I’ve forgotten that you tried to bleed me dry,she snarled at it, even as the demon tried to cudgel her body into submission.
If there was such a thing as wrestling internally, Leena was doing it with savagery. They struggled brutally until there was a momentary lapse in the demon’s power—long enough for Leena to claw a memory fromit.
The 1st Marquess of Avon resembled Percival in every way except for the scar that ran across his left cheek, giving him a piratical look. He stood in a large chamber that looked to be an extension of the crypts. Within this chamber lay an expansive and utterly still lake. The Marquess seemed to be conversing with the black waters. There was no mistaking the ritualistic nature of his movements as he slashed his palm with a sharp knife and let the blood drip into the dark pool.
“I promise you, in Avon blood,” he said hoarsely, “that every Avon after me will be your servant, will do your bidding, and will lay eternal devotion at your feet. In exchange, you will protect Weavingshaw, ensuring that it remains loyal to the Avon line only. An enduring fortress until the end of time for any Avon blood to come.”
It was as if the water pulsed in response, and the Marquess’s blood was absorbed into the heart of the lake like a promise—like a sealed contract.
Starkly, another image arose, from centuries later:
Standing in front of the same lake was Percival Avon, blue eyes wild. “Stop feeding on us. For the love of the Saints, stop feeding on us! Haven’t I given you enough?”
His desperate screams seemed to bring the demon pleasure. The creature tasted it with rapture, the sweetness of his despair deeply satiating.
Then a third memory—No, not a memory—a hungry desire:
Leena saw herself being pulled into the depths of the lake.
Choking. Spluttering. Airless.
The demon had been starved for the last ten years, unable to feed once the Avon line was extinguished.
For the demon, Leena was not as delicious as an Avon, nor as lasting, but she would do—her soft body rare in its openness to total possession and therefore domination, something he could not enact upon the other humans living above the ground…
The demon viciously wrestled the image back from Leena before she could see any more.
