The lake would’ve drowned Martin had he attempted to crossit.
It would’ve drowned anyone who was not an Avon.Demon-cursed.
St. Silas understood that now, when before his father’s obsessive warnings to never cross the lake had seeped into his consciousness. He should’ve known never to heed his father’s word.
Martin could light a thousand fires in Weavingshaw, but the estate would remain cold to him. It was the demon that controlled that.
St. Silas knew snippets of what was inside the red diary. He was keen to see if there was anything more in there that could be of use.
The book told of his family history. Of how the 1st Marquess had brought the crypt-demon to Weavingshaw, how its magic had wrapped around the estate, protecting and shielding it from the rough elements that threatened to destroy it daily. The north had been a different landscape nine hundred years ago, when the 1st Marquess was deeded the estate by the King. It had been meant as a punishment; the 1st Marquess had displeased the King by trifling with his favorite mistress. Weavingshaw had been a fortress back then, the last defense before the sea, invaded countless times by the neighboring warlords who hailed from across the rough waters.
Seven times Weavingshaw had been burned to the ground, and rebuilt every time anew.
Each time more savage than the last.
The demon had put an end to that forever.
St. Silas stood in the Hall of the Lake now, watching the still black waters beneath him, staring at his reflection distorted in the ripples.
It was in this exact spot that his ancestor, the 1st Marquess, had made the original bargain: The demon would protect the house against any foreign invaders who desired its complete annihilation. In return, each new Lord Avon must swear fealty to the demon, promising to remain on the land, to bear sons to continue the bloodline—and, above all, to always feed the demon.
If the contract was broken, if the Avon line died out, Weavingshaw itself would crumble. The great house would turn into dust on the moors.
St. Silas hadn’t yet performed the ancient act of binding himself to the demon; he’d been taken away as a child before he could. And he could not do so now while still indentured to the Duke of Fray, for he could not serve two demons at once.
St. Silas took off his jacket, rolled his sleeves to his elbows, and left a single candle burning on the shore.
No matter how intently he looked into the lake, he saw nothing but the empty expanse of water, the demon hidden deep within. Still, he felt its presence—a coiling energy that darkened these walls. This energy could not feed on St. Silas without the initial rites being performed, and it was for this reason the demon had chosen to feast on Leena instead.
It did not succeed,he thought savagely, and not without a hint of pride.
His thoughts returned to Leena’s turbulent face in the cave, asking him to abandon his tie to Weavingshaw forever.
If St. Silas chose never to perform the ritual, then the demonwould starve itself to death, destroying Weavingshaw alongside it. He could never abandon what was in his blood.
Already, without the rightful master ruling these vast lands, the demon had weakened to such an extent that it had allowed the likes of Martin to enter its halls, invading Weavingshaw just as decisively as the warlords of the past.
St. Silas would find the red diary, and then his father’s ghost, whatever the cost might be. The seething anger that St. Silas had subdued violently over the years whenever he thought of his father simmered to the surface now, engulfing him with disgust. There would be no sentimentality when he finally saw Percival’s ghost, no words of endearment traded.
His only goal was to establish from Percival how to break the contract that had indentured him to the Frays eleven years ago—a contract forged by Percival’s own hand.
Once his bond with the Frays was finally broken, St. Silas would return to Weavingshaw as the rightful lord, reclaiming it from Martin by any means necessary. He would then cut his palm over the lake, allow the blood to drip into the water, tying himself forevermore to the demon and to Weavingshaw.
Then he would force the demon’s demise, eradicating it from these stones once and for all, purging Weavingshaw and resurrecting it anew.
St. Silas turned to the raft bobbing up and down on the water. The small craft might have been brightly painted once, but the ensuing years had stripped the color away. It creaked beneath his weight.
He took a candle with him, but it snuffed itself out every time he tried to light it on the water. St. Silas cursed low under his breath:Damned demon.The only remaining light was the tiny flame left on the land. Otherwise, he was completely blind. It made no difference if he shut his eyelids or opened them; darkness was a sentry down here.
The raft glided through the waters. He rowed forward, entirelysightless, the only sound the slap of the oars hitting the water. The hum of the current grew louder, and he knew that he was approaching the place where the power was concentrated.
His thoughts drifted toher,as they often did now.
Leena knew he was an Avon.
She also knew about Weavingshaw’s demon. It was the risk he had taken, allowing her to be close. He had known from the outset she was clever, but as he got to know her more, he felt an odd pleasure at knowing exactlyhowclever she was.
Her knowing who he was hadn’t been factored into his plans. He had been a fool for thinking he could keep her in the dark until they found Lord Avon’s ghost.
