Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Descend
Becky
The door clicks closed behind Carrson, and I drop the hand I’d lifted to wave good-bye.
I’m moving a second later, hair flying, feet quick, slipping on the marble as I sprint down the hallway. I’m heading toward the cellar. There’s a door I found down there the other day, hidden behind a wine rack. It’s a narrow door, shorter than usual, like it was made for gnomes. Or trolls.
Of all the locked doors in the house, this one stands out the most. Because it’s hidden but also because of the lock. Old metal, reddish-brown, maybe bronze once but now worn and darkened, with a gaping keyhole.
For three days Carrson had gone to see the lawyers, and for three days I’ve searched. Closets. Drawers. Cabinets he probably hasn’t opened in years. Until my hands were covered in dust and my back ached from hunching over.
I found it tucked in the back of a drawer, half-hidden beneath old papers.
A key that feels right when I pick it up.
It’s as big as my hand. The same old worn metal.
Now it sits heavy in my palm, warmed by my skin, as I step up to the door.
I slide it into the lock with a loud clink.
It fits.
I wrap my fingers around it and turn, only to get resistance. Not a little, but enough that it shudders all the way up my arm. Biting my lip, I lean my hip into it and shift my weight. I push harder, forcing the key while it presses back against me.
Come on. Please.
Don’t break.
If it snaps, there’s no explaining it. No way to justify why I’m here, alone, with a broken key stuck in a door I shouldn’t even be touching.
A sliver of guilt nudges into my consciousness.
The last few days have gone better than I ever would’ve expected.
I mentioned to Carrson that I’d taken horseback riding lessons as a child, that it had been part of my sister’s therapy, a way to keep her connected to the world outside as her health faded.
He didn’t say much, but the next morning two horses were waiting when he led me outside after breakfast. Turns out there’s a stable behind the house.
Since then, we’ve ridden every day.
We go fast. Faster than we should. Hooves thunder through the trees until the forest opens into a clearing similar to the one back at university. There, we spread a blanket, unpack lunch, and I work on his portrait while he sits for me.
Carrson takes his role as a model very seriously. He poses with one elbow propped on his bent knee and a faint blush on his cheeks. Like he doesn’t know what to do with that much attention.
At night, I cook him dinner since he declared he likes my food better than Mrs. Beckswith’s, words that filled me with a sense of pride so big I thought my chest might actually burst.
After that, we play board games Carrson brought out of his childhood room.
The one he let me see, with its clumsily painted model airplanes dangling from the ceiling and the faded plaid wallpaper that curled at the edges like it was put in place when he was born and no one bothered to maintain it as he grew.
He doesn’t linger in that room. Always closes the door when he leaves, then glances back over his shoulder as he walks away, as if checking to make sure nothing of him was left behind.
Last night, we stayed up until two in the morning, arguing over Monopoly rules, trading insults and bad deals. I laughed more than he did.
But he did laugh.
Over the past few days, I’ve seen more of that, more of him, than I have in the seven months I’ve known him.
Which is exactly why this is a mistake. A point of no return.
I shove the guilt aside and remind myself to hurry. There’s no time for softness now. No room for sympathy. Not if I want this to work. I turn the key again, steady pressure instead of force, testing for any give. When that doesn’t work, I lean my full weight into it, pushing harder, straining.
Come on. Come on.
There’s the creak of tumblers rolling, falling into place, and suddenly the key turns. It happens so fast I don’t have time to catch myself. I launch forward and fall, my knees cracking against the floor, the impact reverberating up into my hips.
I stay there, kneeling, hair hanging in my face.
The door opens.
A crack.
It creaks as I ease it open further, an icy blast rushing out, sweeping my hair from my face. Before me, a set of narrow stone steps marches down into darkness so deep and inky it’s like walking into night-black water. Deep enough to drown in.
I hold still, heart racing, then grab the flashlight I left on the counter behind me. I click it on, but the steps curve into a spiral, extending out of sight. Each is made of rough, uneven stone, the middle worn down from feet that have passed over it.
I consider myself a brave person, but it takes several minutes to talk my legs into moving. It’s the thought of Carrson returning in an hour or two that finally spurs me into action.
I gather my courage and remind myself of Remi on that last day. Her face bloated. Her hair thin. Her lips blue. How she died with her eyes wide open.
I descend.
My footfalls echo in the silence, drumbeats.
Halfway down, the slow drip of water from ahead reaches my ears. By the last couple of steps, it runs under my feet, a thin, branching rivulet that makes everything slick. Treacherous. Like the staircase is trying to trip me, make me fall and break my neck.
There’s no railing, so I brace both hands against the walls, twisting sideways as I edge one foot down after another.
There’s only one room below the last step.
It’s roughly circular. The floor, walls, and ceiling are lined with the same damp, dark stone as the staircase. The air is thick, heavy with mold, burnt wood, candlewax, and a metallic scent.
Iron.
Or blood.
I spin in a circle.
Unlit torches and candles sit in holders that project from the walls. Next to them, manacles hang from chains hooked into the stone.
I stare at them as a chill goes through me. My mind rebels, insisting this has to be fake. A movie prop. A joke. Up close, the metal is old, beaten silver, spotted with rust. Real.
Symbols are carved into the floor. I stare at them, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing as I walk across the room, but it’s impossible.
Some resemble hieroglyphs, stylized eyes, outstretched hands.
Others are runes, curling patterns of leaves and vines.
And beneath those, older markings form shapes and words I don’t recognize. Alphabets long dead.
Some are shallow, worn down with time.
Others are carved so deep they disappear into the stone.
In the middle of the room is a long, rectangular table made of the same bronze as the key now tucked into the back pocket of my jeans. It could be an examination table.
Or an altar.
It sits on a wide pedestal base. On its surface rests a knife, sheathed in leather embroidered with elaborate cursive script in gold thread.
Latin.
Same as the biology building.
I pick it up, my fingers brushing over the stitching as I turn it in my hands and read the inscription, translating quickly.
Bond in Blood.
I swing my flashlight, painting the room in streaks of washed-out color.
Items light up. Fade.
Light up. Fade.
The beam hits the wall in front of me, illuminating the same Latin words, only now they’re joined by several other lines of text. I translate, but some of the words are unfamiliar, forcing me to work through them more slowly.
Finally, I think I have it.
We Are The Order.
We Bond in Blood.
We Rise in Power.
We Seek Perfection.
I blink, then blink again.
What is this place? Where am I?
The knife slides easily from the sheath, sharp-edged and clean, the tip slightly curved.
Whatever terrible rituals it’s been used for, there’s no trace left on the blade.
I put it back exactly as I found it and turn, sweeping my light over the rest of the room until it lands on the only other object.
Against the far wall is a small brazier, a firepit with ash and burnt wood at the bottom. A long metal rod sticks out of it. I cross the room and pull it free, lifting the light to inspect the far end, the part buried in ash. It’s a flat piece of metal the shape of an X, each side the same length.
Except…that’s not right. I draw it closer, turning it as memory stirs.
Carrson.
One of the first times I saw him.
I rotate the rod again and again. Until it clicks.
It’s not an X. Not when it’s held the right way.
It’s a cross. A plus sign. +
The same one that’s on Carrson’s shoulder. The one I’ve seen many times now.
This isn’t just any rod, I realize with mounting horror. It’s a brand. The kind ranchers use on their cattle. The kind used to burn a mark into flesh, to claim ownership.
Carrson isn’t an animal, but someone marked him like one.
I can see it now, the fire built high, the metal left in it until it burned red-hot, the minute it touched skin.
How much that must have hurt.
Did they hold him down? Did he fight? Did he scream?
My vision blurs, tears stinging as the image becomes clear in my mind. His terror, his pain, so vivid it becomes mine.
I’m staring at the brand when I hear it.
A sound from above. Faint. Distant. The heavy thud of a door closing.
My whole body locks up.
No.
No, no, no.
Footsteps follow. Slow at first. Crossing the floor right above me.
Too soon.
He’s back too soon.
I’m still holding the metal rod, raised like a weapon.
I almost consider it. Hitting Carrson on the head.
Leaving him down here unconscious while I flee upstairs, but no, I don’t want to hurt him.
I shove it back into the brazier, ash shifting as it scrapes against stone, the sound too loud, way too loud.
The footsteps stop.
I go motionless. The silence stretches.
Then, “Becky?”
His voice carries faintly through the house, distorted by distance but unmistakable.
He has no idea where I am. How easily I disobeyed him.
Guilt is an anchor in my chest, dragging me down.
He came home early. He’s out there, probably hoping to play a game like last night. To spend time with his house guest. The way any reasonable person would.
My heart lurches so hard it might actually stop.
I don’t answer. I can’t.
I turn in a circle, the beam of my flashlight shaking as I sweep it across the room again.
Stone walls, symbols, chains, the table.
No doors. No corners deep enough to hide in.
Nothing.
Another sound. Closer. A shift above me. A heavy scrape.
The door upstairs.
Did I close it? Or leave it open?
Oh God.
My pulse spikes, loud in my ears, drowning everything else out. I take a step back even though it won’t help, my shoulder brushing cold stone.
Think. Think.
“Becky?”
His voice again, louder now. Closer.
I can hear the difference.
He’s not across the house anymore.
He’s above me.
I glance at the staircase, at the spiral of stone disappearing upward into darkness, the narrow opening suddenly like the throat of a monster waiting to swallow me whole.
There’s nowhere to go.
If I run, I’ll meet him halfway.
If I stay…
The flashlight trembles in my hand.
The thump of his foot on the first stair.
Not here. Not now.
I stare at the staircase, frozen as the sound travels down toward me.
One step. Then another.
Each footfall unhurried, as if he already knows.
Like he’s not rushing because he doesn’t need to.
Because I’m not going anywhere.
My back presses flat against the wall now, as far from the stairs as I can get, but it’s useless. The room is too small. Too open. Every inch of it exposed.
The light flickers across the symbols at my feet, the knife on the table, the chains on the walls—
Everything I wasn’t supposed to see.
Everything he’s going to know I saw.
Another step.
Closer.
The sound of it fills the space, louder now, bouncing off stone.
I click off the flashlight, plunging my half of the room into darkness.
Now the only light comes from the staircase, from whatever Carrson carries down with him to guide his steps.
“Becky.”
Not a question.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.