Chapter 15
Old cellars possessed a peculiar temperament. They remembered purposes long after households forgot them, holding the echo of confinement, preservation, and secrets best kept below stairs. Stone and earth were patient custodians.
The fire crackled softly in the study grate as Verity turned over everything Lucien had told her, examining each piece of information from every angle as the silence stretched between them.
“The chains,” she said suddenly. “You mentioned you have been breaking free of your chains. Tell me more about that.”
Lucien looked up from where he stood by the window, his expression bitter.
“What is there to tell? I am secured in the root cellar beyond the stables each night of the full moon. Iron chains, reinforced with silver. They have held me for four years without fail. And yet these past three nights, I have woken in the woods with no memory of how I escaped.”
“I want to see it.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“The cellars. Where you are kept.” Verity lifted her chin, meeting his startled gaze with determination. “If we are to understand how you have been escaping, we must examine the evidence.”
For a long moment, Lucien simply stared at her. She could see the war playing out behind his eyes, the instinct to protect her from the uglier realities of his existence battling against the recognition that she had already seen the wolf and had not fled.
“Very well,” he said at last.
He led her through the halls, out of the kitchen and toward the stables.
The wolfhounds appeared from nowhere, following close behind, their nails clicking against the worn flagstones. Braccus moved with watchful gravity, Eirin’s ears swiveled at every sound, and Ronan pressed himself against Verity’s skirts as though seeking reassurance.
“It is all right,” she murmured, running her fingers through the young hound’s wiry fur, and in response, his tail gave a tentative wag.
Lucien produced a key from his coat pocket and fitted it into the heavy lock. The mechanism turned with a groan of protest, and the door swung open to reveal a set of stone steps descending into darkness.
“Wait here a moment.” He disappeared down the steps, and Verity heard the scrape of flint against steel, followed by the warm glow of a lantern being lit. “You may come down now.”
She descended carefully, one hand on the rough stone wall for balance.
The steps were ancient, worn smooth by generations of use, and the air grew colder as she went deeper, carrying with it the smell of earth and damp and something else …
something animal and musky that made Ronan whine softly behind her.
The chamber at the bottom was larger than she had expected, perhaps fifteen feet square, with a low vaulted ceiling of ancient stone.
The walls were rough-hewn, and the floor was packed earth covered in places by worn flagstones that might have been laid a thousand years ago.
But it was the end of the room that drew her attention and made her breath catch in her throat.
A heavy iron ring had been set into the wall, and from it trailed six lengths of chain, three dark iron and the others gleaming silver even in the dim lantern light.
The chains were thick, the links as large as her fist, and they ended in manacles that lay open upon the ground like the jaws of some patient beast waiting to snap shut, one of them large enough to fit around a neck.
Beside the chains, someone had placed a worn rug, and mounted a shelf with a small pile of books. The domesticity of it, the attempt at comfort in such a grim setting, made Verity’s heart ache.
“This is where you spend your nights,” she said softly. It was not a question.
“During the full moon, yes.” Lucien’s voice was neutral, but she could hear the tension beneath it.
“The chains are secured to my neck, wrists, and ankles before the transformation begins. The iron holds the physical form. The silver …” He hesitated.
“The silver burns. It weakens the beast, makes it easier to contain.”
Verity moved closer, kneeling beside the chains to examine them. The iron links were solid, showing no signs of wear or weakness. The silver chain was equally intact, its surface unmarred except for a faint discoloration where it would rest against skin.
“You chain yourself to the wall,” she said and could not quite keep the horror from her voice, “like an animal.”
“I am an animal. Five nights a month, I am nothing more than a beast. The chains are a necessity.”
The wolfhounds had descended the stairs behind her, and now they explored the cellar with varying degrees of interest. Braccus had stationed himself at the bottom of the steps like a guardian, his grizzled head turning to survey the room with an air of weary vigilance.
Eirin paced the perimeter, her nose to the ground, cataloguing scents with scholarly intensity.
And Ronan had crept to Verity’s side and now sat pressed against her hip, his silver eyes fixed on Lucien with anxious devotion.
It struck her how much had changed in so short a time. Now they followed her as readily as they followed Lucien, as though they sensed what she was to him, as though their instincts recognized what her rational mind was only beginning to accept.
She pushed the thought aside and focused on the matter at hand.
“The manacles,” she said, lifting one of the iron cuffs to examine it more closely. “How are they secured?”
“There are locks.” Lucien crouched beside her, pointing to the mechanism built into each cuff.
“And the locks were engaged? You are certain?”
“Yes, I check them myself before the transformation begins. I always check them.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I cannot afford to be careless about such things.”
Verity turned her attention to the rug. She could see the impression where Lucien’s body had lain, the shape of him pressed into the fabric over countless nights of captivity.
“What do you read?” she asked, reaching for the topmost volume. “While you wait for the quickening?”
“Philosophy, mostly. Marcus Aurelius. Seneca.” A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “There is a certain irony in reading Stoic texts while preparing to lose all rational thought.”
She turned the book over in her hands, imagining him here in this cold, damp chamber, reading by lantern light as the moon rose outside and the beast stirred within him.
The image was unbearably poignant, this proud gentleman reduced to chaining himself in a root cellar, finding what comfort he could in the words of dead philosophers.
Verity set the book aside and examined the locks more once again.
She tested each mechanism, turning them over in her hands, searching for any sign of damage or tampering.
The iron was solid, the keyholes clean and functional.
There were no scratches around the openings that might indicate forced entry, no bent pins or broken tumblers.
“Lucien.” She rose to her feet, brushing the dirt from her skirts. “There is no evidence here that you broke free.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The chains are intact. The locks show no sign of forcing. If you had somehow torn yourself loose, there would be damage. Bent links, broken mechanisms, something.” She gestured at the manacles lying open on the ground. “But there is nothing. The locks were simply … unlocked.”
“That is impossible. I told you, I check the locks myself?—”
“Then someone unlocked them afterward.” Verity met his gaze steadily. “There is no other explanation that fits the evidence. Either the locks were not engaged properly, or someone came down here after you transformed and set you free.”
Lucien’s expression darkened. “I checked them, Verity. I am meticulous about these things. My life, and the lives of everyone on this estate, depends upon those locks holding.”
“I am not questioning your diligence.” She kept her voice calm, reasonable. “I am simply telling you what the evidence shows. These locks were not forced. They were opened. Which means either you made an error, which you insist you did not, or someone tampered with them after you tested them.”
He turned away, his shoulders rigid with frustration. “This is pointless speculation. Tonight is the full moon. I have people to protect, and there is no time to chase theories. I must remove myself from Blackfen before anyone else is hurt.”
“Running away will solve nothing.”
“It will keep people safe.” He rounded on her, and she saw the desperation in his eyes. “Do you not understand? Every night I remain here is a night I might kill someone. An old man is already dead because of me. I will not add to that toll.”
Verity refused to back down. “Could someone sneak in to let you out? After you have transformed?”
The question gave him pause. His brow furrowed as he considered it. “I do not see how. Once the quickening takes hold, I am dangerous. Anyone who approached would be risking their life.”
“But you would not remember if someone did approach.”
“No.” The admission seemed to cost him. “I remember nothing from those hours. I wake with the moonset and know only what I can piece together from tracks and … other evidence.”
“Then it is possible. Someone could be releasing you deliberately, and you would have no knowledge of it.”
Lucien shook his head slowly, but she could see the doubt creeping into his expression. “Who would do such a thing? And why?”
“That is what we must determine.” Verity began to pace the small chamber, her mind working through the possibilities. Eirin fell into step beside her, matching her movements with almost comical precision. “Tell me about your condition. How did you come to be what you are? Were you bitten?”
“No. It is inherited … passed from father to son through the blood. I was never attacked, never injured. The change simply came upon me one month after my father’s death, on the night of the first full moon.”
“Your father was also afflicted?”