Chapter Nine
The moon hangs like a guardian in the star-studded sky, illuminating the winding trails leading to the hidden graveyard behind Drake”s mansion. Shadows dance under the canopy of trees as we walk, and the leaves crunch beneath our feet. It”s quiet tonight, eerily so. As if all the creatures of the forest know something big is about to go down.
The gravestones are covered in a blanket of dew that sparkles in the moonlight. I trail my fingers along the damp granite as we pass, taking mental note of the names engraved in the headstones. Several generations of my family are buried here, and I had no idea until now.
As we approach the center of the cemetery, Drake stops suddenly and points at a mausoleum made of white marble, its stone-carved panels depicting angels and cherubs in various states of grief. A dome towers over the main structure, and the doorway is arched and framed by two statues of mourning women.
”That”s it,” Drake says, breaking the silence. ”The crypt.”
My gaze falls to a bronze plaque attached to one of the statues, which bears the names of several family members, including my great-great grandmother. This must be where she”s buried.
”So, what now?” I ask, looking around at all the graves scattered throughout the cemetery. ”Do we just go inside and look for whatever that diary entry was referring to? And what exactly are we looking for? A key? A map? Some kind of mystical object with magical powers?”
Drake shakes his head and chuckles. ”I haven”t the slightest idea,” he admits.
We approach the crypt, and Drake pulls a small, antique key from his pocket. The metal glints in the moonlight as he inserts it into the lock, the mechanism giving a satisfying click. The heavy door swings open with an eerie creak, revealing a staircase leading down into darkness.
”Ready for an adventure?” Drake smirks, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
”As ready as I”ll ever be,” I reply, taking a deep breath. We descend into the crypt, and the air becomes cooler with each step. The scent of aged stone and earth surrounds us as we reach the bottom of the stairs and find ourselves in a large, circular chamber.
Drake holds up the lantern he brought with us, and its pale light illuminates the walls lined with stone sarcophagi. Most of them are decorated with effigies or statues of saints, but there”s one in the corner that catches my attention. It”s made of smooth black marble and carved with intricate designs, and it looks out of place among the rest.
”That one,” I whisper. ”It has to be that one.”
”Agreed,” Drake says. ”Let”s hope your intuition is correct.”
We cross the room to stand in front of the black sarcophagus, and Drake sets the lantern on the ground before pushing against the lid with all his might. It doesn”t budge at first, but after several tries, he manages to loosen it enough for us to pry it open.
The inside is lined with crimson silk, and in the center rests a woman”s body dressed in white satin and lace. Her blonde hair faded and dusty. It”s fanned out beneath her head, and her hands are folded on her stomach. Even in death she”s stunningly beautiful, like an angel frozen in time.
Drake leans forward and brushes a strand of hair away from her face before gently lifting her arm and rolling up her sleeve. Underneath the fabric is a pentagram carved into her wrist, confirming her identity as a witch.
”It”s her,” I murmur in awe. ”Genevieve.”
”Yes,” Drake says softly, running his fingertip over the mark. ”And she”s been preserved so well that she looks as if she could be sleeping.”
We stare at her for a moment, and in the silence, the trickling of water draws my attention to a small fountain in the opposite corner that I missed when we first came in. It”s pouring out of a statue of a crying cherub, and in its basin is a single rose petal shaped like a heart. I retrieve the petal from the water and inspect it closely before holding it up to the lantern”s light.
”The heart”s reflection in the moon”s embrace,” I recall the passage from the diary, gazing up at the small, round window set into the ceiling high above us. Through it, I can see the full moon, perfectly positioned over the fountain.
”Look here,” Drake comments, pointing out an inscription on the lower base.
”Within the whispers of the water”s grace,
A secret passage reveals its hidden trace.
One touch to unveil the path unknown,
A connection to the past, clearly shown.”
”Secret passage,” I muse. ”We need to touch something to reveal it.”
”Yes.” Drake nods, staring intently at the fountain. ”And it must be one of the carvings on this statue. But which one?”
I peer at each of them carefully, searching for anything that stands out or looks different than the rest. There”s a cherub on the side facing us, weeping into its cupped hands. On the back are two more cherubs, one kneeling while the other stands behind him with its wings spread wide. But on the front, there”s only one angel, sitting on a bench with its face in its hands and its wings wrapped around its body like a cloak.
”Try that one,” Drake suggests, pointing to the weeping cherub. I take a few steps closer and run my fingers along its cheeks, feeling a slight groove under one of them.
”I think I found something,” I say.
Drake moves to stand beside me, and together we press the tiny switch hidden under the angel”s cheekbone. For a moment, nothing happens, but then a loud grinding noise echoes throughout the crypt as a section of the wall slides aside to reveal an opening.
”Bingo,” I remark before stepping through the gap and into another chamber. It”s smaller than the first one, with a domed ceiling and several tapestries hanging on the walls. Most of them depict scenes from nature or various mythological creatures, but there”s one in particular that draws my attention.
”Is that Genevieve?” I wonder aloud as I approach it.
The woman depicted on the tapestry has Genevieve”s long blonde hair, and her face bears a striking resemblance to my own. She”s standing in a forest next to a giant tree, wearing a white dress with a yellow ribbon tied around her waist. Next to her is a man dressed in leather armor with his sword drawn. He bares his teeth above her neck, displaying a pair of sharp fangs.
”I believe so,” Drake replies, examining the tapestry closely. ”And if I”m not mistaken, this is Theron.”
”It”s like a snapshot of their history, captured in time.”
I trace the outlines of the mural, captivated by the artistry that brings the past to life. My fingers linger on Theron”s face, and a sense of protectiveness for Genevieve rises up inside me. She trusted him, loved him, and he betrayed her. I can”t imagine how she must have felt when she discovered his deception.
Her eyes seem to follow us as we move about the space, and I feel like she”s watching us through their ghostly gaze. It”s an unnerving sensation, but there”s also something comforting about it—knowing that she”s still with us, even after all these centuries.
”So, what now?” I ask Drake.
He rubs his chin with the back of his knuckles and says, ”I suspect the artifact is hidden behind this mural. See here? There”s a seam. It”s faint, but it”s definitely there.”
”All right.” I nod, folding my arms across my chest. ”Let”s see if we can get it open.”
Drake runs his hand along the edge, searching for any sign of weakness. After a few moments, he stops and presses his thumb against a long indent in the picture. ”I think this is for some sort of key.”
”It”s shaped like a knife,” I comment as I study the markings surrounding it. ”The blade must fit into that groove. And look, in the picture of her, she”s holding a dagger in her hand.”
”That”s true,” Drake agrees.
”So we have to find the knife that fits in that hole. Then we”ll have what we need to open whatever this chamber contains.”
”Then let”s find the knife.” Drake stares at the mural, his gaze flickering over each detail as if looking for clues. ”I”ve seen it before. I just can”t... remember where.”
”Think,” I urge him. ”Was it inside the manor?”
He taps his chin and shakes his head. ”No. I don”t believe so. But...” His eyes widen. ”Ah! The occult museum in Salem! It had several knives on display. I remember thinking how strange that was at the time, but now that I consider it, it”s not so odd. A lot of protection spells require blood magic, and having such artifacts in your home could be useful in case you ever needed to perform one. I remember seeing one with that same unique curve to it.”
”So we need to go to Salem and find that knife. And when we do, I assume that”s where the blood magic comes in? As in, I”m going to have to bleed on it? Can”t say I”m excited for that part.”
Drake grimaces at my crude words. ”Just a tiny nick to activate the spell that will allow the blade to fit into the mural”s seam.”
”Goody. When do we leave?”
”As soon as possible,” he says. ”I just need to make some arrangements here first.”
”What kind of arrangements?”
Drake places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. ”Nothing for you to worry about, my dear. Just some precautions I”d like to take before we go.”
”Anything I should be worried about?”
”Hopefully not.” His tone is light and unconcerned, but I can sense a hint of underlying tension in his words. Whatever he”s concerned with, it seems to have put him on edge. Let”s not waste any time; you should head back to the house and get packed.”
I take one long, last look at this piece of history—my history—before heading toward the exit, back the way we came. It feels like I”m leaving part of myself behind as I step through the opening and back into the crypt. Drake follows close behind, and once we”re both inside, he reaches over to close the passageway behind us.
I watch as the stone wall slides into place with a loud thud. Then we ascend the stairs into the cool night air and walk through the graveyard, back to his mansion.
”That was some fantastic deduction,” Drake comments. ”I”ve spent years reading that riddle over and over, and it never occurred to me to look in my own backyard. I think you have a bit of witch blood in you, after all. Her words spoke to you in ways they never have to me.”
”Too bad I don”t have the powers to go with it. I”d sure love to be able to zap away every customer at the club who gets too handsy. Some nights I swear I”d pay my tips just to be able to fry their balls off.”
Drake throws his head back and laughs heartily at my joke. It”s a rich, throaty sound that makes me smile in spite of myself. I love his laugh—it”s deep and masculine, yet surprisingly warm. It reminds me of autumn leaves rustling in the wind or hot chocolate on a cold winter”s day. I could listen to him laugh all night.
”I bet you could do that without magic,” Drake teases.
”Yeah, probably,” I reply with a shrug. ”But it wouldn”t be nearly as satisfying as turning their testicles into frogs.”
”Remind me to never get on your bad side, Lola. If you were a vampire, I think the world might tremble at your feet.”
”If I were a vampire,” I chuckle. ”If only.”