Chapter 27 The First Promise
No one spoke as they traversed the passages from the Avon family resting place back toward the cellar. The mood was somber, and Leena could not stifle the horrible dejection she felt. They’d found nothing, and, what was worse, Leena was now in debt to Moira.
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 the walls 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 from it.
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.
It’s too late, Leena thought maliciously. I have seen enough.
A feeling of warped victory washed over her. This demon was expecting the same submission from her as from an Avon.
You are angry that there are no more Avons to feed on, and your power is curtailed. She wanted to choke it just as it had tried to do with her.
She felt the demon’s rage. What Percival Avon left behind is enough to feed on for all time, it replied in a threaded whisper.
As quickly as it had tried and failed to possess her, it withdrew.
Leena felt the shift in power as she regained control of her limbs and her focus. Her eyes unclouded, she found herself in the exact spot in which both the 1st Marquess of Avon and Percival had stood while bargaining with the demon.
The black waters of the Hall of the Lake stretched before her. She intrinsically knew the name of this hallowed place, a remnant piece of knowledge left by the demon.
No longer were the passageways of the crypts made of stone, but instead of cold marble that curved into a large, yawning chamber.
The ground gave way to a sudden pool, expansive and seemingly endless.
A simple wooden raft was moored by the shore, the paddles slung over its sides, the wood suffering from years of neglect.
Sculptures bordered the water—three grand men who must’ve once been lords of this land but were now crumbled relics: One was missing a head, the other an arm, the last a leg.
Soft black waves swirled in the lake, beckoning her forward.
Rami and St. Silas were only seconds behind her, stopping abruptly at the entrance when they first caught sight of her and the lake.
Before they could say anything, she turned to them with her palms up. “It’s fine, I’m sorry, it’s fine, it’s me—and before you say anything, Mr. St. Silas, I claimed to be visiting a special friend on that night you caught me sneaking out of your house.”
At this point, both Leena and St. Silas knew that she could become possessed; all that was lacking was her confirmation, which she still held on to. Should she validate his suspicions, there was no going back.
Still, she could see the palpable relief on both their faces upon hearing her words.
She wanted to tell Rami that this was the first time she had been able to fight off a possession without the help of salt or copper coins, but she could not do so now—not when the watchful presence of St. Silas hovered close.
She walked toward them, away from the lake and the disfigured statues. “There is a dark energy here that I…sensed. It isn’t a spirit; it’s a demon. Weavingshaw’s entire foundation is built on a promise to a demon.”
She remembered her mama’s warning: Beware the promise of Weavingshaw.
“For Saints’ sakes, demons?” Rami’s fingers shook slightly as he tugged back his hair. “Do demons even exist?”
St. Silas’s eyes bored into her own. Reading his expression was like looking through an off-kilter mirror—the picture wavering, transient, only a reflection of light and shadow. He would never reveal more than he intended to.
“Tell him,” Leena commanded.
He didn’t respond to her order, merely picked up his lamp and turned back toward the path. “If you are well enough to continue, madam, then we had better make our way back. It’s nearly dawn.”
Leena caught up with him. “Did you hear what I said? Weavingshaw’s existence is intertwined with demons. One cannot exist without the other.”
He continued walking. “Will this help us find Lord Avon and the diary?”
“No, but—”
“Then it is entirely useless information.”
She watched him walk ahead in surprise. No information was useless to the Saint of Silence…
And that in itself was a telling sign.