15. The Guardian’s Price
Chapter fifteen
The Guardian's Price
Dawn comes in gray, mist swallowing the shapes of my home until I can barely recognize it.
Guards sweep flashlights over the grounds, boots crushing the path I used to walk alone.
From our hiding place among the old oaks, I watch strangers move through my land.
Rafe is beside me, binoculars steady, still as someone who’s learned how to survive.
“Three at the main gate.” Rafe’s voice barely rises above the gentle rustling of leaves.
“Two circling the east wing. One by the greenhouse ruins.” His jaw tightens as he lowers the binoculars and lets out a dry scoff.
“Amateurs. They’re leaving the northwest corner exposed. Typical Garrow—all show, no substance.”
I nod, grateful for his steadiness. My 4:30 AM text—fingers trembling so badly I could barely type—had gotten a terse reply: “Hollow oak. Dawn.” No questions, no hesitation. Just three words that confirmed he’d be here, ready to help despite everything it had already cost him.
“Rafe, I—” My voice catches. “Thank you for coming. And I’m sorry about the arrest. If I’d known Garrow would target you—”
He cuts me off with a dismissive wave, calloused palm flashing in the dim light.
“Don’t waste energy on apologies. Wasn’t the first time Garrow’s had me locked up, won’t be the last.” His weathered face cracks into a brief smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Besides, the county jail’s got the best coffee in town.
Twelve hours in a cell’s a small price for decent brew. ”
His joke doesn’t hide the dark circles or the bruise blooming on his cheek. He leans to his right, shoulders tightening with every movement. Those twelve hours were worse than just bad food or a hard bed.
“How’d you get out?” I ask, trying to ignore the guilt churning in my stomach.
“Judge Preston.” Rafe tugs his worn flannel jacket tighter against the morning chill.
“Old fishing buddy. Owed me for fixing his cabin roof last spring. Dismissed the charges—‘insufficient evidence.’ Garrow was livid.” Satisfaction flickers across his face.
“Not everyone in this town’s under his thumb. Not yet, anyway.”
We watch the guard make rounds, his path a perfect oval around the main house.
Morning light softens the fire’s destruction: charred stone, blackened garden trellises.
My stomach twists as strangers trample the grounds my family tended for generations.
A guard flicks his cigarette onto soil where my grandmother’s roses once bloomed.
Yellow tape flutters, marking off my life as evidence in someone else’s case.
“They’re looking for something.” Rafe tracks one guard whose attention lingers on the ground-level windows. “Not just maintaining control. Searching.”
“For Silas,” I whisper, anxiety surging as I speak the name. “He went after Garrow directly. Alone.” I clench my fists, nails biting into palms. “Stupid, noble idiot. Breaking centuries of careful hiding to protect me.”
“Sounds like a Merrick.” Respect colours, Rafe’s tone. “His grandfather was the same way. Watched from shadows until someone he cared about was threatened. Then all bets were off.” He shifts, lifting the binoculars to scan the back of the property. “When did he leave?”
"Yesterday afternoon. No word since." The fear I've been holding back surges. "Nora thinks Garrow might have—"
“Don’t go there,” Rafe interrupts firmly. “Focus on what we know, what we can do. Speculation helps no one.”
He’s right. I take a deep breath and try to focus. Get in. Find evidence. Get out. I repeat these steps to keep myself from panicking.
“So what’s the plan?” I manage, grateful when my voice comes out steadier than I feel.
Rafe points toward a cluster of overgrown shrubs near the eastern corner of the property.
“Root cellar entrance back there. From before your grandmother’s time.
Official blueprints don’t show it; it was sealed up in the seventies after a kid from town almost drowned when it flooded during a storm.
” His eyes meet mine. “But it wasn’t filled in, just boarded over.
Entrance is hidden under those blackberry brambles.
Leads straight into the pantry off the kitchen. ”
“And the guards?”
“That’s where I come in.” He pats the battered messenger bag at his side.
“Got copies of structural assessments from the county inspector’s office.
Official letterhead and everything. I’ll make a fuss at the front gate and demand immediate access to check foundation damage from the fire. Claim possible sinkhole formation.”
“They’ll never buy that.”
“Don’t need them to buy it. Just need them distracted.
” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Few things motivate Garrow’s men more than fear of him discovering they prevented something that might protect his investment.
When I start making a scene at the gate, they’ll radio for instructions and argue amongst themselves.
Should give you about ten minutes to slip in unnoticed while they’re focused on me. ”
I nod, mentally rehearsing the route one more time. Eastern corner. Blackberry brambles. Root cellar. Pantry. Kitchen. Main hall. “And if Silas is in there? If I find him?”
“Same exit strategy. Get out through the root cellar.” Rafe’s expression hardens. “Two hours, Elara. If you’re not back here in two hours, I’m coming in after you.”
The conviction in his voice leaves no room for argument.
I check my watch—6:17 AM—and mentally note the time.
My hand moves to my jacket pocket, confirming what I already know is there: my leather journal tucked safely inside, its familiar weight against my ribs somehow reassuring.
The small flashlight from Nora’s emergency kit.
And most alarmingly, the knife borrowed from her collection, an ornate thing with symbols etched into the blade that made her hesitate before handing it over.
“It’s old,” Nora explained, wrapping it carefully in cloth. “Belonged to families who opposed the Garrows generations ago. Ceremonial, but the edge is real enough.”
Now the knife sits heavy in my pocket. It’s both comforting and unsettling. I’ve never carried a weapon before. I never thought I’d need one. But now I’m getting ready to face dangers I couldn’t have imagined just a month ago.
“Ready?” Rafe checks his watch, voice low and steady.
I nod, but I’m not really ready. I’m scared, determined, desperate—but not ready.
“Remember.” Rafe grips my arm briefly, eyes level. “Whatever you see in there, whatever you find, the house knows you. It was built to protect, not just people passing through, but its own. You’re a Hale. The estate will recognize that.”
With that cryptic reassurance, he rises from our hiding place and strides toward the main gate, transforming before my eyes from furtive ally to indignant professional. His voice carries clearly across the morning air as he approaches the guards, waving documents and demanding immediate access.
“—structural integrity compromised! Possible subsidence affecting the north wall foundation! As the contracted structural engineer for this property, I have a legal obligation to—”
I don’t wait to hear more. As soon as the guards meet up at the gate, attention drawn by Rafe’s performance, I move quickly.
I stay low, using trees and shrubs for cover, circling wide along the eastern perimeter.
My heart hammers against my ribs with each open stretch I cross, expecting shouts of discovery that never come.
I find the blackberry brambles where Rafe said they’d be, wild and tangled, the fruit dried up on the vines.
I drop to my knees and feel the thorns catch my jeans, scratching my skin.
I push aside the thick vines, and after a few tense moments, I find what I’m looking for: old wooden doors, almost hidden against the ground.
The latch gives with a groan of metal surrendering after years of resistance. The door creaks open just enough to reveal stone steps descending into darkness, and the musty scent of undisturbed earth rises to meet me.
I take one last look back—guards fixed on Rafe’s performance, smoke-stained walls, windows where Silas might be watching, might be imprisoned, might be…
No. I refuse to finish that thought.
I slip through the narrow opening, close the door behind me, and go down into the darkness that smells like wet earth and old memories.
The darkness is complete. My fingers are numb as I fumble for the flashlight, and when I finally switch it on, the beam barely reaches anything.
The stairs are slick, creaking underfoot.
I press one hand to the cold wall and move slowly, the light jumping with my shaking hand.
The air grows heavier with every step, smelling like wet stone and something old I can’t name.
Eight steps. Twelve. Fifteen. How deep did they build this thing?
The temperature drops noticeably with each foot of descent, raising goosebumps along my arms beneath my jacket.
My beam catches on gossamer threads that cling to my hair and face, generations of spiders having claimed this forgotten space as their undisputed territory.
I swipe frantically at the sticky webs, fighting the childish panic of imagined crawling across my skin.
The stairs finally end, opening into a low-ceilinged passage that forces me into an uncomfortable crouch.
My spine protests immediately, muscles already stiff from hiding in the underbrush with Rafe.
The earthy floor is surprisingly solid beneath my feet, packed hard by years of use before being abandoned to darkness and time.
I sweep my light across ancient shelving units built directly into the stone walls, empty now save for the brittle remains of what might once have been storage crates or baskets.