15. The Guardian’s Price #3
Something cracks open inside me. My fear doesn’t fade; it turns to ice, sharp and deadly, right under my heart.
The edges of what I can see go dark. Every painful breath Silas takes lights another fuse in me, and God, there are so many fuses now.
They didn’t just rough him up; they took him apart like kids pulling wings off flies, one nerve ending at a time.
I can practically hear them asking their questions and see their stupid faces get all excited when he screamed.
Then they just left him here, trussed up like some kind of sick trophy, like bait in a trap, like a promise they’d be back to scrape away whatever bits of him were still hanging on.
I move around the chair, examining the complex knots securing his wrists.
The cord bites cruelly into his skin, raw abrasions showing he fought against the restraints.
I retrieve Nora’s knife, sawing carefully at the bindings while bracing his arms to prevent additional pressure on already damaged skin.
The knife’s serrated edge catches and drags through each fibre of the cord, too slow, too goddamn slow.
“Come on, you piece of shit,” I hiss through clenched teeth, sawing harder as sweat drips into my eyes and my pulse hammers in my throat.
The blade slips—fuck, fuck, fuck—nearly slicing my thumb open.
I’m about to scream in frustration when a sound freezes my blood, a wet, guttural groan that claws its way from somewhere deep inside Silas’s broken body.
I move back around to face him, hope and fear tangling in my chest. “Silas?”
His eyelids flutter, a grimace of pain crossing his features as consciousness returns. He struggles to focus, gaze disoriented and clouded with confusion. Then his eyes find mine, recognition dawning slowly through the haze of what must be a serious concussion.
“Elara?” His voice emerges as a raspy whisper, so unlike his usual measured tones. “You can’t be here. It’s not safe.”
A choked laugh escapes me, something between a sob and hysteria. “Yeah, I noticed. Hold still—I’m cutting you loose.”
I return to working on his restraints, hands steadier now with renewed purpose.
The knife finally slices through the cord around his wrists, and he brings his arms forward with a barely suppressed groan of pain.
Deep welts circle both wrists, blood seeping from places where the bindings cut through skin.
“They know,” he says, voice stronger now, though still rough with pain. “About everything. The passages, the surveillance system. They’ve been systematically destroying it all, sealing access points, blocking tunnels, disabling alarms.”
“How?” I ask, moving to cut the bindings at his ankles. “How did they find you? How did they get past your defences?”
He winces as circulation returns to his limbs in painful waves.
“I was careless. Worried about you. They caught me checking the southeastern access point, the one nearest the clinic where they were holding you.” His jaw tightens with self-recrimination.
“I led them straight to the heart of the system.”
The final restraint falls away, and I help him sit forward, my hands trembling with the knowledge that he’d been captured because of me.
His breathing comes in shallow gasps as I take his weight. While I slept under Dr. Rao’s sedation, he’d been checking the clinic’s perimeter, making himself vulnerable. The bruises mapping his ribs tell the rest.
“Your hands,” I say, noting the defensive wounds across his knuckles, the split skin that tells its own story of resistance. “You didn’t go quietly.”
A ghost of his usual composure returns, his split lips curling into something too savage to be called a smile.
Blood gleams between his teeth as he speaks.
“Two of them won’t be using their right arms again, ever.
The third one…” He pauses, eyes glittering with cold satisfaction.
“I made sure his own mother won’t recognize what’s left of his face. ”
I pull a crumpled tissue from my pocket and dab at the dried blood on his temple.
My stomach turns when I see how deep the cut is.
“I thought this was just a small-town power grab,” I say quietly.
“Garrow wanted the land and tried to silence anyone who knew his secrets. But it’s much worse than that, isn’t it? ”
Silas nods grimly, wincing at the movement.
“The rituals in the main hall, they’re part of something that’s been happening for generations.
Garrow is reviving practices his ancestors performed to maintain control of the town.
” His voice drops lower, an edge of genuine fear entering his tone.
“The final phase requires ‘blood from those who watch from shadows.’”
“You,” I breathe, the horrific implication making my stomach twist. “Your family has been watching and documenting for generations—”
“Making us the perfect sacrifice.” His eyes meet mine, pain giving way to something harder, more determined. “They’ve been trying to complete this ritual for over a century. My grandfather stopped them in 1943. My father in 1978. Now it falls to me.”
I grab his arm and haul him up, catching him when he nearly topples sideways.
He clutches the chair like it’s the only solid thing left in the universe.
“You don’t get to do this alone,” I tell him, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
“These assholes picked the wrong damn house.” I kick at a smashed monitor by my feet.
“And I’m personally gonna make sure they know it. ”
He looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read, wonder mixed with something deeper, more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen from him. “Elara Hale,” he says softly, my name sounding like both prayer and promise on his lips, “I believe they already do.”
The library door creaks open wider, and we freeze like deer caught in headlights.
Silas tries to shift in front of me despite his injuries, still the protector, even when he can barely stand.
I grip Nora’s knife tighter, positioning myself at his side instead of behind him.
Whatever comes through that door will have to go through both of us.
The barrel of a service weapon appears first, followed by the unmistakable navy blue of a police uniform.
Officer Jonah Peck steps into the library, his boyish face set in grim determination, eyes widening slightly when he spots us among the wreckage of fallen books and splintered surveillance equipment.
“Don’t move,” he orders, weapon trained steadily on Silas rather than me. Smart. He’s identified the greater threat despite Silas’s obvious injuries.
“Officer Peck,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm despite the adrenaline flooding my system. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“Actually, it’s exactly what it looks like,” Peck responds, but then does something entirely unexpected.
He lowers his weapon, engaging the safety before holstering it at his hip.
“Your property has been illegally seized, evidence has been planted, and Garrow is performing rituals that have resulted in at least seven disappearances in the past two years alone.”
Peck reaches into his jacket, producing a thick manila folder that bulges with documents.
His hand trembles slightly as he steps over fallen books, eyes darting between us.
“I’ve had concerns about Garrow’s methods for years,” he says, voice low.
“The way evidence disappeared. How certain people were never questioned.” He swallows hard.
“Then he threatened my little girl when I questioned his search warrant.” His jaw tightens.
“But seeing what they did to you, Ms. Hale— that’s when I knew this wasn’t just corruption. It’s something worse.”
He slaps the folder down on the desk, shoving aside broken glass to make room.
Out tumble photos, grainy nighttime shots of Garrow skulking around town, always in the same spots where people vanished later.
Missing persons flyers with Garrow’s chicken-scratch in the margins: “suitable” next to some poor bastard’s face, “insufficient” by another’s.
Property deeds showing how Garrow swooped in like a vulture after each disappearance, snatching up whatever the missing folks left behind, their shops, their land, their lives.
“When they arrested Rafe for interfering with their search here, he said something that kept nagging at me,” Peck continues, fingers trembling slightly as he arranges the evidence.
“‘The house protects its own.’ I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Why phrase it that way? Then I remembered the stories my grandfather used to tell about the Hale estate, about people who disappeared in town but later turned up in cities across the country.
Always after staying here briefly. Always after crossing Garrow’s father or grandfather. ”
Silas straightens slightly, wincing with the effort. “The Underground Railroad didn’t end with the Civil War,” he says quietly. “It just changed what it was helping people escape from.”
Peck nods, a hint of awe in his expression as he looks at Silas directly for the first time. “You’re the devil they talk about. The one who watches from the walls. The shadow that follows Garrow’s targets until they vanish.” He swallows hard. “I thought you were his enforcer, not his opposition.”
“A common misconception,” Silas replies dryly, though his attempt at humour is undermined by the fresh blood seeping through his shirt from reopened wounds.
I shift my stance as Silas leans harder against me, his breath warm against my neck.
“He’s been watching over this place forever,” I say, feeling his weight settle into my side.
“His whole family, actually. They’ve lived in these walls for generations, keeping records, helping people slip away when Garrow’s family came hunting. Making sure there’s always a way out.”