17. The Town’s Reckoning
Chapter seventeen
The Town's Reckoning
Silas’s lips still feel warm on mine. His hand trembles against my cheek, like he’s not sure I’m real. We stay like that for a moment — guardian and inheritor, kissing in a hidden passage while the house gets sieged. Not exactly ideal timing.
“We should check on the others,” I whisper, though my fingers betray me by curling tighter around his wrist, unwilling to break contact just yet.
Silas nods, reluctance visible in the slight tension of his jaw. “The library. Dr. Rao was treating Jonah’s cuts from the window glass.”
We pull apart and he leads us through another hidden door, footsteps quiet on stone worn smooth by every Merrick before him. My head’s still spinning — the kiss, the defences kicking in, Garrow’s guys actually falling back. For once, it feels like we might actually survive this shit.
I should know better than to jinx things.
The explosion hits without warning. One of the library walls blows inward and I’m thrown back, shoulders cracking against the opposite wall, all the air knocked out of me. Through the dust I catch Jonah diving behind a desk, Dr. Rao shielding her face as wood splinters rain down.
“Elara!” Silas shouts, lunging toward me through the debris cloud.
But another figure steps through the jagged hole in the wall first, Lyle Garrow, immaculate in his tailored suit despite the destruction, flanked by two men whose bulk suggests they eat smaller men for breakfast. His smile stretches across his face like a wound as he surveys the room, eyes settling on me with predatory focus.
“Ms. Hale,” he says, his voice as smooth as mercury, and twice as toxic.
“How disappointing to find you’ve been corrupting your lovely inheritance with these…
primitive defences.” He brushes a splinter from his sleeve with manicured fingers I’d love to chomp off.
“Though I must say, your little water trick outside was quite impressive. Almost got my shoes wet.”
My mind races, trying to process what I’m seeing.
How did he get in? How did he know about that particular passage?
Silas catches my eye from across the room, his face carved with the same stunned realization.
This shouldn’t be possible. The passages are the Merricks’ domain, their centuries-kept secret.
“Surprised?” Garrow’s smile widens as he reads the shock on our faces.
“Did you really think your family were the only ones who kept records?” He nods to his men. “Check the others.”
His goons move with practised efficiency, securing Jonah and Dr. Rao before they can fully recover from the blast. One wrenches Jonah’s service weapon away, tossing it across the room. The other binds Dr. Rao’s wrists with zip ties.
Silas shifts subtly, edging toward me. Garrow notices immediately.
“Stay put, Merrick,” he snaps, pulling a handgun from his jacket. “Centuries of hiding in walls and you still don’t know when you’re beat.”
Silas freezes, eyes locked on the weapon now aimed casually at his chest. Blood seeps through his bandages from wounds reopened in the explosion, but his face remains impassive, giving Garrow nothing.
“What do you want?” I demand, finding my voice despite the fear clutching at my throat.
Garrow turns back to me, eyebrows raised in mock surprise.
“What do I want? My dear, I want exactly what my father wanted, and what his father before him wanted. What every Garrow has sought since your self-righteous ancestors first built this monument to interference.” He begins circling me like a shark scenting blood.
“Your family built sanctuaries. Mine understood true power comes from control.”
He moves to the centre of the room, commanding the space like he’s delivering a lecture to an eager audience.
“The Hales, with their bleeding hearts, created hiding places for the weak. The Garrows recognized that weakness deserves its natural consequence.” His voice drops to a near whisper. “And that power requires sacrifice.”
“Murder,” I correct him, my voice sharper than I intend. “You mean ritual murder. Let’s not dress it up, you creep.”
He actually laughs. “How refreshing. What you call murder, we call transformation. This town thrives because my family makes it thrive — every business, every development, all of it fed by generations of careful... selection.”
Garrow reaches into his jacket again, this time withdrawing a leather-bound journal that makes my blood run cold.
Even from here, I recognize the dual crests embossed on its cover, the Hale family tree intertwined with what must be the Garrow insignia, a bird of prey clutching something in its talons.
“Your great-great-grandmother kept meticulous records,” he says, almost fondly. “Including her attempt to stop my ancestor’s ritual in 1893. She failed, of course. Just as you will. I’ve always admired the Hales’ dedication to lost causes.”
A commotion at the library entrance draws everyone’s attention. Two more of Garrow’s men appear, dragging a struggling figure between them. My stomach drops as I recognize the dark braid, the thin frame now hunched in pain.
Marta.
Her face is a mess—split lip, blood crusting around her nose, one eye already swelling shut. Her hands are bound behind her back, shoulders wrenched at an angle that must be excruciating. When she sees me, her good eye widens with a mixture of relief and terror.
“Found her outside,” one of the men says, shoving Marta to her knees. She lets out a muffled cry. “Had a bag full of these.” He tosses a handful of homemade smoke bombs and firecrackers across the floor. Her rescue attempt didn’t even get started.
Something shifts in Silas’s expression, a flash of raw anguish that vanishes almost instantly beneath his careful mask. But I catch it, and so does Garrow.
“Ah,” Garrow says softly, moving to stand behind Marta. “The guardian has a weakness after all. How touching.”
He pulls a knife from his pocket — old, curved, etched with the same symbols from the ritual circle. My breath catches as he presses it to Marta’s throat.
“Now, Ms. Hale,” Garrow says, completely calm, “surrender the estate — deed, rights, everything — or this girl becomes the latest sacrifice to Hale family idealism.”
Marta’s eyes find mine, fierce despite her fear. “Don’t you dare,” she hisses, earning herself a cruel tug on her braid from one of the men.
I look from her to Silas, whose body has gone rigid with tension, to Dr. Rao and Jonah watching helplessly from their restrained positions.
My options are evaporating with each passing second, the weight of Garrow’s knife pressing not just against Marta’s throat but against generations of my family’s purpose.
“The ritual calls for the blood of those who watch from shadows,” Garrow continues, almost casual. “Traditionally, that means a Merrick.”
His eyes flick to Silas. “But this young lady has been watching quite diligently as well, hasn’t she? I’m sure the old gods aren’t terribly particular, as long as the watcher’s blood flows freely.”
The knife presses deeper, drawing a thin line of red against Marta’s pale skin. A bead of blood wells up, bright as a ruby against the blade’s edge.
“Tick-tock, Ms. Hale,” Garrow whispers, his smile never reaching his eyes. “Your family’s misguided ideals have cost enough innocent lives over the years. Will you add another to the tally, or will you finally accept that some battles cannot be won?”
My mind races. Surrender the house or watch Marta die — those can’t be the only options. Then I remember what Silas showed me earlier. The defences. The hidden mechanisms. The one near the fireplace.
If only I could distract Garrow long enough to reach it.
Garrow holds the knife against Marta’s throat, but Silas’s eyes are talking to me across the debris-strewn library.
His gaze flicks to the ornate fireplace mantel, then back to me, a micro-movement so subtle I would have missed it a month ago.
Now, I read it like neon. The decorative panel, one of dozens of triggers he showed me during our defensive preparations.
My heart thunders in my chest so loudly I’m sure Garrow can hear it.
I need to create a distraction, need to keep Garrow’s attention fixed on me while Silas inches toward that panel.
Every second feels stretched thin as wire, ready to snap.
“You know,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady as I take a careful step forward, drawing Garrow’s focus, “for someone obsessed with my family history, you seem to have skipped a few chapters.”
Garrow’s eyebrows lift slightly, the knife still pressed against Marta’s skin. “Is that so?”
“That journal only tells half the story,” I say, nodding toward it. “My great-great-grandmother didn’t fail in 1893. She exposed your ancestor and buried the evidence that would’ve let him finish what he started. That’s why your family’s been scrambling to get this estate ever since.”
It’s a complete shot in the dark, but Garrow’s eyes narrow fractionally. I’ve hit something. From the corner of my eye, I see Silas shifting position, using my distraction to edge closer to the fireplace.
“The Hales have always excelled at revisionist history,” Garrow replies, though a new tension threads through his voice. “The fact remains that my family has prospered while yours has dwindled to a single, rather desperate inheritor.”
“Desperate enough to actually read all of Grandmother’s journals,” I counter, taking another deliberate step that forces him to turn slightly to maintain eye contact.
“Including the parts about how each Garrow ritual has grown progressively weaker. Your father needed three sacrifices. Your grandfather needed only one. How many will you need, Lyle? Five? Ten?”
His jaw tightens. I’ve struck a nerve. Garrow’s grip on Marta shifts, momentarily looser as he focuses on me.
“Careful, Ms. Hale. You’re dabbling in matters beyond your understanding.”