Your bridegroom is six feet under in the frozen timber, Clara, and crying won't buy your fare back to Missouri.
The air in the cellar felt thick, heavy with Thomas’s terror and Elijah’s insane greed. The rhythmic thrumming from the earth pulsed beneath my feet.
I couldn’t just stand there and watch.
“Elijah!” I shouted, my voice cutting through the oppressive silence of the cellar.
He whirled around, startled, his eyes wide. He hadn’t expected me.
“Clara?” His face contorted into a mask of rage. “What are you doing down here? I told you to stay in your room!”
“Let Thomas go,” I demanded, holding the lamp higher, its light glinting off the desperation in my eyes. “He’s innocent.”
Elijah’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “Innocent? He’s a means to an end. Just like Silas was.” He took a step towards me, his hand reaching for something at his belt.
I knew I couldn’t fight him here, not in the cramped confines of the cellar, not with Thomas tied up. I needed an advantage. I needed the leverage of the covenant.
“This isn’t going to work, Elijah,” I said, backing slowly up the steps. “Your plan is already ruined.”
His eyes narrowed. “What foolishness are you talking about?”
“Come upstairs,” I challenged, my voice shaking but holding steady. “To the parlor. We can discuss this properly.”
He hesitated, his gaze flickered from me to Thomas, then to the well. He was calculating. The morning light was still hours away, but not by much.
“Fine,” he snarled, pulling a heavy Colt revolver from his belt. The cold steel glinted in the lamplight. “But you’ll regret this, Clara.”
He untied Thomas’s feet, leaving his hands bound. “Stay put, boy. Don’t move.” He kicked the chair closer to the well cover.
Elijah then started up the steps, his gun pointed steadily at me. He wasn’t taking any chances.
I retreated to the center of the parlor, placing the brass kerosene lamp on the heavy oak table. The room was freezing, the air thick with the faint scent of sulfur and old dust.
Elijah emerged from the cellar, his eyes manic, focused solely on me. The Colt revolver was now aimed squarely at my chest.
“Now, Clara,” he said, his voice hard as flint. “What precisely makes you think my plan is ‘ruined’?”
The storm winds outside howled, rattling the shutters he had so meticulously nailed over my windows. The house groaned, deeper now, a hungry, waiting sound.
There was no one else. No help coming. Just Elijah, his weapon, and me, armed only with a lamp and a piece of paper.
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