The words “fresh blood” echoed in my mind. Silas Pembroke’s horror-stricken face, the dark residue on his gloves—it was undeniable. Julian wasn’t just gaslighting me; he was performing rituals.
I needed help, and Silas, bless his academic heart, was too afraid to speak beyond his “speculation.” I knew exactly who to target next: Clara Halloway. Julian’s sister.
She was in the conservatory, amidst her beloved orchids, the scent of damp earth and exotic blooms hanging heavy in the air. Sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling, creating a peaceful, almost idyllic scene. The contrast to the terror festering beneath the manor was stark.
Clara was trimming a wilting leaf with delicate silver shears, her brow furrowed in concentration. She had a pragmatic streak, a disdain for the Halloway family’s antiquated pomp, but also a fierce loyalty to them.
“Clara,” I said, my voice low, making her startle.
She turned, her expression guarded. “Elena. Julian said you were… resting.”
“Julian is lying to you,” I cut in, not bothering with pleasantries. “He’s lying to everyone. This isn’t about my ‘delicate state.’ It’s about something far more sinister.”
She laid down her shears. “What are you talking about?”
“The house,” I began, moving closer, speaking in hushed tones. “The bleeding walls, the ash, the screams. They’re real. And Julian isn’t trying to help me. He’s trying to keep something contained.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Contained? With what?”
“Blood wards,” I whispered, the words feeling alien on my tongue. “In the sub-cellar. Dr. Pembroke found them. He said they were Norse-binding symbols, refreshed weekly. With fresh blood, Clara.”
Her face went pale. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her freckles stark against her skin. She looked from me to the orchids, then back, a frantic flicker in her eyes.
“That’s absurd,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. A tiny tremor ran through her hand as she reached for a terracotta pot. “My family doesn’t… Julian wouldn’t…”
“Julian would do anything to protect this family, this ‘legacy’,” I countered, “even if it means practicing dark occultism, and sacrificing my sanity to keep his secrets buried. Think about it, Clara. Why would Pembroke, a renowned academic, look so utterly horrified if it was just some old superstition?”
She stopped, her gaze distant. I could see the wheels turning in her mind, turning over the pieces: Julian’s obsessive secrecy, the strange, hushed conversations between him and Beatrice, the way Arthur had been suddenly drafted into “estate security.”
“He was just renovating,” she mumbled, but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself.
“Renovating what?” I pressed. “A forgotten chamber that Julian has kept secret from everyone? A chamber carved with symbols that bleed? He’s not fixing the house, Clara. He’s maintaining its dark heart.”
She stared at me, then at the bright, innocent orchids. Her family’s pride, their aristocratic reputation, was clashing with a terrifying, undeniable truth. The thought of dark rituals, of her brother staining himself with blood, was clearly a betrayal beyond comprehension.
A deep sigh escaped her lips. The family loyalty, for a brief, crucial moment, wavered.
“If this is true,” she said, her voice barely audible, “then my family isn’t just trying to get you medical help. They’re involved in something dangerous. Something horrific.”
She looked at me, a flicker of genuine fear and a dawning understanding in her eyes.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked, her resolve solidifying. “Julian has a locked sanctuary. He keeps his family’s most… sensitive documents there. If there’s proof, it’ll be in there.”
“His private safe,” I confirmed, a surge of hope rushing through me. “It’s in his study. I need that ancestral journal he keeps hidden.”
Clara nodded slowly, her face grim. “I’ll do it. But we have to be careful. If Julian finds out, he’ll disown me. Or worse.”
The fragile alliance was forged. An unlikely ally, brought over by the grim reality of her family’s dark secret.
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