Page 21 of Where The Devil Kneels

“Coming!” I call, trying to sound as if I’ve just woken up rather than spent the night uncovering centuries of secrets. I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror, hair wild, eyes too bright, cheeks flushed with excitement and anxiety. I smooth my sweater, take three deep breaths, and try to arrange my features into something resembling normal human expression.

The knocking comes again, more demanding this time. That’s Maeve all over, always assuming her urgency should be everyone else’s priority. I check myself once more in the mirror, mentally rehearsing the surprise I should show at her early arrival. My fingers reach for the doorknob, then hesitate.

For the first time since I inherited this place, I feel a fierce, protective ownership that goes beyond legal deeds and property rights. This isn’t just a house; it’s a sanctuary with a purpose that spans generations. And Maeve, for all her practicality and legal expertise, represents a threat to that purpose, a threat to everything the Merricks have built and maintained.

“You can do this,” I whisper to myself, squaring my shoulders. “Just get through today. Just keep her from seeing what this place really is.”

The knocking turns to pounding. I plaster what I hope passes for a sleepy smile on my face and pull open the door, bracing myself to defend not just my inheritance but the legacy I’ve only just begun to understand.

“Maeve,” I manage, feigning surprise despite having watched her arrival. “You’re… early.”

Her eyes sweep over me, cataloguing my dishevelled appearance with clinical precision. “Obviously,” she says, stepping past me without waiting for an invitation, her designer heels clicking against the hardwood like tiny hammers. “We have a lot to discuss, and I didn’t see the point in waiting.”

As I close the door behind her, I catch a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye, a shadow shifting in the hall, gone so quickly I might have imagined it. But I know better now. He is watching, waiting to see what threat Maeve poses to the sanctuary he’s sworn to protect.

The dining room feels like a battlefield, with Maeve and me as opposing generals camped at either end of the mahogany table that’s seen more elegant dinners than our tense standoff. Candlelight flickers between us, casting dramatic shadows that dance across her perfectly composed features while probably making me look like I’m auditioning for a horror movie. The distance between us, ten feet of polished wood that my grandmother used to host dinner parties for twelve, feels both too vast and not nearly far enough. I watch Maeve delicately cut her chicken into precisely sized pieces, each movement so controlled it makes my skin itch. We’ve been playing nice for hours, and my face hurts from smiling while she’s catalogued every squeaky floorboard, every water stain, every bit of peeling wallpaper like she’s building a case against my home.

“This wine is surprisingly good,” Maeve offers, holding her glass up to the candlelight. “Local?”

“From a vineyard about twenty miles north,” I reply, grateful for neutral territory. “The owner delivers personally.”

Maeve nods, setting the glass down with perfect precision. “At least something around here exceeds expectations.”

And there it is. The inevitable pivot back to criticism. Classic Maeve — build you up just enough to knock you down, like some kind of emotional Jenga. I take a sip of wine that is definitely bigger than necessary, practically hearing my mother’s voice in my ear: “A lady never gulps, Elara.” Yeah, well, a lady never had to sit through Maeve’s property assessment from hell either.

The warmth spreads through my chest, a liquid armour against whatever perfectly articulated insult she’s loading into her chamber.

The ancient radiator announces itself with a metallic symphony, first a hollow clank, then a succession of rattling hisses that echo through the dining room. Maeve’s fork freezes halfway to her lips, while I barely register the sound that has become my nightly lullaby.

“Good Lord,” she murmurs, her gaze darting to the corner. “How do you sleep through that racket?”

I shrug, cutting into my chicken with more force than needed. “You get used to it. Old houses talk—it’s part of their charm.”

“Charm.” She repeats the word like it’s a diagnosis she disagrees with. “These drafts can’t be good for your health. I’ve felt at least three distinct cold spots since I arrived.” Her perfectly manicured finger traces the rim of her wine glass. “And these noises, I’d never sleep.”

I grip my fork a little tighter. “I sleep better here than I ever did in the city. Gran must have noticed that. Probably why she left this place to me and not you — some of us actually appreciate a house with character.”

The words escape before I can stop them, sharp-edged and satisfying. A floorboard creaks somewhere above us, the distinctive sound of the loose board outside the guest bathroom. Maeve’s eyes flick upward, narrowing slightly.

“Was that the wind, or are we not alone in here?” Her tone aims for lightness but lands somewhere closer to accusation.

“Just the house settling,” I say automatically, though I wonder if he is moving through the hidden passages, keeping watch over our conversation. The thought is oddly comforting. “The temperature drops at night, the wood contracts. Basic physics.”

Maeve dabs at her mouth with her napkin, leaving no trace of her burgundy lipstick on the white linen. “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that explanation.”

“I’ve had to give it to myself a few times,” I admit, attempting a smile. “Until I got used to the place.”

Between us, the candles flicker, throwing Maeve’s features into sharp relief one moment and deep shadow the next. Her eyes lock onto mine with that familiar courtroom intensity, the same look she’d give witnesses just before dismantling their testimony. I hold her gaze without blinking, even as my pulse drums a frantic rhythm I’m certain she can somehow hear.

“You know,” she says after a too-long pause, “I’ve been thinking about your financial situation.”

My spine goes rigid. Ah, here we go. The real estate pitch dressed up as friendly concern. I should’ve served the cheap wine if I knew we were heading straight to business.

“My financial situation is fine,” I lie, keeping my voice level despite the urge to roll my eyes. “The freelance work is steady, and last I checked, my bank account wasn’t any of your business—”

“Property taxes on this place must be astronomical,” she interrupts, cutting through my explanation like it’s as insubstantial as the candle smoke. “Not to mention the repairs needed. That roof alone would cost what, thirty thousand? Forty?”

I set my fork down carefully, the clink of silver against china sounding too loud in the suddenly tense air. “I’m handling it.”