Page 74 of Pretty Savage: Defy

Rebecca flips a switch on the wall. Bright lights illuminate steps covered by tan carpet.

“This is where the wine’s kept,” she tells me, walking ahead with one hand resting lightly on the railing.

I follow more slowly. “Why are we going down here?”

My nerves have begun to hum. My body recognizes the danger before my mind does, and the feeling only grows stronger when we reach the bottom.

Rebecca reaches behind a shelf of the bottles and presses something I can’t see. A section of the wine rack swings away from the wall, revealing a small wooden door secured by an aged brass lock, its keyhole wide and black.

Rebecca pulls a key out of her pocket. It’s almost as long as her hand. The metal is the same reddish brown as the lock.

“Where’d you get that?”

“It belongs to this house. It’s kept locked away until the Vault is needed.”

She stares down at the key, her expression almost wistful.

The lock resists. She puts more weight behind the key. Metal scrapes against metal, followed by the heavy clunk of tumblers moving into place.

My instincts tell me to run.

Rebecca must see the thought cross my face because she leaves the key in the lock and raises her hands, palms facing me.

“I know this looks frightening. What’s inside may frighten you more, but I’m not going to force you to do anything.” Her voice remains calm, the same tone she probably uses when negotiating with men who believe they’re more powerful than she is. “All I’m asking is that you come with me and listen.”

“Where does it go?”

“The Vault.”

“Like in a bank?” I wrinkle my forehead, realizing that’s a dumb question as soon as it leaves my mouth.

“No.”

Rebecca pulls the door open. Cold air rushes past us, carrying mold, wet stone, and the faint metallic scent I remember from the room where Carr whipped Carrson.

Beyond the threshold, narrow stone stairs curve downward and disappear into darkness.

“You first,” I say.

One corner of her mouth lifts, but she doesn’t argue. She takes a long box of matches from a ledge inside the doorway and strikes one against the stone. The flame illuminates her face as she lights a torch mounted on the wall.

“Stay near me. The lower steps are wet.”

She begins the descent.

I follow because the alternative is returning upstairs without knowing what any of this has to do with the dress, the jewelry, or bonding Carrson.

The door remains open behind us. I keep checking until the curve of the staircase blocks it from view.

There’s no railing. I brace one hand against the wall, concentrating so I don’t slip and fall. The stairs narrow as they spiral, each one worn into a shallow dip by centuries of feet. Water trickles somewhere below.

“How old is this place?” I ask.

“Older than the house. Older than The Order.”

Rebecca holds the torch high enough to illuminate the next few steps.

“No one knows exactly who built the original chamber. The stories mention Druids, rituals, offerings. Carr’s ancestors found it when they came to this land and enlarged it over generations.”