THE DEVIL'S OBSESSION

THE FIRST WARNING

THE DEVIL'S OBSESSION

CHAPTER FIVE

The passage narrowed; Isabella turned sideways between the stone walls. Above them, the muffled sounds of Blackwood Manor seemed to fade, replaced by the drip of water and the distant groan of old timber.

Alexander moved ahead with his torch raised. He had said nothing since they entered the passage. His silence was beginning to feel less like indifference and more like a locked room she had no key to open.

“Who sang that?” she asked.

He glanced back. “What?”

“The lullaby. Someone is singing it upstairs.”

His expression changed. “You remember it?”

“I remember hearing it. I don't remember where.”

“My mother used to sing it.”

Isabella stopped. “Your mother?”

“Not the woman on the screen. The woman in the photograph. The real one.”

“You said she was dead.”

“She is. That voice was a recording, or someone imitating her.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“To make me hesitate.”

He continued walking. Isabella hurried after him. “Did she know my father?”

“Everyone in this house knew Edward. He was here the night she died.”

The passage ended at a low wooden door. Alexander tried one key, then another. The third turned with a reluctant click. Beyond lay a cellar lined with dusty bottles and rusted racks. A narrow staircase climbed towards a service corridor.

A radio hissed at Alexander's belt.

“Sir, do you read me?”

He pressed the button. “James.”

“Thomas is alive. We've located him near the gate. The men holding him have withdrawn.”

“Don't approach until I say.”

“There's something else. We found a guard unconscious in the chapel. He has a Blackwood security badge, but nobody recognises him.”

Alexander's eyes narrowed. “Keep him breathing. I'm coming.”

He switched off the radio. Nobody spoke.

“Thomas is alive,” Isabella said.

“For now.”

She stepped towards the stairs. “Then let's go.”

Alexander caught her arm. His grip was firm, not painful. “You need to understand something. The people behind this aren't interested in frightening you. They want what your father hid. If they believe you know where it is, they won't stop at threats.”

“Then help me remember.”

His hand loosened. “Memory doesn't work like a safe combination.”

“Neither does trust.”

He released her. For a second, his expression looked almost wounded. Then he turned away.

They climbed into a service corridor. The manor smelled of smoke and rain. Somewhere, an alarm pulsed quietly. James met them beside the kitchen, his face pale.

“Sir, the main gates are secure. Thomas is being treated.”

“Where is the intruder?”

“Chapel. He woke up and asked for Miss Bennett.”

Isabella felt the necklace grow cold against her skin. “Why me?”

James looked at Alexander before answering. “He said your father promised you would come back.”

Alexander swore under his breath.

“Take her upstairs,” he told James.

“No,” Isabella said. “I'm going to the chapel.”

“You are not.”

“Someone has been using my childhood to frighten me. I want to see his face.”

Alexander stepped close. “You think courage means walking towards the knife.”

“No. I think hiding behind you means letting everyone else decide what I can know.”

Their eyes locked. For a moment, the house, the threat and the men waiting beyond the corridor seemed to disappear. Alexander's gaze dropped to her mouth. His expression tightened as if he resented the impulse.

“Stay beside me,” he said at last.

The chapel stood in the oldest part of the estate, joined to the main house by a covered walkway. Rain tapped against its stained-glass windows. Two guards waited outside. One opened the door, and the smell of damp stone and extinguished candles drifted towards them.

A man sat tied to a wooden chair near the altar. His cheek was bruised. A strip of black cloth covered his eyes.

“Remove it,” Alexander ordered.

The guard untied the cloth.

The man blinked against the light. He was forty, with a face and a beard. When he saw Isabella, he smiled.

“Edward's little girl.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Someone who remembers you better than you remember yourself.”

Alexander moved between them. “You have thirty seconds.”

The man laughed. “Still pretending you can protect her? You couldn't protect your mother.”

Alexander's fist struck the chair's arm. The wood cracked.

“Careful.”

“Your father taught you that word,” the prisoner said. “He used it whenever he wanted you frightened.”

Isabella watched Alexander's face. The man's words had found a wound.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Call me Mercer.”

“Did you know my father?”

“I worked with him. I was there when he brought you to this chapel.”

Alexander turned sharply. “You were never here.”

Mercer smiled. “Ask her about the red door.”

A flash of memory struck Isabella: a red-painted door, a cold hand, her father's voice telling her to count backwards. She pressed her fingers to her temple.

“I remember a room,” she whispered. “There was a clock.”

Mercer leaned forward. “And a woman crying.”

“Enough,” Alexander said.

“Your father hid the ledger beneath the altar. But the ledger is only half the truth. The other half is in the girl.”

Isabella stared at him. “What does that mean?”

Mercer looked at her necklace. “The key opens a box. The box contains a name. Your father made you memorise it.”

“I was twelve.”

“Children remember what adults teach them in fear.”

Alexander crouched in front of him. “Who sent you?”

Mercer smiled again. “Your brother.”

“Sebastian is not clever enough to plan this.”

“No. But he is desperate enough to follow someone who is.”

A guard hurried into the chapel, holding a phone in a gloved hand. “Sir, this was found in the prisoner's coat.”

Alexander took it. The screen displayed a photograph of Thomas in the estate infirmary. Beneath it was a message:

THE OLD MAN IS ONLY THE BEGINNING.

Isabella's blood chilled.

Mercer began to laugh.

“You should ask your brother what happened twelve years ago,” he said. “Not what he claims happened. What he did after he carried you out.”

Alexander stood, his face unreadable.

“Take him away.”

As the guards dragged Mercer towards the door, he twisted around.

“One more thing, Isabella. Your father didn't hide you from the Blackwoods.”

His smile widened.

“He hid the Blackwoods from you.”

The chapel doors slammed shut behind him.

Isabella turned slowly towards Alexander. “What did he mean?”

Alexander did not answer. His gaze had settled on the altar.

A thin line of fresh blood ran from beneath its stone base.

And beside it lay a brass key, tied with a ribbon the exact shade of the yellow coat she had worn as a child.

Alexander bent to pick up the key, but Isabella caught his wrist.

“Don't.”

He looked at her hand, then at her face. “Why?”

“Because Mercer wanted us to find it. He practically pointed at the altar.”

“It's a key, not a confession.”

“Everything tonight has been arranged to make us move where someone wants us to move.”

Alexander studied her for a beat. Then he withdrew his hand. “You're learning.”

“I would rather not have had the lesson.”

She turned the ribbon over. Two embroidered initials showed beneath the fold: E.B.

“Your father used that ribbon to mark things he wanted you to recognise.”

“Why would he leave it here?”

“Perhaps he didn't.”

A white rose lay nearby, its stem freshly cut. “Who put it there?”

Alexander's phone vibrated. He read the message, and the hard line of his mouth deepened.

“What's happened now?” she asked.

“Thomas is missing.”

“He was in the infirmary.”

“He was. The nurse says he walked out with someone wearing my security uniform.”

Isabella looked at the rose again. A petal had fallen onto the floor, marked with a tiny spot of blood.

“Then Mercer wasn't the person in charge,” she said.

“No.”

“Someone inside this house is helping them.”

Alexander slid his phone into his pocket. “And now they know we have found the first key.”

He offered her his hand. This time she took it, not because she trusted him, but because the chapel suddenly felt full of unseen eyes.

As they crossed the threshold, the bells above the chapel began to ring.

There was no wind.

No one had touched the ropes.

And from somewhere beneath the altar came three slow knocks, as though someone buried below was asking to be let out.