THE BACKWOOD CONTRACT

CHAPTER 4

The storm had fully taken hold of the coast by the time Nora stepped out through the side door of the conservatory. Rain lashed down in wind-driven sheets, stinging her cheeks and turning the manicured lawn into a slurry of mud and flattened grass. Overhead, clouds choked out the stars, leaving the vast Blackwood estate illuminated only by erratic bursts of violent silver lightning.

Nora pulled her heavy wax-canvas coat tight around her throat, the cold iron key weighed heavy in her pocket like an anchor. In her right hand, she gripped the brass flashlight, its beam cutting a pale, watery funnel through the torrential downpour.

The gravel path led away from the house, snaking upward along the spine of the coastal bluff. To her left, the Blackwood manor stood silent and black, its towering gothic chimneys jutting into the dark sky like jagged fingers. To her right, down a sheer drop of fifty feet, the North Sea slammed against the jagged black rocks, throwing spray high into the air. With every crash of the waves, the ground beneath her boots shuddered—a terrifying reminder of the cavernous parish sleeping directly beneath the foundation.

As she pushed against the gale, the crimson mark on her forearm throbbed in rhythm with her heavy footsteps. The pain was no longer a dull ache; it burned like a fresh iron brand, radiating heat through the damp sleeve of her wool sweater. Three nights. That was all Julianna had promised her before the tide rose to claim its debt.

At the highest point of the cliff, outlined against the stormy horizon, stood the family mausoleum. Built from thick blocks of grey granite, the structure resembled a miniature greek temple, complete with fluted columns and a peaked pediment adorned with the same spiraling gargoyle crest that marked her skin. The heavy double doors made of oxidized bronze had turned a ghostly, mottled green over decades of sea spray and salt air.

Nora picked up her pace, scrambling up the slippery stone steps that led to the mausoleum entrance. As she reached the top landing, a sudden crack of thunder shook the air, so loud it rattled her teeth. The lightning flash illuminated the heavy bronze doors, and Nora froze.

The heavy iron padlock that held the doors chained shut had been clean severed.

She stepped closer, holding her breath as she aimed the flashlight at the lock. The thick shackle was snapped in two, the metal edges sheared off clean and raw, unmarred by rust. Someone—or something—had forced their way inside long before she had set foot on the path.

Nora reached out with a trembling hand and pushed the right door. It yielded with a agonizing screech of ungreased hinges, swinging inward just enough for her to slip through.

The air inside the crypt was suffocatingly still, shielded from the wind but heavy with the sharp smell of damp limestone, crushed lilies, and something sweet and sickly that made her stomach turn. The sound of the howling storm dropped to a dull, muted roar the moment she stepped over the threshold.

"Hello?" Nora called out, her voice swallowed instantly by the dead acoustic of the stone vault.

Silence answered her.

She swept her flashlight beam across the room. The mausoleum was circular, lined with tiers of recessed burial niches, each sealed with a marble plaque bearing the name and dates of a deceased Blackwood ancestor. In the center of the chamber sat two grand sarcophagi carved from polished black marble—the resting places of her great-grandparents, Clara and George. Beyond them, at the far back of the vault, sat a fresh mound of turned earth and a temporary wooden marker where her grandfather, Arthur, had been laid to rest just three days ago.

Nora slowly walked toward the central sarcophagus belonging to Clara Blackwood. According to Julianna, the Silver Key rested in her great-grandmother's hands.

The heavy marble lid of Clara's sarcophagus had been shifted. It sat crooked on its pedestal, leaving a three-inch gap exposed to the dark air of the crypt.

Nora stopped three feet away, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She held her light steady on the gap, watching for any sign of movement. The air surrounding the sarcophagus was bitterly cold, so cold that her breath immediately billowed out in thick white clouds.

She slid her flashlight into her coat pocket, planted both hands against the edge of the heavy marble slab, and pushed with all her weight. The stone grated harshly, scraping inch by inch until the slab tipped and fell back, crashing onto the stone floor with a deafening thud that echoed through the vault.

Nora grabbed her flashlight and aimed it down into the open tomb.

The casket inside was made of lead and dark polished rosewood. The lid had been unscrewed and thrown aside. But as Nora leaned over the rim to look within, her blood turned to ice.

The casket was entirely empty.

There was no skeleton, no preserved remains, no silk lining left intact. Only a thick layer of fine, grey ash covered the bottom of the wood, and lying amidst the dust was a long, delicate key made of tarnished silver, its bow shaped like a weeping eye.

Nora reached down into the cold vessel, her fingers brushing past the ash to scoop up the key. The moment her skin touched the tarnished silver, a deafening bang slammed through the mausoleum.

Behind her, the massive bronze entrance doors slammed shut on their own, the heavy latch dropping into place with a definitive, echoes-filling click.

Plunged into darkness save for the narrow beam of her flashlight, Nora spun around. Standing directly in front of the locked bronze doors was a tall figure shrouded in dripping wet silk, its body composed entirely of swirling grey ash and dark sea water.