𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐈 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 | "The Carriage held but just Ourselves - And Immortality."
In which Eden Mercer learns there is more to the Problem, and herself, than meets the eye.
𝐋𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝 & 𝐂𝐨.
𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐡...
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"𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐉𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐒𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐀 kill us."
Anthony glanced over at George, who was sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Eden at the kitchen table as he walked into the room, a bag from Satchell's in hand. It was dark outside, the last remnants of autumn daylight receding beneath the horizon, leaving a slight chill in the air. There was a mess of papers, articles, and notes scattered about the kitchen, all pertaining to the research on Combe Carey Hall. Eden nodded along with George's statement, pulling at a loose thread on the hem of her cropped tank sweater vest.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Anthony apologized breathily as he surveyed the mess. "Wow. This all on Combe Carey Hall?" He walked over to the refrigerator, placing the bag down in front of it.
"Yeah, everything Fairfax forgot to mention," George replied, sounding none too pleased. Eden released a small stream of breath through her nose, knowing that George was starting to believe what she had said about it being a bad idea to take the job. She knew, however, that Anthony would sooner die than admit he was misguided, so she didn't hold out hope for his miraculous conversion. "It's not just a country house. It used to be a satanic priory of medieval devil worshipers."
"Oh, good. Evil monks," Anthony remarked teasingly, his head in the refrigerator, bottles clanking inside. "At least we know what we'll be facing. Anyone fancy another beer?"
Eden saw that he had produced two as he stood tall again, catching her eye. He strode forward, handing one of the bottles to her before backing up to the counter beside the refrigerator again, twisting the top off. She had already had two, but figured a third couldn't impair her judgement more than it already was, so she twisted the top off easily and chugged a sip.
"No, actually, we have no idea!" George exclaimed in response to Anthony's comment about knowing what they would be facing. He stood from his seat, his face contorted into thinly-veiled horror. "It's killed loads, including some at a party thirty years ago, but those deaths weren't blamed on the monks! No, they were blamed on a Screaming Staircase or a Red Room, whatever they are."
"Without flares, this job is suicide," Eden informed him. She set her beer down and stood alongside George, picking up a lone Polaroid photograph they had found of an old Fittes team of young agents from years before. "And we're not the first ones to try, either."
George took the Polaroid from her hand and showed it to Anthony. "At the start of the Problem, an elite Fittes team was sent in," he explained. "There was only one survivor. And one, Samaran Pandey, is still unaccounted for."
"I don't think that . . . whatever I felt off of Fairfax was residual or my Ability just anticipating the night," Eden stated, leaning forward on her hands as she looked at Anthony earnestly. "It's more than that. I'm sure of it. Fairfax kept all this from us."
