“I need to return to the surface to call Sullivan. Can you monitor here?”
“Yes. But Brooks—” She caught his arm. “If something happens before you return, I have ways to protect myself. The Hawthorne women didn’t survive this long without learning to defend ourselves.”
He studied her face, seeing steel beneath the ethereal exterior. “I believe you. But please be careful.”
“You too.”
Brooks squeezed her hand once, then turned and made his way back through the narrow passage. His footsteps faded.
Through the grate, she observed Melissa carefully. The historian appeared alert despite captivity, constantly scanning the room. Twice now she glanced at the water seepage with focused concern. Unlike her guard, Melissa recognized the signs of impending flood.
Thunder rumbled closer. The trickle through rock fissures increased. The storm approached.
The compass warmed against her palm, its needle swinging rapidly between symbols in a pattern she’d never witnessed. The brass grew warm—quickened by internal activity. The symbols shifted, ancient patterns realigning to communicate urgency.
She opened her hand just as a powerful vision slammed into her consciousness.
This was no gentle impression but full sensory immersion. Heightened awareness swept through her body—skin prickling, pulse accelerating then slowing, the taste of salt sharp on her tongue.
The lighthouse tower, illuminated by lightning. The storm breaking over Westerly Cove with unexpected intensity. The hidden cove tunnels flooding rapidly as tide surged to unprecedented heights. And most disturbingly, Brooks and Chief Sullivan arguing in the lighthouse basement, their searchdelayed by conflict, unaware of rising waters that threatened the underground chambers.
Melissa Clarkson standing in rising water, trying desperately to free herself as the chamber filled. Her face reflected the same terror Vivienne had seen in her vision of Lily Morgan—history preparing to complete its cruel repetition.
The vision released her with certainty of imminent danger. The storm approached faster than expected, and with it, a spring tide that would flood the lower tunnels—including where Melissa sat bound.
Unless Vivienne intervened.
She stared through the grate at Melissa, seeing in her the echo of Lily and of her own mother. Three women whose lives had been threatened or taken because they discovered the truth. The weight of her family line pressed upon her shoulders, their collective knowledge flowing through her consciousness.
Mathilde’s determination. Josephine’s cunning. Emmeline’s wisdom. Cordelia’s courage. All of them within her now as water continued to rise, past and present converging in a moment that demanded action.
Vivienne lifted the small pouch of herbs from her bag, her decision made. Thunder crashed directly overhead.
Water seeped through the fissure in the chamber wall, a thin trickle that would become a torrent within the hour. The guard had left ten minutes ago, taking a call on his radio. The voices had been urgent, panicked—something about moving the operation ahead of schedule.
She checked her grandmother’s compass. The needle spun erratically, responding to the iron ore in the surrounding bedrock and something else. Disturbance. The accumulated fear of everyone who’d been held in this chamber over the decades pressed against her awareness.
Melissa sat bound to the chair below, her head drooping with exhaustion. Days of captivity had left her weak, but her eyes showed the same determination that had driven her research. She was a survivor. She just needed a chance.
The water continued its steady advance across the chamber floor. History repeating itself with perfect symmetry. The same family. The same method. The same rising waters that had claimed Lily Morgan now threatened Melissa Clarkson.
Unless Vivienne intervened.
She studied the chamber below, cataloging exits and obstacles. The grate was secured with rusted bolts, but they looked old enough that she might be able to force them. The drop was perhaps eight feet—manageable if she was careful. The real challenge would be getting Melissa out before the guard returned or before Brooks arrived with Sullivan’s team and found them both trapped.
The pouch of herbs was already in her hand. The mixture would produce thick smoke when burned, enough to disorient and confuse without causing lasting harm.
Vivienne positioned herself above the grate and began working on the first bolt. The metal resisted, corroded into place by decades of moisture. She used her grandmother’s silver pen as leverage, applying pressure until she felt the bolt shift. One corner freed. She moved to the next.
The spirits were active around her, drawn by her presence and her intent. She could feel them pressing close—Lily Morgan’s determination, her mother Cordelia’s courage, Mathilde’s fierce protectiveness. They’d all faced the Aldriches in their own ways. Now it was her turn.
The second bolt gave way. Then the third. The final one broke off entirely, weakened by rust. The grate swung down on its remaining hinge with a metallic screech that echoed through the stone chambers.
Vivienne froze, listening for approaching footsteps. Nothing. The guard hadn’t returned yet. She had minutes at most.
She lowered herself through the opening, dropping the final few feet to land in cold water that was already ankle-deep. Melissa’s head jerked up, her eyes wide with fear and confusion at this stranger appearing through the ceiling.
“I’m here to help you.” Vivienne moved quickly to the chair, examining the restraints. “I’m with the detective investigating your disappearance. We’re getting you out.”
