The Shrine

Three days passed in the twilight of the manor.

Clara healed. The soup, the rest, and the silence worked wonders. Silas was a phantom during the day, sleeping in the crypt beneath the house, but at night, he was omnipresent. He read to her. He brushed her hair. He treated her like porcelain—something precious, but fragile.

On the fourth day, restlessness took hold.

It was high noon. Silas was asleep. Clara wandered the halls of the manor. It was a museum of a time before the West was won. Paintings of Europe, statues of marble, carpets from Persia.

At the end of the east wing, she found a door. It was heavy oak, locked.

But the lock was old, and Clara knew where Silas kept the keys—in a bowl by the entryway, arrogant in his belief that she wouldn't try to leave.

She fetched the key ring. She unlocked the door.

The air inside was stale, preserved.

Clara stepped in and gasped.

It was a shrine.

The walls were covered in sketches. Charcoal drawings on parchment. All of them were of her. Clara buying apples. Clara hanging laundry. Clara sitting on the porch of the Sheriff’s cabin, looking sad.

He had been watching. Every day.

On a pedestal in the center of the room was a glass case. Inside lay a blue ribbon.

Clara touched her hand to her throat. She had lost that ribbon at the county fair three years ago. She had thought the wind took it.

Silas had caught it.

There were letters, too. Stacks of them on a desk.

*My Dearest Clara,*

*Today he raised his voice at you. It took every ounce of my will not to intervene. I am sorry. I am so sorry.*

*My Love,*

*You look thinner. Does he not feed you? I have ordered the cattle slaughtered. I have no appetite.*

Clara sank to the floor, clutching a letter to her chest.

She had thought she was alone. She had thought she was suffering in silence, unnoticed by the universe.

But all this time, a monster had been worshipping her. He had been documenting her pain, hating himself for respecting her freedom.

"He loved me," Clara whispered, tears streaming down her face. "More than his own nature."

The Sheriff had loved owning her. Silas loved *her*. He loved her enough to let her go, even when it destroyed him.

She stood up. She wiped her face.

She walked out of the room, locking it behind her. She walked down the grand staircase, through the heavy library doors, and found the hidden panel that led to the cellar.

It was pitch black down there. The smell of earth and cold stone.

She found the coffin. It was simple, black wood.

Clara pushed the lid aside.

Silas lay there, his hands crossed over his chest. He looked like a fallen angel carved in marble. He didn't breathe.

Clara reached in. She placed her warm hand on his frozen cheek.

His eyes snapped open. Red. Instantly alert.

"Clara?" His voice was a rasp. "The sun is high. You shouldn't be here."

"I saw the room," Clara said.

Silas froze. Shame flooded his expression. He sat up, blurring into motion, putting himself between her and the exit, as if to stop her from running.

"I can explain," he stammered—a vampire, apologizing for his devotion. "I didn't mean to... it was all I had of you."

Clara stepped forward. She pulled the collar of her nightgown down, exposing the pale curve of her neck.

"Take it," she said.

Silas stared at the pulsing vein. His pupils dilated. "Clara..."

"Turn me," she commanded. "I don't want to be the bird anymore, Silas. I want to be the predator. I want to be with you."

Silas reached out. His fingers hovered over her skin. He was trembling with need.

Then, he pulled his hand back.

"No," he groaned, turning away.

"Why?" Clara cried. "You want this. You've wanted this for five years."

"I want you to choose me," Silas said, his back to her. "Not because you are hurt. Not because you are afraid of the world. Not because you found a room full of sad letters. I want you to choose *this* life because you cannot bear to live without it."

He turned back to her. "If I turn you now, you are just running away again. Running from him to me. I won't be your escape hatch, Clara. I want to be your destination."

Clara stared at him. He was right.

Before she could speak, a sound echoed from the floor above.

*CRACK.*

Glass shattering.

Then, the smell of smoke.

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