Page 50 of The Silver Spider
She’d be happy to show him, but that would be for another time. The matter of getting to the bottom of his role in sending traffickers to her home town was still in the back of her mind. Not the most pressing issue, but it still needed resolution. And she needed Amnan for that resolution because Serephone knew she could not kill Dawnthorne on her own. Even if the fight was just between him and her, without his people throwing their weight behind their Lord. The grim thoughts smoothed some of the fake pleasantness from her expression, which was just as well since grim thoughts were about what any person would expect from her at this point.
She rose, drying her fingers on her thigh and strolled towards the stone shed, acting as if she were simply curious about the structure. Trying the door, she found it to be locked. Of course. But that wouldn’t stop her for long. Her spiders might be locked away from her, but she had other small skills.
Touching the handle on the door, pleased to find the metal was made from silver or at least a mixture of silver but no iron, she sent a jolt of her magic to nudge the lock. She smiled when it clicked, not quite ignoring the niggling doubt that this had been far too easy. Perhaps. But what was she going to do about that? She couldn’t turn back, not if this led her to Amnan.
The door opened, revealing a small, dark room with shelves on either side that were indeed stocked with gardening supplies…and a set of stairs in the middle of the room leading down under the ground. She closed the door behind her, raising a hand in front of her face. The darkness was absolute, but her magic lent a subtle glow that was enough for her sharper-than-human eyes to see by.
Descending the staircase, her other hand felt along the rough stone wall. It was barely wide enough for two people to descend shoulder to shoulder. If they had brought Amnan this way, it hadn’t been while he was in dragon form. But she’d heard the dragon roar before she’d lost consciousness. She counted the number of steps before her feet hit packed earth. Glancing over her shoulder, she estimated she was at least two stories underground. Had this basement already been present when he’d built his home, or had he constructed it himself? She’d heard of the basement remnants of old buildings being converted into bomb shelters and hidden with new construction.
The hallway was no more lit than the stairs down, but the rough stone walls smoothed into a texture she recognized as poured concrete. Which answered her question. Concrete wasn’t used in construction anymore. Dawnthorne had built his estate on top of old pre-War buildings.
A supposition that proved true when the end of the hallway stopped at a steel door. She placed her hand on the knob, and turned.
