The ceiling of the underground chamber groaned, a deep, metallic scream that vibrated through the very marrow of Evelyn's bones. Above them, the Nightwood Estate—the billions of dollars in art, the centuries of history, and the mahogany throne Silas had built—was being incinerated. The smoke filtering through the acoustic tubes was no longer a grey wisp; it was a thick, black oil that tasted of scorched velvet and chemical death.
"The boiler room," Silas rasped, his voice barely audible over the growing roar of the inferno above. He was leaning so heavily on Evelyn that she could feel the frantic, irregular thud of his heart through his sweat-soaked shirt. "If the fire reaches the pressure tanks before we clear the North valve... this entire foundation becomes a tomb."
Evelyn didn't waste breath on fear. She wrapped Silas's arm over her shoulder, her fingers digging into the hard muscle of his bicep. She was smaller, leaner, but in the dark, she was the only pillar he had left.
"Chapter seventeen, section one, Silas," she hissed, her voice a sharp, cold blade of adrenaline. "The monster doesn't die in the basement. He lives to burn the rest of the world down. Now, move!"
They entered the secondary tunnel—a space so narrow that the walls, slick with ancient slime and condensation, pressed against their shoulders. It was a claustrophobic nightmare, a dark vein of earth that led toward the river. Every few steps, Silas's legs would buckle, a sharp, guttural groan of agony escaping his throat as his spine rebelled against the movement.
In the absolute darkness, punctuated only by the dying flicker of the laptop's LED, their world narrowed to the sound of each other's breathing. It was raw, messy, and desperate. Evelyn could feel the heat radiating from Silas's body—a feverish, violent warmth that clashed with the icy water dripping from the ceiling. When he stumbled, she caught him, her body pinned between his massive frame and the rough stone wall.
For a heartbeat, they were frozen there. Silas's face was buried in the crook of her neck, his ragged breath searing her skin. The smell of smoke was replaced by the overwhelming, primal scent of the man—salt, blood, and a stubborn, terrifying will to live.
"Leave me," Silas whispered against her skin, his fingers tangling in the cashmere of her sweater with a grip that contradicted his words. "The tunnel... it's too narrow for both of us to move fast enough. You're the ghost, Evelyn. You can disappear. You can start over."
"Shut up," she snarled, her hand reaching back to cup his jaw, forcing him to look at her in the dim light. Her blue eyes were wild, dark with an intensity that made him flinch. "I didn't break into your fortress just to let you die in the dirt. You're the only person who sees me, Silas. And I'm not letting my only mirror go up in flames."
She kissed him then—a brutal, salty collision of lips and teeth that tasted of desperation and the end of the world. It wasn't about desire; it was about anchors. It was a vow written in the dark.
Silas's eyes cleared, the dark fire returning to his gaze. He nodded once, a sharp, lethal movement. "The river valve. Fifty yards."
They reached the boiler room just as the first explosion rocked the house above. The sound was deafening, a shockwave that sent a shower of soot and ancient plaster raining down on them. The heat here was a physical weight, the air shimmering with the threat of the massive, iron pressure tanks that hissed like angry serpents.
"The manual release!" Silas shouted over the roar of escaping steam. He pointed to a massive, rusted wheel near the ceiling. It was ten feet up, blocked by a gush of scalding water from a burst pipe.
Evelyn looked at Silas's legs, then at the wheel. "I can't reach it."
"I can," Silas said. He let go of her, his hand reaching for the iron rungs of a service ladder built into the wall. He didn't use his cane. He used his arms—the powerful, corded muscle of a man who had spent years pulling himself out of the wreckage of his own life.
He climbed. Every movement was a testament to agony. Evelyn watched from below, her heart in her throat, as he pulled himself toward the wheel. His shirt was torn, revealing the map of his scars, now glowing red in the light of the flickering embers falling from the ceiling.
He reached the wheel, his hands gripping the rusted iron. He twisted. Nothing. The metal had fused with age and heat.
"Silas!"
He let out a roar—a primal, animal sound of pure defiance—and threw the entire weight of his body into the turn. The metal groaned, a shriek of tortured iron, and then, with a violent crack, the wheel spun.
A torrent of cold, black river water rushed into the tunnel, dousing the heat and creating a blinding cloud of steam. Silas lost his grip, his body falling from the ladder.
Evelyn dived for him, her arms catching him as they both slammed into the rising water on the floor.
"Go!" Silas choked out, the water already up to their waists. "The drainage pipe! It leads to the pier!"
They plunged into the darkness of the main drainage pipe, the current of the Hudson River pulling them through the throat of the estate. It was a cold, wet hell, a lightless journey where they clung to each other like shipwrecked survivors.
When they finally broke the surface, the air was freezing.
They were under the shadow of the old Nightwood pier, half a mile from the manor. The water of the Hudson was black and oily, bobbing with debris. Evelyn dragged Silas onto the slick, rotting wood of the pilings, her lungs screaming for oxygen.
She turned back to look at the hill.
The Nightwood Estate was a pillar of fire. The grand West Wing, the library, the Sanctum—all of it was being swallowed by a hungry, orange glow that lit up the foggy sky for miles. The sirens of the fire trucks were faint, distant, and utterly useless.
Silas lay on the wood, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on the burning ruins of his empire. The "Monster of New York" was wet, shivering, and stripped of everything but his life.
"It's gone," he whispered, the light of the fire reflecting in his dilated pupils. "Everything I built to hide the truth... it's all ash."
Evelyn sat beside him, her wet silk robe clinging to her like a second skin, her dark hair a tangled mess. She reached out and took his hand, her fingers locking with his.
"Good," she said, her voice turning into a sharp, cold blade of resolve. "Let them think we were inside. Let the world think Silas Nightwood and his disgraced wife died in the fire of the century."
Silas looked at her, the realization dawning on him. A slow, dark smirk spread across his face—a look of such absolute, predatory brilliance that it made Evelyn's heart skip a beat.
"A ghost and a monster," Silas murmured, his voice returning to its deep, dangerous baritone. "Dead men have no rules, Evelyn. Dead men can strike from the shadows without anyone ever seeing the blow coming."
"We start tonight," Evelyn said, her eyes fixed on the fire. "We find the 'third shadow' who lit that flame. We find the person who has been living in your roots. And then... we show them what happens when you burn a wildfire."
Silas pulled her toward him, his arms wrapping around her in a cold, wet, and impossibly tight embrace. They were shivering, their teeth chattering, but the heat between them was more intense than the fire on the hill.
"Chapter seventeen, section two," Silas whispered against her ear, his voice a promise of blood and silver. "The dawn is ours. Because we're the only ones who know the night didn't end."
Above them, a news helicopter began to circle the burning manor, its searchlight sweeping the woods. But down on the dark pier, hidden by the shadows of the rotting wood and the cold river mist, two ghosts were already vanishing into the city.
The Golden Cage was gone. The war had just become a haunting.