Clara’s Betrayal

Chapter 10: Clara's Betrayal

Ian froze, his pulse pounding in his ears as he saw Clara Montgomery standing among the hooded figures, her pale face illuminated by the altar's eerie glow. Sheriff Evelyn Cross tensed beside him, her grip tightening on her firearm.

"What is she doing here?" Evelyn whispered, her voice barely audible.

Ian's mind raced. Clara's presence wasn't just unexpected—it was damning. Her cryptic words from earlier replayed in his head: "They wanted her dead. I was supposed to be next." Had she lied? Was she part of the Crimson Hour Society, or was she just another pawn in their sinister game?

The chanting suddenly stopped, and the silence that followed was deafening. Ian ducked lower behind the bushes, careful not to make a sound. The figures turned toward the altar, their hands raised as Mayor Henry Blackwell stepped forward.

"The time has come," Blackwell intoned, his voice steady and resolute. "Eleanor's sacrifice was only the beginning. Tonight, we seal the bond. Tonight, we ensure the hour never fades."

Ian's jaw tightened as he watched Blackwell lift Eleanor's notebook high above his head, its worn pages reflecting the glow of the spirals carved into the altar. He handed the notebook to one of the hooded figures—a tall, imposing man who placed it onto the altar with deliberate care.

Blackwell continued, "The ledger must burn. Its truth will remain only with us, and the hour will strike as it always has."

Ian's chest tightened. If they destroyed Eleanor's ledger, they would lose their most critical evidence. His hand moved to the recording device in his pocket, pressing it tightly to capture every word.

But his focus was abruptly shattered by Clara's voice. "Wait!" she cried, stepping forward from the circle, her hood slipping off to reveal her face.

The group turned toward her, their movements stiff and unnatural. Ian could see the fear etched in Clara's features, her wide eyes darting between Blackwell and the others.

"You said this was tradition," she stammered, her voice trembling. "You said it was about preserving the legacy. But this… this isn't what I agreed to."

Blackwell's expression darkened, his sharp gaze fixed on Clara. "What did you think, Clara? That your mother's death was just a formality? That her sacrifice would come without consequence?"

Clara's hands shook as she stepped back, her breaths shallow. "I didn't know. I didn't know you'd kill her. I didn't know it would come to this."

Blackwell advanced toward her, his tone cold and cutting. "You knew enough. You knew your place. And now you have a choice—join us and uphold the hour, or leave and face the consequences."

Ian's fists clenched, anger surging through him. Clara wasn't a willing participant—she was trapped, manipulated into becoming part of something she didn't understand. But her hesitation had only complicated the situation.

Before Ian could act, Clara turned her back on the group, her feet stumbling as she broke into a run toward the treeline. The hooded figures moved to stop her, but Blackwell raised a hand, halting them. His voice rang out, commanding and clear. "Let her go. She'll be back. They always come back."

Clara disappeared into the shadows of the woods, her footsteps fading into the silence. Ian exhaled shakily, his thoughts a whirlwind of anger and confusion.

"This isn't just a ritual," Evelyn murmured beside him. "It's an execution disguised as tradition. Eleanor wasn't the first, and she won't be the last."

Ian nodded grimly, his resolve hardening. "We need that ledger. Without it, we have nothing."

Blackwell turned back to the group, his voice rising again. "The hour strikes tonight. Burn the ledger. Seal the bond."

As the figures began chanting once more, Ian motioned to Evelyn. "We're going in," he said, his voice firm and unyielding.

They stepped out of the shadows, their flashlights cutting through the clearing as Ian shouted, "Put your hands where I can see them! You're all under arrest!"

The chanting ceased, and the hooded figures turned toward them, their faces hidden but their movements tense. Blackwell's calm expression didn't falter as he raised his hands slightly, stepping toward Ian with an air of authority.

"Detective Wren," Blackwell said smoothly. "I didn't expect you to join us tonight. You're interrupting something sacred."

Ian didn't lower his flashlight, his glare fixed on Blackwell. "Sacred? You call murder and manipulation sacred?"

Blackwell's smile was unnerving. "You don't understand, Detective. The hour isn't just a tradition—it's power, and those who stand against it don't live long enough to regret it."

Ian's jaw tightened, his grip steady on the flashlight. "We'll see about that. Step away from the altar, and no one else gets hurt."

But before he could act further, one of the hooded figures lunged toward him, their movements swift and calculated. The clearing erupted into chaos as the group broke formation, their chants replaced by shouts and curses.

Ian's focus narrowed on the altar, his heart racing as he reached for the notebook. But as his hand closed around it, Blackwell's voice rang out behind him: "You won't escape the hour, Detective. It's already begun."