Chapter 8 - Descent into the Dark
The cold, damp air of the lower levels smelled of aged oak barrels, copper, and damp stone. Vivienne descended the spiral iron staircase, her heels clicking rhythmically until she slipped them off, moving in silence across the frigid flagstones. In her right hand, she clutched the precious antidote; in her left, she held an iron poker she had snatched from the dining room hearth.
The cellar was vast, a labyrinth of brick archways dating back to the late nineteenth century. The faint sound of a woman’s muffled sobbing guided Vivienne through the rows of vintage wine racks. She rounded a corner and found Camille huddled against a heavy iron door, clutching her stomach in agony. Beside her stood Eleanor, holding a flashlight in one hand and an antique revolver in the other, aiming the barrel directly at the reinforced door of the inner vault.
""He's in there,"" Eleanor whispered, her voice stripped of its aristocratic polish, trembling with an emotion that sounded terrifyingly like remorse. Vivienne knelt beside Camille, uncapping the vial and pressing it to her sister’s lips, forcing the sweet, viscous liquid down her throat. Camille swallowed greedily, gasping as the antidote began to neutralize the toxin. Just as Camille’s breathing began to steady, a voice spoke from the speaker unit mounted above the vault door—a voice that belonged undeniably to Arthur Sterling.
