Page 27 of Salem's Fall
“I’ll report back after Strega’s Hollow.” I rush to hang up before he can say anything else. “Gotta go. Lucky’s whining for breakfast.”
I drag myself out of bed, yawning as Lucky now waits expectantly by his food bowl. The cat is too smart for his own damn good. The dish clinks as I fill it, and he purrs, rubbing against my ankles before devouring his breakfast. Once he’s settled, I turn to my own tasks, sifting through a flood of emails and drafting a case memo for Quinn, detailing everything I’ve uncovered in the last twenty-four hours. By the time I glance at the clock, it’s nearly noon.
I hop into the shower, getting ready for my visit to Strega’s Hollow. As the warm water pours down on me, my thoughts revert back to last night. After Damien appeared and took down the masked man with shocking ease, he helped me back to the Cottage without a word, just a steady hand at my back. He saw me safely inside, promised we’d talk in the morning, and then vanished again back into the dark. Hours later, I still can’t seem to shake the image of him emerging from the shadows to save me—calm, controlled, and lethal.
How in the world was he able to get the upper hand on a dangerous thug? Unarmed, no less? He’s tall and muscular, sure, but he’s just a rich playboy businessman.
After I dry off and put my hair into a bun, I apply a bit ofmascara and some gloss, and pick out a suit. It’s a plum-colored wool skirt set, professional but cute, perfect for the cool autumn weather. I pair it with tights and my favorite chunky Mary Jane platform shoes. I’m overdressed for the day, but it never hurts to look professional. One thing I’ve learned—people are quick to dismiss someone who looks like me. Young. Blonde. Female. Dressing to be taken seriously doesn’t always fix the problem, but it helps.
As I step into the Cottage lobby, I’m greeted by the scent of cinnamon and pumpkin spice. The place has a warm, lived-in charm. Dark wood paneling lining the walls. Worn leather couches and comfy-looking armchairs. Dried cornstalks and mini pumpkins set about as decorations. Tourists are everywhere, decked out in chunky sweaters and scarves, chatting excitedly about their plans for the day. Activities like ghost tours, tarot readings, and visiting witch memorials.
I stride over to the self-serve coffee bar and pour myself a steaming cup from the industrial-sized pot. There’s a bottle of pumpkin spice syrup on the counter, but I pass, opting to keep my coffee strong and simple.
I take a long sip, letting the bitter taste warm me completely, and grab a freshly baked pumpkin muffin from the food tray nearby. With my coffee and pastry in hand, I feel ready to take on the world. But the moment I step outside the Cottage, I freeze.
Damien Blackhollow leans against the side of a sleek black Mercedes Maybach, arms folded across his chest. His eyes flick up to meet mine, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips like he’s been waiting for me.
“Damien?” I take a step back, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
He straightens, his tall frame casting a shadow across the cobblestone street. “Making sure you don’t get yourself killed.”
“Are you following me?” I ask, my eyes narrowing.
“I don’t keep stumbling upon you by chance, if that’s what you’re asking.” He shrugs, unbothered by the accusation in my tone. “Quinn said you hadn’t left town yet—despite my clear orders. I came to escort you back to Boston. It’s not safe for you here.”
My jaw drops, incredulous at his nerve.
“So you decided tostalkme?”
He chuckles softly. “Stalking is a bit of a stretch.”
I cross my arms, stepping closer. “I assure you, Damien, I’m a grown woman and can handle myself just fine,” I say. “I know you’re the client, and I respect that, but you need to respect that I have a responsibility to do my job—the job you hired me for.”
His expression hardens, morphing into something more serious.
“You think you know what you’re dealing with, but you don’t. You have no idea what’s going on here,” he says.
“Then tell me.”
“Come with me back to Boston,” he says and opens the car door, motioning me inside, “and perhaps I’ll consider your request.”
“You’re impossible!” I shake my head, throwing my hands up in the air. “I’m trying the best I can to help you win this case. If you have information, why in the world wouldn’t you share it with me? Unless—” I hesitate as a dark thought occurs to me. But no, I can’t say that.
“Unless what?”
I know I should keep my mouth shut. Even if it feels like the lines between us are growing fuzzy, he’s still the client. But I can tell by his expression that he’s already guessed my thoughts.
“Unless it’s something you don’t want us to know…”
“Careful, James.”
I can’t help but feel like he’s hiding something just beneath the surface.
“Why are youreallyhere?” I ask.
He glances at me, one eyebrow raised. “I told you. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
He sounds sincere, but something feels off. I have a sneaking suspicion it’s not about my safety at all, but that he’s worried about what I might uncover here in Salem’s Fall. I’m certain Damien is keeping something from me—but what?
