Page 49 of Salem's Fall
A rush of nerves rises in my chest as I dart forward and slip inside his room. The intoxicating scent hits me right away. Dark spice, rich cedar, something unmistakably Damien. It’s almost all-consuming in the small, empty room.
Inside, the space is as controlled and precise as the man himself. Luggage all put away. Bed made. Desk organized with sharp, deliberate neatness.
I shouldn’t be here.
This is a complete breach of everything professional and ethical that a good lawyer should be doing. But then, what about Damien? The man isn’t exactly the model client either. He hasn’t been forthcoming about anything, has he? All the secrecy and mystery has led me to this.
That last thought justifies my next step. And the next.
I arrive at the desk, my fingers brushing over the smooth wood, pulse quickening as I glance at the open drawer.
Then I see it.
A knife.
Not a normal kitchen knife, or a Swiss Army knife, or even a hunting knife, but a large, sleek, curved blade with an intricate hilt—ancient, ceremonial-looking. A knife that looks remarkably similar to the sacrificial blades used in Veil rituals, almost identical to the one I saw in Hargrove’s display case at the shop.
A prickle of unease rolls down my spine, and I take a step back, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Okay… maybe this isn’t that weird…?
Damien Blackhollow is a rich, powerful man, after all. He probably has to protect himself against security threats all the time that are normal for a man of his wealth and status. I bet the guy has a whole collection of expensive weapons. Knives, guns, that sort of thing. Now that I think about it, I haven’t seen him with a bodyguard, so perhaps he handles his own security detail. That’s not totally outside the realm of reasonable possibilities… right?
My gaze snags on the Louis Vuitton designer briefcase propped up beside the desk, and my fingers twitch at my sides.
No… That’s crossing a line. The door and the drawer were at least open, mostly, but the briefcase…
Before I can stop myself, I’m flipping the clasps open and tearing inside. Neat file folders. Sleek Montblanc fountain pen. A hand-stitched Smythson leather notebook, the kind that costs more than my monthly groceries. I frown, spotting a small amber prescription bottle nestled at the bottom of the suitcase. As I read the label, my stomach tightens.
Xanax.
An anti-anxiety drug. Powerful. Sedative-like.
A flicker of unease stirs deep in my gut. What the hell isDamien doing with Xanax? He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who struggles with anxiety or panic attacks. He’s too controlled. Too composed. Something about this discovery bothers me, but I can’t quite put my finger on why.
Then—a noise. I whirl around, my breath catching as I eye the door. It sounds like someone’s coming down the hallway.
Shit.
I slam the briefcase shut. My hands tremble as I bolt for the door, slipping through the gap and darting back into my room. The moment I’m inside, I press my back against the wood, heart racing. My breaths come sharp and uneven, but I force myself to steady them.
It’s fine.
I’m fine.
That flicker of unease lingers, but I push it down.
It’s not like anything I’ve found tonight is exactly new information. So what? So Damien has a creepy-looking knife and prescription drugs—for whatever purposes. Damien isn’t Mr. Rogers, clearly, but I already knew that. Nothing has changed.
So why does it feel like I’ve only just scratched the dark surface of Damien Blackhollow?
October 18 (Two Weeks Until Halloween)
The next morning, I wake feeling like a ten-ton weight is pressing down on my chest as a flash of memory from last night hits me: Damien’s door, slightly ajar. My hands, rifling through his things. The knife. The pills. Heat rises to my face, and I groan, pressing my palms to my eyes.
Jesus, James. What were you thinking?
Breaking into a client’s room in the middle of the night? Snooping through his things like some kind of unhinged stalker?
