Page 65 of Salem's Fall
“Not for me, it isn’t.”
Halloween. Veil Night. It’s all coming to a head, fast.
The Gala was a fun distraction, but I’m not going to find any answers here. They’re in Salem’s Fall. I have to find Professor Hargrove and tell him everything I uncovered at the police station and the library. If anyone can help me make sense of it, it’s him.
Damien’s jaw tightens, like he already knows he’s not going to like what I say next. “James?—”
“I’m sorry. I have to go,” I say and unclasp the necklace, pressing it into his palm. I’m already shifting back into reality as I turn toward the exit, the lingering haze of indulgence and luxury fading into urgency.
“Right now?” Damien’s voice is laced with disbelief. “James, slow down. I thought we were having a good time.”
I hesitate, just for a second. “I need to get back to Salem’s Fall to see Nick. There’s new evidence in your case I want to discuss with him.”
The shift is instant. His expression hardens, curdling into something darker.
“Hargrove again?” His voice is strained now, carrying an edge. “You sure don’t waste time adding new admirers to your collection, do you? First Quinn. Now Hargrove. And let’s not forget how you somehow sweet-talked my brother into spillingour family secrets.” His head tilts, as if mock thoughtful. “Who’s next—the mayor of Salem’s Fall?”
I shoot back, “Good thing you’re immune to my charms, then. Right?”
Damien’s eyes glint with challenge.
“Am I?”
For a moment, the world narrows to just him. The tension between us coils tight, hot, electric. I swallow hard, tearing my gaze away and stepping into the cool night air, leaving him behind before I can make another mistake. Before I say something I can’t take back.
But I still feel him, long after I’ve left the museum.
His gaze. His presence. His heat.
And despite everything—despite Damien Blackhollow being dangerous, manipulative, and entirely too smug—my traitorous heart still races. Because for a few fleeting hours, real or not, he was mine.
Salem’s Fall, Massachusetts
The sky hangs overcast as I walk toward Professor Hargrove’s shop the next morning. The damp chill of Salem’s Fall settles into my bones as I try Maddie’s phone—again—but it just goes straight to voicemail. I let out an annoyed groan, shoving my cell into my coat pocket. Frustration curls in my chest.
Maddie wasn’t home when I returned to the apartment late last night to grab Lucky. Probably out partying, as usual. That wasn’t surprising. But I’d been hoping my irresponsible little sister would at least answer one of my dozens of calls and texts by now. Maddie might not be the poster child for responsibility, but she’s never been this bad. Surely, she’s seen my messages, right?
Worry gnaws at the edges of my thoughts, but I tell myself she’s still out, crashed on a friend’s couch somewhere. She’s fine. I saw her less than twenty-four hours ago, and from the looks of my poor apartment, the girl was having the time of her life.
I turn the corner and the professor’s shop appears, the chime echoing hollowly as I step inside the Wandering Raven. The store is empty, the light low and flickering, castingstrange, shifting shadows over the shelves. The smell hits me first. Old wood and herbs, like before, but now with something sharper beneath, a metallic tang that lingers in the air. Immediately, I feel it—a creeping sense of wrongness. The air feels thick, as if something is… off.
My instincts tell me to back away, to leave this place, but I steel myself and walk deeper inside. I shake away the bad thoughts, dismissing them as just a culmination of all the crazy shit I’ve learned these past few weeks. It’s only natural that all the creepiness would catch up with me, making me paranoid and jittery.
As I walk toward the counter, the now-familiar rows of strange artifacts and occult souvenirs seem more menacing. The glass-eyed voodoo dolls watch me, their vacant stares more unsettling. The old leather-bound books look sinister, their cracked and frayed spines whispering of horror stories best left forgotten. Noticeably, the ceremonial dagger that usually sits in the glass case tucked in the corner—the type of knife used in the Veil’s ritual murders—is gone.
That’s strange.
My mind scrambles for a reasonable explanation. Did someone buy it? Did Hargrove take it out for cleaning or… something?
I don’t know why, but the missing knife unnerves me more than anything else I’ve seen so far in the shop. My gut screams another warning, and this time, I seriously contemplate turning around and leaving. But then I see it—a new artifact in the store. A mask, prominently displayed on the wall, tilted slightly, as if it’d been placed in a hurry. My breath stutters, and I take a slow, hesitant step closer.
Iknowthat mask.
Silver-plated metal, polished to a mirror-like shine. Empty, vacant eyes. Strange symbols etched along the edges. It’s thesame mask my attacker wore my first night in Salem’s Fall. My gaze flickers to the small plaque beneath it.
Veil Ritual Mask: Worn by high-ranking members of New England occult secret society, the Order of the Veil.
A sick feeling coils deep in my stomach as I realize the man who attacked me on my first night in Salem’s Fall wasn’t some random mugger. He was part of something bigger, something connected to Damien and the Veil. But who? For what purpose?
