Page 15 of Salem’s Fall (Dark Seasons Thriller #3)

He lifts a brow, a teasing grin on his face. “Well, I suppose that’s the point with a secret society, hmmm?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” I chuckle. “But that’s why I’m here. Mark found your name and knew you were an expert on this occult stuff. He planned to interview you himself, but… well…” I glance down awkwardly. “You know the rest.”

“I’m sorry about your coworker,” he says, eyes filling with sympathy. “Were you two close?”

“Not really, but it was still quite a shock.”

“I imagine it was.” His gaze sharpens, his expression turning serious.

“I’ve been studying occult practices my entire professional career, and I can tell you that the Order of the Veil is one of the most dangerous, ruthless groups of individuals I’ve ever come across.

” He plays with the corners of the book, almost nervously.

“The Veil descends from an ancient secret society called the Order, which was created hundreds of years ago to address issues with supernatural entities existing in our world. At some point, the Order splintered into branches with different purposes. Some meant to protect humankind, others meant to control it.” He pauses, looking at me.

“I presume you’ve heard about what happened in that small farming town in the Pacific Northwest last year? Allium Valley?”

It takes me a moment and then I remember.

It was all over the news. Last spring, a series of mass murders took place during a local music festival.

Hundreds died. The town was shut off from civilization, blockaded by the killers so no one could escape.

The authorities still hadn’t figured out what happened or why, and the rumors were insane.

Everything from a terrorist attack to supernatural monsters and aliens to devil worshippers.

“You mean the Garlic Groove Festival murders? Sure, who hasn’t heard about that?” I ask. “The latest theory I heard was it was a bunch of farmers that got sick on bad garlic and went insane.”

There’s a long beat.

“That wasn’t farmers…”

“No? What was it, then?”

“Vampire infestation.”

I hold back my snort, my hands pausing over my keyboard. “You’re messing with me, right? Vampires aren’t real.”

“The government and media won’t tell you the truth, but that’s exactly what it was,” he says, stone-faced and serious.

“One of the Order’s factions—the Order of the Clove—is charged with protecting against vampires.

I interviewed one of the surviving members, a young man named Ethan Park.

He was in Allium Valley during the siege.

It’s all there in the research I emailed your colleague.

” He taps a finger thoughtfully against the table.

“The Clove are the good guys, but the Veil is… different.”

“Different how?” I ask, doing my best to hide my skepticism. Vampires?

Really?

It appears I may be dealing with a cuckoo conspiracy theorist, which I guess is unsurprising since conspiracies kind of go hand-in-hand with secret cults. I don’t believe in the supernatural, but I’m already here, so I might as well see it through.

“The Veil was founded in the late 1600s during the Salem’s Fall witch trials,” he says, thumbing through the pages of the old book.

“Unlike the Clove, which sought to protect humanity, the Veil embraced darkness, using ritual magic to harness supernatural power. I’m sure you know the basics of the witch trials.

The hysteria that swept through the colonies, neighbors turning on each other, innocents imprisoned or executed. ”

He pauses, scratching his chin as he studies me.

“But what you probably don’t know is that some of the accused weren’t so innocent.

A small, elite group of townspeople—wealthy, powerful—were actual practitioners of ancient rites.

Fearing for their own survival, they banded together, not just to protect themselves, but to ensure their influence would last. And over time, their ceremonies evolved into something else. Something… darker.”

“What kind of ceremonies? You mean like a church service?”

“Not exactly.” He smirks. “More like human sacrifices.”

I gasp. “You’re kidding, right? ”

“Afraid not. They believed it allowed them to harness supernatural power.”

This time, I can’t resist rolling my eyes. A group that actually thinks they have magical powers? Like witches?

“But that’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” he asks. “There are lots of things in this world we don’t understand, but that doesn’t mean they’re not true.”

I shrug, unconvinced, and point to the chapter in the book with Damien’s family name. “Okay, what about the Blackhollows?” I ask. “Why are they mentioned here? What does Damien’s family have to do with all this?”

“Why wouldn’t they be mentioned?” He gives a dry chuckle, but there’s a hard edge to it. “The Blackhollow family was one of the founding members of the Veil, after all.”

I pause, cocking my head to the side. He looks deathly serious, but I’m having a hard time taking this all in.

“Are you really implying that the Blackhollow family—one of the most prominent, wealthiest families in all of New England—has been sacrificing people? For power ?”

“Well, it’s never been proven, but yes, those are the rumors, and I believe them.” A muscle tightens in his jaw. “That family is… evil. And the murder you’re investigating certainly fits the pattern of Veil rituals.”

“Okay, even if I buy all of this—the Blackhollows founding this cult, or whatever, and the sacrifices—why would they keep performing these rituals now?” I frown, my mind racing. “The family is already rich and powerful. What’s the point?”

“The point, James, is legacy. It takes a lot to get to the top, but even more to stay there.” There’s a pause and his gaze fixes on me.

“You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m off my rocker?

” He huffs, slumping down into his chair.

“The Board of Trustees at New England University didn’t believe me either.

That’s why I lost my teaching job. Or maybe they did believe, but the Blackhollow family is too powerful.

They get rid of anyone who speaks up. Either they discredit you or much, much worse. ”

His eyes narrow and I catch a glimpse of something angry lurking just beneath his charming exterior. This isn’t simply academic curiosity for him; it’s personal.

“Listen, James, if you’re going to keep digging, be careful,” he warns.

“Keep a low profile. They already know you’re here.

The Veil’s reach is extensive. And your client, Damien Blackhollow?

He may look pretty and respectable, but there’s a deadly monster hidden under all that gloss.

He’s the worst of them. Trust me on that. ”

His words send a chill down my spine.

“Well… thanks for your time, Professor. This has been… eye-opening.” Standing, I pull out my wallet. “I’d like to buy this book. How much?”

He smiles broadly, that magnetic charm flickering back on like a light. “It’s yours. On the house,” he says and escorts me to the front door. “And if you need anything else while you’re in town, anything at all, I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

I pause for a moment, considering his offer. Professor Cuckoo may have a few screws loose, but he’s still cute enough for me to want to take him up on it—if I weren’t so focused on my job.

Not to mention, my dance card is already uncomfortably full this week.

There’s Quinn and whatever the hell is brewing there, plus the unnerving pull I feel every time I’m in the same room as my murder-cult-member-slash-client Damien.

The last thing I need is to add another wildly inappropriate contender to the mix—no matter how good-looking he is.

“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be in town for long.”

“That’s a shame.” His face falls with disappointment.

“Well, before you go, make sure you pay a visit to Strega’s Hollow.

The area was used during the witch trials, and it’s become something of a memorial for the tourists.

The Veil has strong ties to the place. You might find something interesting there. ”

I feel a strange mixture of relief and apprehension as I wave goodbye to the professor and head back down the winding streets.

The wind picks up, scattering fallen leaves at my feet as the night air brings a crisp chill.

I shiver, pulling my sweater tighter, and get the oddest sensation that someone is watching me.

Just as I turn the corner, I hear the sound of footsteps behind me. Too close. Too deliberate. I glance back and freeze as a figure emerges from the shadows, cloaked in darkness. It’s not just the proximity that sends my pulse racing. It’s the mask he wears.

Not some cheap Halloween mask typical for this time of year—this is something else. Ornate, imposing, silver-plated, polished to a mirror shine. Symbols etched into the metal. Eerily smooth. Expressionless. Hollow eye sockets, gaping like black voids.

Panic surges through my body as the figure lunges forward.

Then there’s a knife, glinting terrifyingly in the dim light.

I twist away just in time to avoid the blade as it comes for me.

Stumbling backward, I crash onto the pavement, breath knocked out of me, hands scraping against cold concrete. My heart jackhammers in my chest.

I need to run. I need to move. But my body won’t listen. I lock up, frozen in pure, animal terror. A scream lodges in my throat as my attacker looms over me, shadow stretching long and monstrous beneath the streetlamp. The knife flashes again, rising high.

Everything else falls away—just the blade, the dark, and the gut-deep certainty I’m not getting out of this in one piece.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening…

Suddenly, a blur of movement barrels into the masked figure. A stranger slams into my assailant, knocking the knife from his hand and delivering a series of powerful, efficient blows, driving him back. My attacker stumbles, clutching his ribs, then turns and flees into the night.

I’m still frozen on the pavement, chest heaving, shaking, as the figure turns toward me. I can’t make out his face—the alley is too dark, shadows slicing across his features like a shield.

“Don’t move,” he says—quick and sharp, rough with adrenaline.

Something about that voice?—

My breath catches.

I know that voice.

Strong, muscular arms slide under me, and I’m lifted gently—carefully—as if I might break. He cradles me like I’m something precious, one hand at my back, the other brushing damp hair from my face, fingers lingering for half a second too long on my cheek.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

I blink, stunned, my brain lagging. I try to speak, but nothing comes out.

“James,” he breathes, raw with panic. “Say something. Please.”

The shadows shift. A sliver of streetlight catches him just right, revealing his face at last—gorgeous, unmistakable, and seared into my memory. His gaze scans mine, his expression torn between fury and fear.

My jaw drops.

“Damien?”