Page 22 of Salem’s Fall (Dark Seasons Thriller #3)
“You’re not coming with me?”
“Lucien and I—we don’t get along very well, I’m afraid,” he says, though he doesn’t look too sad about it. “You’ll have better luck if I’m not around.” He exhales a short, knowing laugh. “Especially since my brother is a sucker for a pretty face.”
A blush creeps across the back of my neck. Mentally, I’m aware this is improper and I shouldn’t want compliments from a client, and certainly not a client like Damien, but my body seems to feel completely different about the matter.
“Be careful, James.” Damien turns to me, his tone suddenly serious. “Lucien is… slippery. Get what you can, but I wouldn’t trust everything he says.” His hand hovers over the door handle. “I’ll see you later. I have a few matters to take care of inside.”
I arch a brow. “Oh? Super secret cult business?”
Damien smirks. “The All Hallows Gala is coming up, and I need to finalize a few last-minute details.”
I blink at him, surprised. “You’re not seriously thinking of going?” I ask, remembering my conversation with Katie. She’d warned me about the possibility of Damien attending, but I’d forgotten all about it with everything going on.
“Of course I am. I never miss it.” He says it casually, like this is any other year and not one where he’s the prime suspect in a major murder case.
I let out a groan. “This is a terrible idea. Have you cleared it with Quinn?”
“I think you keep forgetting something, Counselor.” His voice is smooth, droll. “You and Quinn work for me. Not the other way around,” he says and disappears inside.
Bennett drops me off at Lucien’s house next, where a housekeeper greets me and leads me inside.
The interior of the West House is like stepping into another century.
Old, luxurious, and dripping with wealth and history.
Dark wooden panels line the walls, and grand antique colonial chandeliers hang from the high ceilings.
A grandfather clock ticks softly from the parlor as I walk past, its sound muffled by richly woven antique rugs that stretch across the hardwood floors, their burgundy and gold patterns faded gently by time.
Without hesitation, the housekeeper ushers me into Lucien’s office, saying he’s been expecting me.
She gestures to the large, imposing dark walnut desk at the center of the room, and I take a seat.
The air is heavy, like it’s been holding its breath for years.
I take out my laptop and pull up my witness interview outline, racing through the questions in my head once more. I feel ready. Prepared. And then Lucien Blackhollow walks in, and every thought falls right out of my head.
Tall, dark, and handsome, the man is every bit as good looking as his brother, but there’s something about the older Blackhollow sibling that immediately sets my nerves on edge.
Every muscle in my body tightens, as if my brain is now on high alert that a predator is in my midst. Although with that face, a small part of me wonders what it would feel like to be caught in his sights. If I might even enjoy it.
“Miss Woodsen,” he says, his voice smooth as he crosses the room with a calculated grace.
His gaze drags over me—not in the sleazy way some men look at women, but with the sharp, assessing interest of a man who enjoys pulling people apart just to see what makes them tick. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Only good things, I hope,” I say, forcing a smile as I extend my hand. His eyes shift downward, briefly, like he wasn’t expecting me to be so forward. He avoids the contact and takes the seat across from me.
“Depends on who you ask,” he says. “Let’s begin, shall we? I have an appointment in thirty minutes.”
“So soon?” I ask. “I was hoping we’d have more time.”
“Unfortunately, my schedule is packed.”
“Okay, I understand. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.” I glance up at my outline and begin taking notes on my laptop. “I want to start with the night your brother’s fiancée, Ms. Van Buren, was murdered. You were in Boston, correct?”
Lucien leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly. The way he watches me reminds me of a cat with a bird. Curious, mildly entertained, but ultimately unimpressed.
“I was at the All Hallows Gala, yes.”
“And did you happen to see Ms. Van Buren while you were in town that day?”
“I did not. I was… otherwise occupied.”
“When was the last time you saw her—before the murder?”
“Earlier that week, probably. I saw Vivienne frequently. More than my brother did, if we’re being honest.” He says it like it’s no big deal, but the way he glances at me makes it clear he’s referring to the sordid nature of his relationship with Damien’s fiancée.
“Are you referring to an affair with the victim?”
I keep my tone neutral, trying not to let my disgust show. I don’t know Lucien or the victim, and I don’t want to think ill of the dead, but after what my ex put me through, I’m not fond of cheaters.
“Damien has always had an eye for exquisitely beautiful women,” he says, his gaze flicking to my face for just a moment too long before he continues. “Though their character? Well… that’s another story. Let’s just say Vivienne wasn’t the innocent flower everyone thinks she was.”
“And yet you were with her—your brother’s fiancée,” I say, watching carefully to see his reaction.
Lucien’s arrogant smile fades. “I suppose some temptations are hard to resist,” he says and gives me a knowing look. “Isn’t that right, Miss Woodsen?”
A flicker of heat rises in my cheeks.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” he says silkily. “In any event, you’re not here to judge me, Miss Woodsen. You’re here to figure out who killed Vivienne.”
“Okay, so, who do you think killed her? Do you think it was Damien?”
“Oh, Damien is capable of most anything. Murder? Definitely.” He chuckles darkly, tapping his fingers against the desk. “But no, not her. Not Vivienne. I don’t think he loved her enough to get his hands dirty.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not following,” I say, the bitterness in his voice catching me off guard. “What do you mean by that?”
“Enough about Damien.” Lucien leans forward, his gaze piercing. “You really came here to ask about the Veil, didn’t you?”
My pulse quickens.
“What can you tell me?”
“More than Damien has told you, I’m sure.” Lucien smiles coldly. “He’s always been secretive about our legacy.”
He walks over to the bookshelf, pulling out an old, leather-bound book, and bringing it back to the desk. As he flips through it, I see the yellowed pages are covered in strange symbols, like the ones I saw in the murder scene photos.
“The Mark of the Veil,” I whisper, recalling its name.
“Yes.” He nods. “The Veil is about power, Miss Woodsen. Power through sacrifice. For generations, my family has maintained their wealth and influence through evoking the ancient Veil rituals. You see, each generation is required to perform a new series of sacrifices in order to maintain our family’s status and place within the Veil. ”
“Sacrifices such as…?”
His gaze sharpens, dark amusement dancing at the edges. “Oh, Miss Woodsen. I think you know exactly what type of sacrifices I’m implying.”
My blood curdles, my hands shaking on the keyboard as I type.
He’s talking about killing people!
Not that this is entirely new information. Professor Hargrove had said as much, but it’s a whole other thing to hear Damien’s own brother practically confirm it.
“The Blackhollows have always been a prominent part of the organization’s leadership,” Lucien continues.
“Grandfather Blackhollow was the rumored ‘high priest’ within. After him, our father took over and continued the traditions before his… untimely … death a few years ago.” He straightens in his seat.
“And now another Blackhollow must rise up and carry on the legacy.”
“You’re going to become the high priest?”
“Me? Oh no, Miss Woodsen.” He laughs, a cold, mirthless sound that echoes throughout the large office. “I’m the bastard son,” he says, eyes darkening, and I see a flash of resentment. “I don’t get to lead.”
“Then who?” I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
“The eldest true-born son—Damien, of course.”
I swallow hard, trying to process what he’s saying. Damien Blackhollow, the leader of a dangerous secret cult? It doesn’t make sense.
“He didn’t tell me that.”
“Damien’s been keeping quite a few things from you, I imagine.” His gaze strays to my mouth for the briefest second before meeting my eyes again. Then he leans forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Has he told you about your father yet?”
My blood runs cold.
“What–what about my father?”
Lucien smiles, his teeth sharp and gleaming. There’s something almost indulgent in the way he watches me react, like he’s enjoying peeling back my layers, piece by piece.
“Your father was involved with the Veil,” he says. “Your mother’s death—there’s more to the story than you’ve been told.”
The ground shifts beneath me.
“No, my dad worked in IT at Blackhollow Industries, that’s all,” I say, shaking my head. My hands drop from the keyboard, and I push the laptop away. “Dad was a nobody, just a work grunt for the company. You’re lying.”
“How… interesting. Even after everything you’ve been through, you remain loyal to your father.” Lucien tilts his head, appraising me with something that feels dangerously close to approval. “I can see why he likes you.”
I stiffen. “Who?”
“Come now, Miss Woodsen. Let’s not be coy.” His smirk deepens. “You must’ve noticed my brother’s… interest.”
I flush, suddenly needing to escape—to get away from Lucien’s poisonous presence. “I need to go,” I mutter, standing and grabbing my belongings.
“Pity. I was enjoying our time together,” Lucien says, leaning back, his eyes widening with amusement. He’s enjoying this.
I force myself to keep my voice even and professional despite how unnerved I am.
“Thank you for your time. It’s been… enlightening.”
“Oh yes. A real pleasure,” he mocks. “You run along now, but be sure to ask your father about the Veil. And while you’re at it, ask yourself why Damien hasn’t told you any of this himself.”
His words slither around me as I turn for the door, gripping my bag so tightly, my knuckles ache.
“Good luck, Miss Woodsen,” he calls after me, smirking. “Just remember—sometimes the truth is more dangerous than the lies.”