Page 26 of Salem’s Fall (Dark Seasons Thriller #3)

I return to my room at the Cottage just before nightfall. I shrug off my jacket, letting it slip to the floor, and drop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. The shocking events of the day play a constant loop in my head:

The visit with my father.

My fight with Damien.

Hargrove’s startling revelation about Damien’s Ascension Ritual.

Lucky jumps up on the bed, nuzzling into my side, his soft fur brushing against my skin.

He’s been sticking close ever since we arrived at Salem’s Fall, more than usual.

I stroke his head absentmindedly, feeling the tension in my shoulders start to ease, though it never completely fades.

The cat looks at me, his wide eyes filled with concern.

Even Lucky knows something is terribly wrong.

“Thank goodness I have you,” I murmur, scratching behind his ears. But his presence, comforting as it is, can’t drown out the gnawing feeling that I’m in way over my head.

I reach for my phone and scroll through my missed messages and calls.

Maddie is asking for more money for food.

Apparently, the casserole I made for her is gone, and she’s already blown through the two hundred I left her just a few days ago.

I suspect the request is really for alcohol and clothes, but I’m too tired to argue about it.

Instead, I Venmo her a few hundred dollars to hold her over until I return, whenever that is.

Quinn’s name also pops up. Repeatedly. His texts are terse and to the point:

Get back to Boston. NOW!

He’s called too, and Quinn rarely calls. That’s how I know it’s bad. His angry voicemails are more of the same. The client—Damien, I suppose—is furious. The firm is losing patience. They think I’m wasting time and money here in Salem’s Fall, and I’m on “thin ice.”

I thumb through more messages. Katie has texted me too, cryptic and worried. Her words land like ice in my veins:

Been hearing things at the office. Blackhollow is dangerous. You need to come home!

It seems like everyone wants me to turn tail and run back to Boston. Am I a fool to stay here?

But no, I’ve come too far.

Going back to Boston now empty-handed would mean going back a failure, and after my last screwup, I’d be lucky to get off memo writing duty within the next decade.

If I even have a job to go back to.

The only option is to get to the bottom of things.

If I can figure out what’s really going on and it exonerates Damien, we can win this case.

But even if I find out Damien is guilty—if he is responsible for his fiancée’s death—it can still be a win.

I’ll have saved the firm and Quinn the embarrassment of losing such an important case.

We could strike a plea deal, figure out something that keeps us from getting a losing verdict. I’ll be a hero .

Besides, there’s more at stake now than just this case and my career. I need to find out how the Veil is connected to my mother’s death. If they killed her and I can prove it, I have a shot at freeing my dad too.

I’m so close to unraveling the truth. I can feel it, like a live wire buzzing under my skin.

The Veil.

My dad.

The Blackhollows.

It’s all connected somehow. I just need to keep pulling at the threads until it comes undone.

A soft knock at the door startles me from my thoughts. Room service has arrived. I let the waiter inside and he puts the tray of food on the table by the window. I stare at my dinner ambivalently. I’m not really hungry but forced myself to order something. I’ll need all my energy for what’s ahead.

Lucky rubs up against my legs, purring, as I scoop kibble into his bowl to feed him first. After he’s done, I sink into the chair and grab a slice of cauliflower crust pizza, barely tasting it as I stare out the window.

The world outside looks so normal. People walking around, tourists snapping pictures in front of the landmarks, couples laughing as they pass by. But I know better. Everything is wrong.

Lucky nudges my hand with his head, demanding attention.

“I wish I could make sense of this, boy,” I whisper as I scratch behind his ears.

I think back to Lucien and what he told me yesterday about Damien’s role as the heir apparent to the Veil.

Lucien had practically dripped with satisfaction when he revealed that nugget of information, enjoying my shock.

It isn’t just that Damien is involved in things; he’s at the very heart of it all—their leader.

He was born into this darkness, destined for it.

Three sacrifices already. Three innocent people dead .

Who will be the final sacrifice on Veil Night?

Even if Damien isn’t responsible for these murders, there’s no denying that being close to him is dangerous in and of itself.

The professor had said as much: the last sacrifice of the Ascension Ritual must be someone Damien’s close with.

Every rational part of me screams I need to stay away from Damien, that nothing good can come from this attraction I’ve been trying so hard to ignore.

His charm, his power, that magnetic pull he has—these are the things that ruin people, that lead them down paths they can’t escape from.

And yet, every time I see him, it’s like I forget that he’s accused of killing his own fiancée.

And not just her. If the professor is to be believed, there are at least two other victims. Maybe more.

For all I know, Damien and his family may have even played a role in my mother’s murder.

I close my eyes and shake my head, trying to fight off the cold weight settling in my chest. One thing is certain. Damien Blackhollow is not safe.

He’s never been safe.

As I crawl into bed, I listen for sounds next door, but hear nothing through the thick walls.

For someone who’s unusually obsessed with control, it’s a bit odd how radio silent Damien has gone.

Despite everything, I feel the sting of disappointment.

I sort of expected him to burst through my door the second I got back from the professor’s shop, but there’s been no sign of him.

Yes, I was the one who told him to stay away, but some small, irrational part of me thought he’d try harder to earn my forgiveness.

At the very least, I really did think he cared about my safety, at least a tiny bit, even if it was just on a professional level as his lawyer.

But he hasn’t checked in at all, even after knowing I went to go see Hargrove, a man he clearly doesn’t like or trust. For all Damien knows, Hargrove—or the Veil, even—could’ve slit my throat tonight, leaving me bloody and dead in the cobbled streets of Salem’s Fall somewhere.

Doesn’t he care at all?

I snort, anger bubbling up inside me. Damn Damien Blackhollow. He has the audacity to act like a possessive beast at times, ordering me around, acting like he’s protecting me, when he obviously doesn’t even care if I’m dead or alive.

I glance over to the wall separating my room from his. Before the clear-minded, rational part of my brain can talk myself out of it, I push back the covers and slide out of bed. I tell myself I’ll just check real quick. Just to see if he’s back.

I tiptoe to my door and ease it open, peeking out. The hallway is quiet. Damien’s door is shut—but not fully. A thin sliver of light spills through the crack. I hesitate, one last moment of sanity begging to take over.

I shouldn’t.

I know I shouldn’t.

But for someone so obsessed with control, he really should learn to lock his damn door.

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 is Damien 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?