Page 35 of Salem’s Fall (Dark Seasons Thriller #3)

Salem’s Fall, Massachusetts

T he 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, casting strange, 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.

I know that mask.

Silver-plated metal, polished to a mirror-like shine. Empty, vacant eyes. Strange symbols etched along the edges. It’s the same 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?

My mind reels, grasping for explanations, for logic, for anything that could explain this. Had it been a warning? A staged scare? Or something else entirely? Had someone meant to really hurt me that night? Maybe even kill me…?

“James?”

I jerk back from the mask as Hargrove emerges from the back of the shop, his face brightening with a warm, welcoming smile.

“What a lovely surprise!” he says, clapping his hands with delight. The scent of cloves and incense grow stronger as he approaches. “I’m so glad to see you again.”

His friendly hug is comforting, and I shake off my wariness. I notice he looks rather dashing today, dressed in a dark tweed suit that seems a bit overdressed for a normal day at work in the shop.

“You look nice. Are you going somewhere?” I ask.

“Me? No.” He gives me a little wink. “You look nice too.”

“Thanks.” I grin. “So, I think I found out something important about the Veil and the Ascension Rituals you mentioned.” My voice is eager, almost breathless. “I need to talk to you about it.”

He stills, his gaze flicking toward the back of the store. Quick, uncertain. Like he’s checking for something—or someone.

“Right now? ”

I take a step back, worrying I’m interrupting something. “Oh. Are you busy?”

“No, no. Now is fine.” His voice is steady, but something feels off—a tension just beneath the surface. He takes me by the elbow and leads me to the small wooden table where we’ve sat before.

I spill everything—how Ian Blackhollow used the Veil’s rituals to transform his bankrupt business into a kingdom of wealth, how Damien seems to be moving along the same dark path, with three sacrifices already in his wake: the Blackhollow nanny, his college sweetheart, and, of course, his most recent fiancée.

Hargrove listens with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving mine. His smile widens larger with every revelation. He’s eager, almost a bit too much, as he drinks in the details. Rather than the horror I felt upon uncovering all this, he seems excited by the gruesome information.

“And you’re absolutely certain Ian Blackhollow’s business turned around after the fourth sacrifice?”

I nod. “Yeah, that’s what the article said, at least.”

His eyes gleam with something I can’t quite read. “You’re telling me these rituals actually work? There’s real proof?”

There’s an almost hungry edge to his words.

“I don’t know if you can say that exactly.” I shrug, trying to downplay it. “I don’t believe in the supernatural or anything like that.” Then I hesitate, remembering who I’m talking to. He does believe, and I don’t want to insult him. “I mean, don’t you think it’s all just a coincidence?”

My excitement over what I’ve uncovered dims. He’s not reacting at all how I expected. Instead of focusing on the real-world implications—that the Blackhollows could be a family of killers—he seems more interested in the rituals themselves. In whether they actually work.

His hand caresses the open book in front of him absentmindedly. My gaze shifts to its faded pages, and I spot the Mark of the Veil. That same oddly familiar, dark, twisted design I’ve now come to know.

“This is a unique piece,” he says, following my gaze. “ The Book of Eternal Rites . It’s from a much older collection of the Veil’s artifacts. It’s kind of a manual, so to speak.”

“A manual for what?”

He ignores my question. “Have you told Damien or his brother about what you’ve discovered?” he asks, shutting the book with a loud thud and pushing it aside. Some blood stains dotting the cuff of his white sleeve catch my attention.

“Did you cut yourself, Nick?”

I watch as blood slowly drips down the tips of his slender fingers and onto his clothes and the surface of the old wooden table. Something about it puts me on edge. He looks down, his eyes widening in surprise as he notices it too.

“Oh, I’m fine,” he says, wiping his hand on his pants and rolling up his sleeve.

“Right…” I drag my focus back to what matters.

“I guess what I don’t understand is what happened with my family.

My dad said he had the knife, that he was ready to go through with the Blood Rite ritual.

But if these rituals are real—if they actually do something like you say—then why didn’t it work?

” My hands go cold in my lap, heart pounding.

“Whatever that ritual was supposed to do… it failed for him.”

Hargrove’s face changes. His brows draw together in concentration, his lips thinning thoughtfully as though he’s calculating something important.

“Of course… I see it now. Your father’s ritual must have failed because it was missing a Tether—someone bound to the Veil by blood, oath, or love,” he murmurs, a spark of something intense flaring behind his eyes.

“ The Book of Eternal Rites makes reference to this. It’s clear the person sacrificed can’t be random; it has to be a Tether.

Your parents probably lacked any true connection to the Veil.

Without that bond, the ritual is meaningless. It’s just theatrics.”

“I’m not sure I understand…”

“It’s better if I show you.” Hargrove straightens and stands. “I think you’re finally ready to see for yourself.”

He starts toward a door behind us and motions for me to follow.

A jolt of unease makes me hesitate for an instant.

The rational part of my brain tells me I have no reason to fear Hargrove—he’s a respected professor and has been nothing but friendly and helpful in every encounter—and yet, I can’t ignore that something today feels wrong.

He’s too intense. Too eager. It’s a bit unsettling, though I don’t know why exactly.

But then I remember all the unanswered questions, the mysteries half-revealed. My career is on the line. My family. And I have to admit, even though I shouldn’t be so invested, I’m dying to know the truth about Damien too. I have to understand what’s really going on.

So I follow Hargrove through a narrow, shadowed corridor and into the tiny backroom.

The air is colder here, heavy and still.

A single hanging light bulb swings from the ceiling, casting strange shadows.

The sickening scent of something coppery like blood has grown so strong it almost overpowers my senses.

In the center of the room is an altar, cluttered with candles, herbs, and things that look ominously ceremonial.

Symbols—the Mark of the Veil—are carved into the floor beneath.