Page 46 of Salem’s Fall (Dark Seasons Thriller #3)

Maddie shakes her head beside me, a muffled cry slipping through her gag. “No!” she manages, her voice hoarse with horror. “James, don’t!”

“Enough,” the Veil member closest to Maddie snaps, tightening the ropes with a sharp pull.

I’m fully aware this is more of Lucien’s twisted game, to turn me into something monstrous, just like him. And yet, as I stare at the knife, my fingers gripping tighter around its handle, I can’t help but wonder what it might feel like to use it.

An image flashes in my head, and for a moment, I can see the life I’ve always dreamed of.

Success. Power. I would no longer need to prove myself to Quinn.

To the firm. I would never have to prove myself to anyone ever again.

I can have a life without want. Without fear.

Everything I’ve ever dreamed of is within my grasp.

I know it’s wrong to think like this, but isn’t Damien a lost cause anyway? Even if it’s not by my hand, won’t Lucien or the Veil take him? Or the knife even?

The image of Professor Hargrove ripping the blade through his chest, killing himself against his own will, comes back to me in a horrible rush. The knife must have its victim, right? If this is all inevitable, why not take what’s mine?

Why let it all go to waste?

“He’s right,” Damien says quietly, a heaviness in his voice. “Do it. It’s what you want.”

Our eyes meet, and I see Damien’s quiet strength, the way he’s willing to give up everything in order to keep me safe, to give me what I want in life. He would sacrifice everything for me, let me kill him, and take all that the Veil offers.

But all the power in the world is worth nothing if I have to lose my humanity to achieve it.

“No, Lucien,” I say, my voice shaky but resolute. “I won’t become a monster like you just to satisfy my ambition.”

Lucien’s smile falters. “Shame,” he says, a flicker of something almost like surprise—or maybe grudging respect— passing over his face before it hardens back into that mask of cold resolve. “You had such promise.”

A cruel smile twists his lips as he rips the knife from me and lifts the blade, turning to face the rest of the Veil.

A ripple of excitement moves through the room as several members step forward, lifting their hands toward Lucien in silent reverence.

The others begin to sway in unison, their chanting beginning again, louder, more feverish.

The sound vibrates through the cold stone walls, echoing through the chamber.

Even if I still can’t understand the language, I’m certain of the purpose now.

They’re death chants.

A select few men step forward, lighting red candles on the altar.

The flames flicker oddly at first, as if resisting, shadows rippling over Lucien’s face, carving it into something terrifying.

With each new candle lit, the energy in the room thickens, coiling like a snake ready to strike.

Lucien raises his hands, and the chanting softens, falling to a near whisper as his voice rises, powerful and commanding.

“To the East,” he says, his voice reverberating off the stone walls, “I call upon the Watchtower of Air. Bring forth your winds, your clarity, your vision.”

A gust of wind sweeps through the chamber, icy and piercing. It cuts right through me, chilling me to the bone as I feel it coil around my limbs like invisible chains.

Lucien pivots to face the other direction. He lifts his arms higher, his voice deepening. “To the West, I call upon the Watchtower of Water. Bring forth your wisdom, your healing, your depths.”

A dampness fills the chamber, and from the corners of the stone ceiling, water begins to drip, darkening the ground in small, growing puddles.

The smell of earth and wet stone fills my lungs.

It feels as though I’m underwater for an instant, drowning in the weight of whatever dark forces Lucien is unleashing.

“To the North,” he continues. “I call upon the Watchtower of Earth. Bring forth your strength, your endurance, your guardianship.”

A rumble echoes beneath my feet, a deep, pulsing tremor like an earthquake, that makes the ground shift and crack beneath us. Dust rains down from the ceiling as the stone floor quivers, the walls seeming to close in, more solid and impenetrable than ever.

Lucien closes his eyes, and a note of finality enters his voice.

“To the South, I call upon the Watchtower of Fire. Bring forth your fury, your courage, your transformation,” he says and the temperature in the chamber spikes, a sudden, oppressive heat filling the air.

Sweat beads along my brow, a suffocating heat pressing down on us, as though the walls themselves have caught fire.

Lucien turns back toward the altar, his eyes gleaming. One by one, each blood-red candle flares up almost to the ceiling, a violent burst of light that seems to reach for something unseen.

I blink, struggling to adjust to the dim red glow that now fills the room. The Veil members hardly flinch, keeping their focus on the ritual, but their faces are tense, eyes darting as the atmosphere tightens with an eerie tension.

“Bring forth the sacrifice,” Lucien orders.

Two masked men step forward from the shadows and grip Damien by the shoulders, dragging him toward the center of the altar.

He doesn’t resist, but there’s a defiance in his gaze as he locks eyes with me.

The calm resolve in his face sends a wave of nausea through me.

He’s accepted this, accepted his death, all for me.

His eyes don’t leave mine. “If things were different… if we ha d more time...” he says softly, his voice barely audible over the chanting. “I would’ve given you the world.”

I can’t bear it. I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, my heart thudding while I reach for Maddie.

She whimpers in my arms, and I watch, barely able to breathe, as the dark masked figures sway in unison, hands lifted toward the altar.

The air fills with an unnatural energy that skates along my skin like a static charge.

Panic claws at me, wild and suffocating, as I watch Damien at the altar.

He doesn’t fight, doesn’t struggle—he just lets them press him against the cold stone.

The masked figures hold his arms tight at his sides as Lucien steps forward, eyes gleaming with triumph.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifts the knife high, the polished blade catching the crimson candlelight.

“No—please!” I scream. “Stop!”

Lucien’s gaze shifts to me, and I see an almost imperceptible smile playing at his lips.

Then, all at once, the flames erupt.