Chapter 10
By the time Rowan’s Porsche curves back toward downtown, night has settled over Salem’s Fall. Everything looks different after dark. Not quieter, exactly. If anything, the streets are more crowded, but darkness changes the shape of everything.
The colonial buildings lean closer beneath strings of warm golden-orange lights. Shop windows glow with candles and carved jack-o’-lantern pumpkins. Shadows gather in the narrow alleys between storefronts, deep enough to hide almost anything.
I rest my head against the expensive leather seats of his car and watch the old gas lamps and streetlights flicker between buildings. “I can’t wait to crawl into bed,” I say with a big yawn, stretching my arms overhead. “I’m exhausted.”
“That’s unfortunate.” Rowan glances over. “You promised me a drink, remember?”
“I promised you nothing. I agreed to come with you to see Bea.”
“You asked me to take you to Bea.” He smiles, one hand loose on the steering wheel. “I drove you across town in a luxury vehicle and endured an hour of Beatrice Endicott’s ridiculous stories while she did her best to malign my esteemed ancestors as some kind of Kalabar-level villains.”
“Kalabar, huh?” I ask. “Didn’t peg you as a Halloweentown fan.”
“Oh yes. It’s required watching for all Salem’s Fall residents.”
I try not to laugh and fail miserably.
“I’m sorry, Jack, but I really must insist.” He slows at a light, and the glow from the dashboard sharpens the handsome line of his profile.
His smile deepens as he looks over at me.
“As one of the original founding family sons, it’s my solemn duty to take you to your first Salem’s Fall Equinox celebration. ”
“And what exactly are they celebrating?”
“The first night of autumn is a big deal around here,” he says.
“You’ve got the harvest. The shortening of days.
And, of course, the thickening of everyone’s pockets in town.
Take your pick. And depending on what you believe, it also signals the time of year when the spirits of the dead begin finding their way back to the living. ”
“Meaning?”
“The equinox opens the first crack in the year,” he says, driving down a narrow road that leads toward the harbor. “The most restless spirits come through at the beginning.”
“So the town’s throwing a party to welcome its ghosts home?”
“Just the first wave.” His eyes flick toward me. “The crack stays open all the way until the Winter Solstice. Then the dead return to where they belong.”
My stomach tightens as I turn toward Rowan.
“You really don’t know anything about this whole Veil thing? Bea made it seem like your family was connected.”
“My family has been connected to everything in this town at one point or another.”
I sink farther into the seat. “That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
He gives me a sideways smile that is equal parts charming and irritating. The problem with this guy is that he’s way too practiced. Too polished. He knows all the right things to say and when to say them.
But maybe…
What if he’ll ease up after a few drinks? Let his guard down a little. Say something he’s not supposed to. It’s worth a shot.
Besides, it probably wouldn’t kill me to have a little fun while I’m stuck in this town.
“Fine. One drink,” I say. “And this isn’t a date.”
He parks near the waterfront, where old brick warehouses have been converted into restaurants and bars. Beyond them, the harbor stretches beneath the rising moon, its bluish-black water shifting darkly against the old docks, looking cold and impossibly deep.
We make our way down the cobblestone walkway, and the cool sea air sends a shiver through me. It had been warm enough earlier that I hadn’t bothered bringing a sweater or jacket to class, but now, with the sun gone and the harbor breeze picking up, I’m regretting the decision.
“Here,” he says, shrugging off his lacrosse jacket and draping it over my shoulders as we walk under a banner proudly announcing the “DTSF Fall Equinox Celebration” this weekend.
“DTSF?” I ask.
“Mayor thought giving downtown Salem’s Fall an acronym might help attract a younger demographic, like how New York has SoHo,” he says.
“Ah. Marketing, right?” I ask, remembering what he said about the town and its commoditization of all things spooky. “Clever.”
As we walk farther down the harbor, street vendors try to sell us a variety of wares.
Black felt witch hats. Hand-carved broomsticks.
Tiny bottles labeled with things like Protection, Fortune, and Revenge.
Despite my protestations, Rowan buys me a gorgeous single black rose and presents it to me grandly.
Farther down the street, a group of musicians plays beside a bonfire contained in an iron basin while a woman in a charcoal gray cloak reads tarot cards beneath a striped awning.
The smell of caramel-coated nuts curls through the air, mingling with cider, woodsmoke, and the ocean.
The place really is a storybook version of autumn come to life.
You’d never guess that underneath it all is a gruesome history of innocent people being tortured and murdered only a few centuries ago.
“Why do you think Professor Endicott cut us off like that?” I ask. “She looked scared when she saw that donor.”
“She already told us.” He shrugs. “She had a meeting.”
We stop in front of a sketchy-looking dive bar.
The windows glow with warm light, revealing a crush of patrons packed around scarred wooden tables and worn leather booths.
Fiddle music spills through the walls, chased by drunken laughter and the occasional roar of applause.
Rowan nods toward the crooked wooden sign hanging above the entrance.
THE WITCH’S brEW
Beneath it, a painted witch hangs from a scaffold, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle.
“Charming,” I say.
“Best bar near the harbor.”
I eye the doors warily. “It looks like a place sailors go to die.”
He leads me inside the crowded bar. Dark wooden beams cross the low ceiling, and candles flicker in old green bottles along the walls.
Dried bundles of rosemary and sage hang between framed maritime maps.
A stone fireplace crackles at the far end of the room beneath a mounted raven with glass eyes.
Someone has strung miniature pumpkins around its neck.
The place is absolutely ridiculous, but warm and cozy at the same time. It feels lived in. Like generations of locals and tourists alike have hidden in these booths to drink, argue, kiss, and make decisions they’ll probably regret the next morning.
“Jack!” Wren hollers, waving me over. She’s crammed into a round booth with three people I’ve never seen before, surrounded by half-empty mugs and plates of fried food.
Rowan stops beside me. “No.”
I glance at him.
“No?”
“We are not spending the evening with the Island of Misfit Toys.”
“Those are my friends,” I say, even if they aren’t really, but I don’t like Rowan’s attitude. I don’t like snobs, probably because I’ve never fit in myself. And though I’m still not sure how I feel about Wren, it has nothing to do with her social standing.
Across the room, several members of the lacrosse team have taken over a long table near the bar. Broad shoulders, expensive watches, loud laughter. A cluster of beautiful girls occupies every available space around them.
“You’re welcome to join your people over there,” I say to him and point toward the jocks.
“They are not my people.” His mouth tightens. “I have multitudes and will not allow you to put me in a box.”
“They’re literally wearing the same team jacket you have.”
I find myself scanning the lacrosse table automatically, as if looking for someone. It takes me another moment to realize who I’m looking for, and then I’m disgusted with myself.
In any event, Silas isn’t there.
The disappointment comes so quickly, I nearly mistake it for relief, though it makes no sense. I shouldn’t care that he isn’t here. Silas is rude, cruel, and apparently incapable of speaking to me without turning it into a threat. I should be thrilled he’s nowhere in sight.
Van catches me staring and gives me a glare cold enough to frost the glass mug in front of him.
“I’m sitting with Wren. You’re welcome to join us—or not,” I say.
Rowan lets out a resigned sigh. “Of course you are.” He looks at me, almost amused despite himself. “Lead the way then.”
Wren shifts over the moment Rowan and I reach the booth, and I take a seat beside her.
The guy on the other side of her is broad and soft around the middle, with light brown skin, round wire-frame glasses, and a knitted mustard-colored cardigan that looks handmade.
Across from him, a petite Black woman with long caramel-colored hair and the kind of cheekbones people pay good money for lifts two fingers in greeting.
She wears heavy combat boots and a patched denim jacket covered in pins.
The second guy sits slightly apart from the others, one arm stretched along the back of the booth.
He’s lean and pale, wearing a vintage band T-shirt beneath a battered leather jacket, with dark blond hair bleached white at the tips and a silver ring through his lower lip.
“Blessed turning,” Wren says brightly. The others repeat it.
“Blessed turning,” Rowan replies.
They all look at me expectantly.
“Uh—what does that mean?”
“It’s something we say to each other during the Fall Equinox,” Wren explains. “It’s for good luck. It means, ‘May the season turn kindly toward you.’”
“We could all use a little luck here in Salem’s Fall,” the guy beside her in the yellow cardigan says, raising his mug in my direction.
His smile is immediate and warm. “Hi, I’m Micah Mehta.
Excellent baker.” He pushes a large brown bag with grease on the outside in my direction, opening the top for me and Rowan.
“Pumpkin spice cookies. Just baked ’em this morning for the equinox. Have one.”
Beside me, Rowan gives the bag a dubious look, like homemade cookies from a stranger are somehow beneath him. I take one to be polite. I bite into it, and buttery sweetness practically melts on my tongue.
“Wow. These are amazing,” I say.
“Lena Saldana,” the petite woman in the denim jacket says, giving me a welcoming nod. “I’m studying environmental science. I don’t bake, but I eat most of what Micah makes.”
“She’s my quality control,” Micah agrees.
“I consider it my civic duty,” Lena says, grabbing a cookie and eating it whole in one bite. “I’m keeping the public safe.”
I like both of them immediately.
“And this is Jonah Hawthorne,” Wren says, introducing the guy with the lip ring. “He doesn’t speak much, but don’t let it bother you. Broodiness is sort of his shtick.”
“Hawthorne?” I ask.
His expression closes a fraction. “It’s common around here.”
Except it’s not. I look toward Van and then back at Wren, wondering which Hawthorne Jonah’s related to and just how concerned I should be to be sitting with him.
“Don’t worry,” Wren says, immediately reading my expression. “He’s part of the dishonored, disappointing, and unfortunately broke Hawthorne faction, just like me.”
“Evening, Jonah,” Rowan says, giving him a quick nod.
“Ashcroft.”
The exchange is perfectly polite on the surface, but underneath, there is a dark tension, like two knives being placed carefully on a table.
“Great.” Wren claps her hands. “Now we’re all friends. Drinks?” She raises a hand and waves a waiter over. A moment later, a pitcher of beer dyed purple and called “Witch’s Brew”—naturally—is dropped off at our table.
The conversation flows after that. Micah tells me which downtown bakery has the best cronuts.
Lena warns me which professors to avoid before noon.
Wren complains about tourists asking whether she can perform curses on demand.
Surprisingly, Rowan seems to fit right in.
He is charming without seeming to try. He makes Micah laugh.
Lets Lena insult his sports car. He even ignores Jonah’s occasional jabs.
Every time someone says something funny, I find myself looking toward Rowan to see him laughing too.
I have a disconcerting thought. Maybe he really is a good guy underneath it all, just tangled up with some asshole friends.
Complicated. Privileged. Occasionally unbearably cocky.
But good.
Wren lifts her glass. “To the equinox,” she says, and everyone raises their frosted mugs.
“And to every door that should stay closed,” Rowan says, his gaze briefly settling on me. Something passes around the table, an almost imperceptible ripple of fear.
I frown. “Uh, what does that mean?”
“It’s another old ghost story. Want to hear it?” Rowan leans back, looking eager to tell me.
Jonah rolls his eyes. “Here we go.”
“Legend says,” Rowan begins, ignoring Jonah, “that on the first night of autumn, the dead test the doors of every house in town. If you hear three knocks after midnight, you’re not supposed to answer.”
“Why three?” I ask.
“Because the first is memory. The second is grief. The third is permission,” he says.
The fire pops behind us, and I flinch. Something moves in my peripheral vision. I whip around toward the dark window, but there’s nothing there.
“And what happens if you open the door?” I ask.
“They come home,” Wren answers.
Lena groans. “Enough, guys. You’ll scare her out of Salem’s Fall before October even arrives,” she says. “You don’t want her to miss all the fun. Especially the Blackhollow Halloween Ball.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The Blackhollow family hosts an absolutely insane party every Halloween,” Wren explains. “It’s a big deal. Invitation only. Most of us don’t make the cut.” Her eyes move across the room to Van. The look they exchange is almost vicious.
“So you’re going?” I ask Rowan.
“I never miss it,” he says.
“Doesn’t really sound like my thing.” I sit back. “Not that I’d get invited, anyway. Silas Blackhollow hates me.”
“Oh, you’ll get invited,” Wren says, a knowing look on her face.
I laugh. “Why would I get invited?”
“Have you looked in a mirror?” Lena smirks. “Just because Silas hates you doesn’t mean every guy on campus does. Even if you don’t get your own invite, someone will ask you as their date. Trust me.”
The front door opens just then and cold air sweeps through the bar, stirring candle flames and turning several heads toward the entrance. As if our conversation has summoned him, Silas Blackhollow walks into the bar.