Chapter 12
By the following Monday afternoon, Professor Beatrice Endicott has vanished.
Not disappeared in the ominous, blood-on-the-floor sense, but missing for all intents and purposes.
Despite her promises at Strega’s Hollow on Friday that we’d speak again today, her university voicemail says she’s unavailable, her email inbox sends an automatic reply promising a response when she returns, and the woman who answers the phone at Strega’s Hollow informs me that Professor Endicott has begun an indefinite research sabbatical.
It’s more than a little strange, considering Professor Endicott never mentioned taking a sabbatical when she rushed me out of the museum. Then again, she’d seemed unusually scattered. I suppose she could be the sort of person who’d forget to mention she was leaving town for weeks.
In any event, Professor Endicott may be gone, but she gave me one useful thread before she left.
She’d said Josh had spent time researching Salem’s Fall history with Eleanor and that some of the books they’d read were housed in Special Collections at the Ashcroft Library and in the Blackhollows’ private archive at Blackthorn Manor.
I arrive at the Ashcroft Library after my final class ends for the day.
I still can’t shake the bad memories of being attacked the last time I visited.
The wound along my arm has faded, but the skin tingles uneasily as I stare up at the steps.
I consider turning around, but then I think of Josh’s easy smile and the way he’d always cut my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches diagonally when we were little because he insisted they tasted better that way.
Instead of leaving, I draw a steadying breath and force myself forward, climbing the steps to the massive oak doors. Then I push them open.
Behind the circulation desk sits a woman in her mid-forties with brown curls, red-framed glasses, and a cardigan decorated with tiny embroidered acorns. She looks up as I approach.
“I’m looking for help,” I say. “I need to do some research, but I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for.”
Her eyes brighten. “You’re here for a book, then?”
“I think so, yes.”
“How lovely.” She leans forward excitedly. “Most students use the internet these days and treat this building as either a study hall or a place to pick up dates.”
I glance around the crowded main floor. She’s not wrong. Half the students are texting or playing games on their phones, while two people in the reference section hold hands over a textbook neither of them has opened.
“What sort of books are you looking for?” she asks, folding her hands on the counter.
“I met with Professor Endicott last week. I’m researching the founding history of Salem’s Fall. The witch trials. Local occult traditions.” I hesitate, watching for recognition. “I’m particularly interested in a secret society called the Order of the Veil.”
Her expression shifts immediately. “Oh, yes. The Veil.”
The ease of her response surprises me.
“You’ve heard of it?”
“My dear, we librarians know everything. We simply have the good sense not to discuss most of it out loud.” She grins as she turns toward her computer and begins typing.
“We do have a small collection on the subject. Professor Hargrove’s family donated his occult library after his untimely death years ago. Very gruesome business, I’m afraid.”
I know I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t stop myself.
“How did he die?”
“Disemboweled himself, unfortunately.” Her mouth tightens with distaste.
“He was all alone in his occult shop. Cute little place downtown called The Wandering Raven. No one ever found out why. Not an easy thing to do, you know, gutting oneself. Very unpleasant. But, alas, that was long ago.” She pauses, looking at me over the top of her glasses.
“Why are you interested in the Veil, dear?” There is suspicion in the question, though not much. Mostly I see concern on her face.
I let my expression soften and decide half-truths with a heavy focus on sympathy are the way to go.
“My older brother went missing last year,” I say, and her face changes immediately.
I already know I have her. “I really miss him. He went to school here too and was researching the town’s history for a game he designed.
He was fascinated by the founding of Salem’s Fall and all the occult business, especially the Veil.
I was hoping reading what he enjoyed might help me understand him better.
Might… I don’t know… make me feel closer to him? ”
“Oh, my sweet dear.” She presses one hand to her chest. “You’re Josh Mercer’s sister, aren’t you?”
I blink. “You knew him?”
“Of course I did. He was here constantly last fall. Such a nice young man, always in a cheerful mood.” Her gaze drifts toward the stairwell to the left of us. “He was often with Eleanor, you know. They spent a lot of time on the second floor in the Special Collections room.”
I lean in closer.
“Eleanor Graves?”
“Yes, such a lovely girl. Very conscientious.” The librarian lowers her voice as if someone might overhear us. “I always suspected she had something of a crush on your brother.”
Now that the possibility has been raised, the idea that Eleanor might’ve had a thing for Josh feels strangely obvious.
Josh hadn’t mentioned any women while he was at school, but Josh rarely did.
Women were always chasing after him, though he was usually too busy with one thing or another to pay them much attention.
“They were… friends?”
“She admired him, certainly. Probably wanted more.” She shrugs.
“After he disappeared, she was devastated. Kept searching the request logs, checking old records, asking whether anything had been returned under the wrong account.” Her expression clouds.
“I was terribly sorry to hear about her death. Such a tragedy.”
I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat. Poor Eleanor.
“Is there any way to see what Josh checked out? Or anything Eleanor may have held for him?” I pitch my voice lower, trying to sound conspiratorial and a little embarrassed. “I know there are probably rules. I’d just love to see what he was reading. It would mean a lot.”
“Of course, dear,” she says. “Let me see what I can do.”
She types for several moments, then steps back from the desk and frowns at the screen. “I don’t understand,” she says, shaking her head at the computer. “This is very odd.”
My pulse quickens. “What’s wrong?”
“I can see the titles your brother last checked out, but our records show the collection was transferred.”
“To where?” I ask.
She adjusts her glasses. “Looks like it went to the private archive at Blackthorn Manor.”
“All of it?”
“Nearly.” She scrolls farther. “There is one title still on campus. It was checked in shortly before—” She stops. “Yes. Eleanor had it last.”
My throat tightens.
“Can I see it?”
“I’ll retrieve it for you,” she says and disappears through a door behind the desk.
She returns several minutes later carrying a thick leather-bound volume with both hands. Dust clouds the dark brown cover. Faded gold lettering is stamped into the cracked leather: Blood and Bone: New England’s Hidden Histories of Magic, Mysteries, and the Occult.
I thank her profusely for her help as she checks the book out to me, then I take it to the first open table I can find and begin quickly flipping through pages.
The text starts with a reiteration of what Professor Endicott already told me about Salem’s Fall’s history, starting with the witch trials in the 1600s and confirming the Veil, indeed, was founded as a membership organization for the wealthiest founding families in order to survive the hysteria and preserve long-term influence.
But then the material shifts to something… darker.
There are references to the Veil morphing into more of a cult, their ceremonies evolving over time to harness power through some kind of ritual “sacrifice” to gain land, influence, or good fortune.
I can’t yet tell if the author means this is metaphorical sacrifice or a real murder.
I hope the former, but I guess anything is possible.
One symbol appears again and again throughout the text, a mark the Veil leaves behind during its power ceremonies: a curved spiral with jagged lines radiating outward, intersecting with an inverted pentagram.
Beneath the illustration, a caption reads:
MARK OF THE VEIL.
My skin prickles. I’ve seen the symbol before in Josh’s game.
I’m not sure what to make of the book. It’s centuries old.
For all I know, it’s less real history and more myth and folklore, its pages filled with legends passed off as fact.
It’s also hard to understand the text all on its own as it repeatedly cross-cites other sources—older texts, private journals, ceremonial records.
One title appears more than any other: The Book of Eternal Rites.
It seems to be a much older collection of the Veil’s artifacts, kind of a manual, detailing how to perform the Veil’s rituals.
I close the book and stare out the window. I need to get to Blackthorn Manor and see if I can get hold of the other books. But how? The archive is off campus. Privately owned. Controlled by the Blackhollows.
Josh had Lucien’s permission because of the fellowship, but I have no good reason to ask for access.
I suppose Silas could get me in, but I’d rather swallow broken glass than ask that asshole for a favor.
He’d say no anyway, probably while implying that my curiosity is yet another character defect of mine.
But then I smile to myself because Silas isn’t the only founding-family son I know. The answer comes so easily, I almost laugh.
Rowan.