Chapter 12 #2
“I’m glad you called,” Rowan says to me an hour later as the quaint streets of Salem’s Fall disappear in a blur outside his Porsche’s windows.
Autumn arrives even more boldly outside town.
The trees burn with brilliant shades of yellow, orange, red, and gold, their leaves flashing overhead as we follow the narrow road deeper into the countryside.
“You sound surprised,” I say.
Rowan glances at me and smiles. “I was beginning to think you only sought me out when you needed directions.”
“To be fair, I do need your help finding Blackthorn Manor. I couldn’t find its location on any map.” I look pointedly around the leather interior. “And your transportation isn’t half bad either.”
“So I’m being used for my car now too?”
“Yep,” I say. “And I also need your access to powerful families’ private library collections.”
His smile widens. “How could I forget that part?”
I hold Blood and Bone tighter against my thigh, one hand resting over the cracked leather cover.
Rowan agreed to help faster than I expected.
There was no interrogation, no warning that I was in over my head.
Just an easy I can get you in, as if sneaking me inside a private occult collection at Lucien Blackhollow’s home was no more complicated than booking a table at the best restaurant in town.
“You’re sure Lucien won’t think it’s strange that you’re showing up unannounced?”
“I’m not unannounced.” Rowan takes a curve without slowing. “Lucien occasionally advises me on my political theory work.”
“You’re a political science major?”
As soon as I ask, I realize it makes perfect sense. The Ashcroft family is Salem’s Fall’s political dynasty, and Rowan possesses the kind of effortless charm that makes people want to follow him.
“I am,” he says. “I’d love to be a senator someday. Maybe even president.” He grins. “Most people think politics is about leadership, but it’s really about persuasion. The trick is making people grateful for the choices you already made for them.”
I study him more closely, turning his words over in my head. Apparently, there’s more calculation beneath that easygoing exterior than I realized.
“And you really think this will work?” I ask.
“I can get you into the house,” he says. “After that, you’ll have to be quick. Lucien doesn’t allow anyone into the restricted collection without permission.”
The road bends through the thick New England woodlands, and a pair of fortress-like iron gates rises ahead of us, black stone pillars flanking the entrance. Beyond them, the estate unfolds.
Blackthorn Manor is not simply a house.
It is a kingdom pretending to be a house.
The grounds alone are spectacular. Ancient oaks and towering maples line the long drive as we pull inside, their branches arching overhead in a cathedral of fire-colored leaves.
Meticulously groomed gardens extend in every direction, arranged in formal terraces and curved beds overflowing with lavender and vivid orange roses.
The roses are unlike any I’ve seen before, their petals glowing like embers against the dark soil.
To the left, a private tennis court gleams beneath the afternoon light, its white lines freshly painted. To the right, a sprawling stable opens onto broad pastures where thoroughbred horses race along the fence, their polished coats flashing chestnut and black.
“Wow. All of this belongs to Lucien?” I ask.
“Lucien stays here, but the property is owned by Damien and James Blackhollow,” Rowan says. “Silas’s parents.”
I look at him. “Wait—Silas lives here?”
Rowan glances over, amused. “You didn’t know?”
“I knew the Blackhollow family owned it, but not who specifically. And I definitely wasn’t expecting all this.” I wave a hand, gesturing to the grandeur all around me.
The main house emerges then between the trees.
It rises from the earth like something torn from the pages of a gothic novel, massive and centuries old.
Aged stone walls stretch beneath steep gables and narrow towers.
The building looks untouched by decay, as if age itself has learned better than to interfere.
“That’s the original manor,” Rowan explains. “The family has owned it since Salem’s Fall was founded.” He gestures toward a second residence flanking the main house. Dark brick. Georgian lines. It’s more modern but still massive in size. “That’s the West House. That’s where Lucien lives.”
To the other side of the West House stands another building, large enough to pass for a country inn.
“There’s a hotel on the property?” I ask.
“Guest quarters,” Rowan says. “Though ‘guest’ usually means foreign dignitary, business associate, or distant relative with a title.”
Getting inside the West House is easier than I’d expected. Rowan leads me through a side entrance and pauses only once, listening as footsteps cross the hall beyond us. A housekeeper passes carrying folded linens, and Rowan waits until the sound fades before drawing me inside.
The place feels like stepping into another century.
Dark wooden panels line the walls. Antique colonial chandeliers hang from high ceilings, their crystal drops glimmering above us.
Richly woven rugs stretch across the hardwood floors in faded burgundy and gold, muffling every footstep.
Somewhere nearby, a grandfather clock ticks steadily.
Rowan points down a narrow corridor. “The library is through the parlor and around the back.”