Chapter 25
Lucien Blackhollow stands beside me with one hand resting lightly against the polished edge of the bar, a glass of amber liquor balanced between his fingers. Candlelight softens the sharp planes of his handsome face, making him look almost friendly.
Winter Solstice Gala guests continue to waltz around the dance floor of the Blackthorn Manor ballroom as the orchestra shifts into something lighter, strings rising above conversation and laughter.
Lucien appears perfectly at ease throughout it all, as though the house, the music, and every person within reach exist solely because he permits them to.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I say. “It’s a lovely party.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he says. “Tell me, Ms. Mercer, how are you holding up?”
The question surprises me.
I know everyone in town fears this man—even his own nephew, who is terrifying in his own right.
But during the limited contact I’ve had with Lucien, he’s always been nothing but cordial.
It’s confusing, especially now that I know who he really is and what he really controls.
He’s no doubt a cold-hearted killer—either by his own hand or by his allowance—so why does he always seem different around me? Almost… gentle.
I take a sip of champagne to give myself time to think of a diplomatic but truthful answer.
“I’m okay, I guess,” I finally respond. “The last few weeks have been a lot. But I’m lucky to still be here.”
“I’m not sure it’s luck,” he says, studying me with a look I cannot read. “But I’m glad for it too. You’ve done well.”
The warmth in his voice is unexpected.
“Uh… thank you.”
His gaze shifts across the ballroom to where Silas is now standing near the fireplace with the senator and two older men who I don’t recognize.
He’s listening rather than speaking, shoulders relaxed, one hand in his pocket.
He looks entirely at home among them. Not because he’s pretending, but because he’s been trained for rooms like this since birth.
Lucien watches him for several seconds.
“You’re good for him, you know.”
I nearly choke on my drink. “What?”
“My nephew.”
“I understood who you meant. I’m questioning the logic behind it.”
The corner of Lucien’s mouth lifts ever so slightly. “He smiles around you. That’s rare.”
“We’re partners. That’s all,” I say. “We’re not even friends, really.”
Lucien laughs softly, the look on his face all-knowing. I immediately regret speaking the words. It occurs to me that this man is far too perceptive for me to be anything but brutally honest. He would see through anything less.
“Okay… so maybe that’s not entirely correct. I’m not sure what’s going on with us,” I say, changing tactics. This, at least, is truthful. “But I didn’t think you, of all people, would approve.”
A flicker of genuine confusion crosses his face.
“Why would you think that?”
“Besides the obvious?” Heat creeps up the back of my neck.
“I’m a nobody. He’s a Blackhollow. He has expectations.
A grand life already planned for him that someone like me could never understand and never fit into.
We’re from two totally different worlds and, no offense, but your world is absolutely terrifying. ”
Lucien looks at Silas before turning back to me again.
“You’re right, Ms. Mercer. This life demands a great deal,” he says quietly.
“It takes from anyone who’s not prepared to defend what belongs to them.
” His hand tightens around his drink. “My brother and his wife—Silas’s parents—they barely survived it.
I’ve found my own happiness with time, but happiness creates vulnerability.
Once you possess something worth protecting, the Veil knows where to place the knife.
You must get very good at deflecting it to protect those you love. ”
Lucien has a faint smile on his face, as though he is thinking of someone special.
Silas mentioned an aunt, though I’ve never seen the woman.
I wonder where she is tonight. Whether Lucien keeps her away from these rooms to protect her, or whether she’s somewhere within them, disguised as another elegant stranger.
“I suppose,” Lucien continues, “I taught Silas cruelty because I believed it would keep him alive. I’m not certain I taught him when to set it aside or who to set it aside for.
I have been hard on him. Perhaps harder than I should be.
” His expression tightens with something that looks almost like regret.
“But I think someone like you could show him how to make space for a little happiness too.”
I don’t know what to say to that or if I’m supposed to say anything at all. Of all the things I expected to hear from Lucien tonight, that certainly wasn’t one of them.
Lucien’s eyes move over my face with sudden, unsettling familiarity. “You look just like her.”
“Who?”
“Your mother, of course.”
The ballroom seems to tilt by half a degree.
“You know my mother?”
“Very well.” Lucien’s expression softens. “Your father too.”
The champagne glass goes cold in my hand. “What… what do you mean?”
“We attended the university together, just like your brother and now you. Of course, that was many years ago.”
“That’s impossible,” I say. “My mother never mentioned going to school here. And she definitely never mentioned you.”
“No.” Something in his expression dims. “I imagine she wouldn’t.”
The orchestra reaches the end of the song. Applause rises around us, but it barely reaches me. This entire conversation feels detached from reality, as though the world has quietly shifted into something I no longer recognize.
“I was deeply sorry about your father. He died far too young,” he says, and my throat tightens at his words.
“I always hoped your mother might eventually find some measure of peace. She loved him so. He was her entire world.” Something in his expression falters, grief briefly breaking through the careful composure.
“I hope you know I attempted to help where I could, but she’s a proud woman and refused much. ”
A memory surfaces then: envelopes that arrived when I was younger, checks my mother never explained, money that appeared after late mortgage notices or when our situation turned especially dire.
Our mysterious benefactor, she used to call him.
Suddenly, it makes perfect sense—and yet no sense at the same time.
“That—that was you?” I stumble on my words. “I don’t understand.”
“I cared very much for your parents. It was the least I could do.” There is a hint of sadness in his voice. “So many times, I encouraged your mother to return to Salem’s Fall, but she refused,” he says. “I cannot blame her. I suppose coming back here without him was too hard.”
“And Josh’s fellowship?” My pulse is beating too quickly now. “You were trying to help him too, then?”
Lucien looks down for a moment, blinking hard.
“I had hoped that would turn out differently.”
“What does that mean?”
His face closes with practiced grace. “Only that your brother was extraordinary and deserved every opportunity the Blackhollow Foundation could provide.”
I wonder if this is my chance to finally ask him about Josh. Until now, I’d never considered Lucien someone I could speak to freely about my brother, but this conversation has changed everything.
“Mr. Blackhollow—”
He sets his glass down.
“Be strong, Jacqueline. It will all be over soon,” he says softly.
“Stay close to Silas. He’ll protect you.
” He looks away, suddenly distracted by something on the other side of the room.
The shift is so abrupt, it feels deliberate.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to my guests.
” His smile returns, elegant and impenetrable.
“Please enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Within seconds, he is absorbed by the room again, greeting donors, laughing with a professor, accepting the governor’s hand as though he has not just detonated everything I thought I understood about my family.
My mother knew Lucien Blackhollow.
My father knew him too.
Silas returns moments later while I’m still standing in a daze, unable to fully comprehend everything that just transpired. He notices my expression and grabs my hand, worry evident on his face.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “What did my uncle say to you?”
“We need to talk—in private.”
He doesn’t argue, just guides me through a side corridor and up the grand staircase, away from the music and voices. We pass rows of closed doors and seemingly endless corridors before arriving at his bedroom at the end of the west wing.
I expect something severe and cold. Instead, the room feels lived in, almost cozy.
Dark wood, gray walls, an enormous rug faded at the edges.
Books fill two entire shelves and spill onto the desk beneath the window.
Some are histories and legal texts. Others surprise me—crime novels, battered fantasy paperbacks, poetry, and at least three romances shoved together on a lower shelf as though he hopes no one will notice them.
There are photographs too.
Silas as a child with his parents. A younger Lucien with one arm around his brother and Silas in the middle. Another of Silas at perhaps sixteen, glaring at the camera while his mother laughs beside him.
The room feels like it belongs to a totally different person than the one I know.
“Tell me what happened,” Silas says, closing the door behind us.
I turn on him. “You said if we worked together, there would be no more secrets.”
“No.” His expression tightens. “I agreed no deliberate omissions regarding immediate threats in The Rites. I have kept that promise.”
“Lucien knew my mother and my father.” I step closer. “They were good friends.”
Silas becomes unnaturally still.
There it is. Exactly as I’d expected.
“You knew,” I whisper.
“Jack—”
The hurt hardens into anger. “Tell me the truth now, or this—whatever this is between us—is over.”
His eyes flick briefly toward the closed door. Then he releases a long breath and drags one hand through his hair.
“What do you know about Salem’s Fall history and the missing Fourth House?”
“Just what we learned in class and a few things Professor Endicott told Rowan and me.” I shrug. “But she was half crazy, so I’m not sure what to believe.”
Silas walks to the desk but doesn’t sit. Instead, he braces both hands against its edge, his head lowering for a moment as though steadying himself before speaking.
“The Veil wasn’t always ruled by three houses,” he says. “In the beginning, there were four founding families of Salem’s Fall. Four bloodlines that created the Veil during the witch trials. Blackhollow. Ashcroft. Hawthorne.” A beat passes and he meets my eyes. “And Mercer.”