Chapter 27
The Third Trial of The Rites begins at midnight, three days after the Winter Solstice Gala at Blackthorn Manor.
Three days after Silas kissed me like he had been starving for years.
Three days after he did unspeakable, spectacular things to me in his bed.
Three days of us both pretending like nothing had changed.
We’d passed each other on campus and in the dorms and sat through the same morning class, neither of us quite knowing what to do with the other.
Once, I caught him looking at me from across the library, but I looked away before he could catch me staring back.
Another time, he opened the door to Winthrop Commons for me, giving me a small nod and then disappearing inside before I could even open my mouth to thank him.
No phone call.
No text.
No awkward conversation.
Then again, I haven’t called or texted him either.
It’s not that I’d expected flowers. Silas Blackhollow would probably consider flowers a tactical liability. A severed head in a box maybe, but not flowers.
Still…
Some indication that he was thinking about what happened that night at the gala as much as I was would’ve been nice.
Maybe I imagined the way he’d looked at me afterward, like what had happened between us meant more than either of us wanted to admit. Maybe us sleeping together was just two stressed-out competitors blowing off steam before another deadly trial. After all, wasn’t that exactly what I’d told him?
Just sex. Nothing complicated.
Now we stand shoulder to shoulder on an abandoned colonial pier while the other competitors wait nearby in tense silence for the trial to begin.
Salem’s Fall Harbor stretches into darkness beyond the old docks, black enough to swallow the horizon whole.
Snow falls lightly from the darkened sky as the wind tears across the water with enough force to sting my cheeks, carrying the sharp scent of salt, frozen wood, and a hint of fear.
The summons had said something about the “West” and a trial of “Water.” By now, I know enough about the Veil to recognize the pattern and know my trial is going to be something terrible involving the harbor.
I didn’t mind being underground in the tunnels, and I’ve never been afraid of heights, but deep water?
I shiver.
It’s embarrassing to admit, but I never learned to swim. My mother promised more than once to sign me up for lessons, but there was never enough money, or she forgot, or something else always got in the way. Eventually, I stopped asking.
So water… yeah, definitely not my favorite thing.
I steal a look at Silas to see if he notices my nervous fidgeting, but he isn’t looking at me.
Actually, he’s doing some fidgeting of his own.
Whatever effortless confidence usually surrounds him has thinned into something uncertain.
I highly doubt someone as privileged and athletic as Silas would have the same problem with water that I have.
The dude can probably swim miles underwater without taking a breath.
It makes me wonder if something else has gotten under his skin. If maybe I’m not the only one who’s spent the last three days overthinking things between us. The thought gives me courage to speak first.
“So…”
Brilliant opening, Jack.
“So,” he echoes.
The silence between us stretches into something uncomfortable.
“I haven’t heard from you since”—I shrug—“you know…”
“I haven’t heard from you either.”
Well. Fair.
“I wasn’t sure how you wanted this to go,” he adds, hesitating. His hand moves vaguely between us. “Afterward.”
Hope sparks stupidly inside my chest.
Maybe this is it.
Maybe he’s about to say he enjoyed that night as much as I had and he’s been thinking about it as much as I have.
Maybe—
“I thought giving you some space seemed… respectful.” He exhales slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I assumed you might regret it.”
The sentence lands like a slap.
That’s what he’s been thinking about for the last three days? He thinks I need distance? That I want to forget it happened? That I regret sleeping with him?
“Why?” My voice comes out in an embarrassing little croak, and heat climbs into my face despite the freezing wind. “Do you regret it?”
His brows knit together immediately.
“Of course not.” He hesitates, a hint of distance entering his expression. “But I don’t think we have to make more of it than it was. Nothing has to change between us.” His gaze shifts away from mine. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? A strategic partnership.”
The words crush something inside me. For a second, I can only stare at him, the humiliation almost worse than the hurt.
Nothing has to change?
Is he fucking kidding me?
But then I remember who I’m dealing with—the king of cruel, heartless bastards. Of course, to him, the most amazing night of my entire life hadn’t meant anything. Partners before. Nothing else.
He watches me carefully, and I force a smile that feels more like baring my teeth.
“Don’t worry, Blackhollow. We’re cool,” I say. “It was just sex. I’d never make the mistake of confusing it with… whatever emotions normal people have.”
The muscles in his neck tense.
“I never said you did. You’ve made your position perfectly clear.”
I fold my arms tighter against the cold. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
Something shutters behind his eyes.
“We do.”
There it is. The confirmation I’d been expecting all week.
I swallow around the sudden ache in my throat and say the only thing I can think of to make the hurt go away. For him to know he hasn’t gotten to me.
“I’d never be able to have real feelings for someone like you anyway,” I add, making my voice as cold as I can, as cold as his is.
Silas goes completely still.
“No,” he says. “I wouldn’t imagine you would.”
Our eyes break apart at the same moment, and the distance between us suddenly feels much wider than the few feet separating us.
The conversation dies around us as a lone figure emerges through the drifting snow, his long black coat snapping in the wind. He makes his way to the end of the pier and turns to face us. My breath catches.
It’s Professor Nightwing.
My professor from Foundations of New England Institutions. The man who lectures three times a week at nine in the morning about Salem’s Fall’s history.
He surveys the gathered competitors with the same controlled demeanor he brings to the classroom, as though this deadly trial is no different from one of his lectures.
“Good evening,” he says, his voice carrying over the harbor.
“Welcome to your Third Trial. I assume most of you have already recognized the inspiration for tonight’s competition. ”
He gestures to the far end of the pier, revealing five structures built over the harbor.
At first, they resemble construction scaffolds abandoned halfway through repair: thick timber platforms braced with iron, heavy chains dangling from crossbeams, iron winches bolted into the planks. Then I see the chairs.
Each one hangs several feet above the water.
They are crude, high-backed things reinforced with iron bands, fitted with restraints at the wrists, ankles, and chest. Beside each chair, a thin cord disappears into the harbor, its other end attached to a brass bell mounted above the corresponding winch.
My stomach turns.
“Hundreds of years ago, those accused of witchcraft were often subjected to trial by water,” Professor Nightwing continues.
“The logic was elegant in its ruthlessness. If the accused floated, they were a witch and were killed. If they sank, they were innocent—and were killed.” He lets out a dry laugh.
“Tonight’s trial preserves the central essence of that test, with a twist.”
A nervous murmur moves through the contestants as he explains the rules.
Everyone will pick a partner. There will be two rounds.
In the first, one member of each pair will be submerged underwater in the chair while the other acts as a witness and controls the mechanism to bring them back up.
The submerged partner controls the warning bell.
When they have reached their limit underwater, they may use the bell to ask to be brought to the surface. Then the roles are reversed.
Every second beneath the surface earns one point.
The trial stops when only one contestant remains underwater.
They’ll be brought back up, and the final times recorded.
The pair with the highest combined score will win.
If both partners survive, an additional survival bonus will be applied.
Entering the water for any reason, unless you are seated in a chair, forfeits the round.
“So the person on land decides whether the extra points are worth the risk of keeping their partner down longer?” Lena asks.
“Precisely,” he says.
Wren’s voice trembles. “And if they wait too long?”
Professor Nightwing doesn’t so much as blink. “Then their partner drowns.”
The realization passes over the pier in grim silence.
We are then directed toward a washroom to change into special underwater immersion suits provided by the Veil that look military at first glance, though stitched with old silver runes instead of reflective tape.
At least they aren’t planning to freeze us to death before drowning us. The Veil and their impeccable manners.
Silas and I are assigned the fourth numbered scaffold, near the center of the pier. From our location, I can see every chair and the large, illuminated clock suspended above Professor Nightwing’s platform.
The other pairings are Georgina and Rowan, Wren and Lena, Van and his tattooed partner—Carter, I think is his name—and two other contestants I haven’t gotten to know yet.
A large man with a scar along his jaw and a striking blonde woman with icy blue eyes.
They look about my age, but I’ve never seen either of them on campus. Perhaps they don’t even go to SFU.
Without any fanfare, Silas takes a seat in the chair.
I stare at him. “What are you doing?”
“Going first.”
“Why?”
He gives me a long, knowing look. “You’re shivering, and we both know it’s not from the cold.” His voice softens. “It’s okay to be afraid sometimes, Jack. Let me do this. You can watch, see how the mechanism works. See that it’s safe.”
“I’m not afraid!” I snap, my cheeks heating. “You just want to get through your trial first, then decide whether to save me or let me drown.”
His eyes cut to mine, all that softness disappearing instantly. “You’re welcome to go first, if you prefer.”
I look down into the murky depths of the harbor.
“No… that’s okay.” My voice betrays me with the slightest waver.
“That’s what I thought.”
I close the first restraint around his wrist, iron clicking against iron. The sound makes something in my stomach twist.
“How long are you planning to stay under?” I ask.
“As long as necessary.”
“That isn’t a number.” I close the second wrist restraint, then his ankles. Finally, I draw the broad leather strap across his chest and secure it to the chair frame. I crouch beside him, keeping my voice low. “When you ring, I’ll bring you up,” I say. “I promise.”
Even if I hate him again, I want him to know he can trust me as his partner.
“I’m not going to ring.” He looks at the bell cord beside his right hand, then back at me. “Leave me down until we win. That’s the game, Mercer.”
I stare at him in disbelief. He is not teasing. He is not trying to frighten me. His face is perfectly calm, as if he’s already accepted his fate and sees no reason anyone else should object.
“That is insane,” I hiss. “I could kill you.”
A spark of amusement lights his eyes. “Well, then you’ll win and I’ll be dead. I’d think you might rather like those results.”
“Silas—”
He turns his head toward me, something almost hopeful in his expression that makes my chest ache. I almost tell him the truth—that I didn’t mean it, that our night at Blackthorn Manor wasn’t meaningless to me. That this is more than a partnership.
But then his chair swings out over the harbor, and with a raise of Professor Nightwing’s hand, all five chairs disappear beneath an explosion of water.