Page 41 of Salem’s Rise

“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.”

I hesitate, clutching my tote bag nervously to my chest. “You’re not coming with me?”

“I’m meeting Lucien, remember? That was the plan.”

“It sounded better in the car.”

He smiles, then leans in, lowering his voice. “Fifteen minutes. Twenty at most.” He gives my hand a quick squeeze. “Find what you need and meet me outside.”

“And if someone comes in?”

“Hide.”

I find the library moments later. It’s remarkably large to be inside someone’s home. Shelves rise from floor to ceiling, packed tightly with leather-bound volumes. A spiral iron staircase leads to a second gallery above. I’m surprised how dark it is inside, lit only by tall windows and two lamps on a central reading table. Perhaps the darkness helps to keep the books preserved.

I move quickly, scanning titles.

Colonial law. Family records. Theology. Folklore.

My pulse quickens as I find a section marked only by that odd pentagram-type symbol I’m becoming very familiar with: the Mark of the Veil. The books here are older, their spines cracked and titles faded. My gaze catches on one immediately: The Book of Eternal Rites.

I reach for it just as voices drift through the adjoining room, quickly heading my way. Panic cuts cleanly through my thoughts. Clutching the book, I drop to the floor and duck beneath one of the enormous reading tables just as the library door opens.