Page 52 of Salem’s Rise

His words are almost gentle, but I understand them right away for what they really are.

Another threat.

The official word on campus is that the haunted house death was a suicide, even though it makes absolutely no sense. No one mentions the symbols or the impossibility of cutting one’s own stomach open. I can’t help but think about the librarian and the man she told me about—a Professor Hargrove—who died in a similar fashion. For the first time since arriving in Salem’s Fall, I am no longer searching for proof that the Veil exists.

I have it.

Every evening, I return to my dorm room, lock the door, pull the curtains shut, and spread my books and sticky notes across every available surface like Josh used to do whenever he designed one of his elaborate puzzle games for Vanished. He always started by separating information into pieces before fitting them together. I find myself doing the same. Pages from Blood and Bone lie open beside Ceremonies of the Veil and The Book of Eternal Rites. My notes cover everything from sketches of symbols to timelines of Veil leadership. Colored tabs protrude from nearly every chapter.

The answers don’t arrive all at once. Instead, they come the way Josh’s puzzles always did—through persistence, one piece sliding into place, making another suddenly obvious, until the entire picture begins emerging from fragments that had seemed unrelated only hours earlier.

The breakthrough comes on the Wednesday night before Halloween. I’m sitting on my bed with three books open around me and a mug of tea that has long since gone cold. I suddenly realize I’d been trying to read The Book of Eternal Rites as though it were a complete text, growing increasingly frustrated by the number of references that seemed to begin in the middle of conversations and went nowhere. Almost absentmindedly, I’d reached for Blood and Bone or Ceremonies of the Veil to verify a footnote and realized the authors were discussing the same ceremony from entirely different perspectives. One assumes the reader is an outsider studying folklore. The other assumes the reader already belongs to the Veil. None of the books are complete on their own, but combined, they finally begin making sense.

I spend the next several hours cross-referencing passages, copying page numbers into my notebook, and drawing lines between chapters until my handwriting becomes almost illegible. Gradually, the mythology surrounding the Veil gives way to something truly unsettling.

What I had originally hoped had been metaphorical “sacrifices” are undeniably all-too-real human sacrifices Veil members believe necessary to gain and maintain power. They are called the “Blood Rites,” different rituals performed whenever necessity demands. Some seek protection. Others wealth. Influence. Health. Revenge. The desired outcome changes, but the method remains constant. They are most often single sacrifices whereby one innocent life is taken—offered willingly—and slain by a sacrificial ceremonial knife. Most horrific is the requirement that the victim must be someone the Veil member loves.

Not political rivals. Not strangers.

Loved ones.

The accompanying commentary calls it a “Tethered” person and claims a person who willingly gives up someone they cherish proves the request to be worthy.

I close the book for a moment, suddenly unable to continue reading. What kind of people create a tradition like that? More importantly… what kind of people continue to willingly follow it?

But that isn’t even the worst of what I’ve discovered tonight.

No, that’s The Rites.

For some reason, many of the chapters on The Rites have been badly damaged beyond readability. Entire pages have been torn away, leaving only jagged stubs behind. Even so, what I can piece together is horrifying.

Unlike the other blood rituals, The Rites aren’t described as sacrificial murders but as a deadly competition held once every fifty years. Whenever The Rites are called, any Veil family with a legitimate claim to leadership may challenge the current ruler by entering their offspring into the games. The pages describing the rules are missing, but one fact remains unmistakably clear: most of the participants die agonizing deaths.

Finally, after painstakingly matching centuries-old occult calendars to their modern equivalents, I discover what Veil Night actually is. According to the texts, Veil Night is the Veil’s most sacred observance—the night when the boundary between living and dead grows thinnest and their greatest ceremonies are performed. Blood Rites may generally take place at any time throughout the year, though they become more frequent as Veil Night approaches. The Rites, however, always occur on Veil Night. The words Josh used in his game—the fourth level he never finished—weren’t referring to some made-up event after all.

Veil Night is Halloween.

To everyone else, the upcoming weekend promises music, dancing, and another Salem’s Fall holiday celebration. To me, it has become a deadline. If the books are right, another ritual may be coming.

Just then, something slides beneath my door with a soft scrape against the hardwood floor. I turn to find a heavy black envelope. Dark wax seals the flap. Across the front, written in elegant silver script, is my name.

Jacqueline Mercer.

It appears my invitation to the Blackhollow Halloween Ball has arrived.

October 31 (Halloween/Veil Night)

By the time Halloween arrives, I’ve read enough about Veil Night to know I should stay home.

Instead, I stand in front of the mirror, trying to decide whether the cheap dress I wore to senior prom three years ago can pass for formal if I pretend hard enough. The dark green satin slip still fits, but the hem is slightly too short for a formal black-tie event, and the fabric has a faint crease across one hip that no amount of steam seems willing to remove. Sadly, I don’t have any other options.

Rowan told me he’s wearing a custom-made suit and tie. Lena sent a photograph of her beaded gown draped across her bed. Her mother picked it out for her, and it looks like something straight off a Paris runway. Even Jonah, who treats social gatherings like a communicable disease, admitted he rented a tuxedo for the night. Apparently, everyone has the appropriate attire for an invitation-only affair hosted by Salem’s Fall’s wealthiest billionaire family—everyone except for me.

The Blackhollow Ball invitation remains propped against my lamp, its silver lettering glinting whenever I move. I’ve spent the last several days trying to determine who sent it and why. One thing is undeniable: the Blackhollow Ball takes place on Halloween. Josh disappeared on Halloween. Whatever Veil Night really is, I have a sneaking suspicion the Blackhollow Ball is connected to it. It isn’t just a party. It’s the next step in my investigation.

I’m putting on the final touches of my makeup when someone knocks on my door. When I open it, the hall is already empty, a long black garment box resting on the floor. There is no card.

I lift the lid, and black tissue paper folds away beneath my fingers, revealing a gown so stunning I simply stare. It’s made from black silk layered with delicate lace, the bodice fitted without appearing costume-like. Fine embroidery traces the neckline and sleeves, and tiny sparkling crystals are hand-sewn through the lace so subtly they catch the light like distant stars. It’s lovely and elegant and somehow exactly what I would’ve chosen for myself… if I could afford something so extravagant.