Page 8 of Salem’s Rise

A few students laugh as my grip tightens around my tray. I don’t know the dean, but I’ve spent enough of my life watching powerful people humiliate those beneath them. I know exactly how it feels to be stepped on by them, just because they can.

“What an asshole,” I mutter.

I push my chair back and feel someone watching me. I turn slightly and catch the blond Heir—Rowan—staring at me. His blue eyes meet mine and he winks, as if my whispered insult about his friend amused him.

I know I should look away. Make myself small, unnoticeable, especially to guys like him. But against my better judgment, I pause and maintain eye contact. There’s something disarming about him. Maybe because he’s the only one of the three who looks as if he might actually know how to laugh at a joke.

My heart is beating a little too fast as I leave Winthrop Commons, which is ridiculous. I didn’t come to Salem’s Fall for hot guys or campus royalty or whatever bizarre hierarchy made half the room tremble when those three men walked inside.

I came for Josh.

By the time I step outside, the sun has slipped behind the old buildings. The last traces of daylight linger over the quad as a warm breeze drifts in from the harbor and the steady chorus of crickets rises from the lawns. I glance back through the tall windows of Winthrop Commons.

The Heirs are still inside, gathered beneath the glittering chandeliers, laughing over something. Van picks at his food with visible disdain while Rowan says something that makes one of the women at the nearby table blush. Silas leans back in his chair, watching it all like a prince holding court. Then, as if sensing my gaze, he turns toward the window, and our eyes meet through the glass once more.

A chill moves through me.

I still don’t know what Josh found here at Salem’s Fall, but for the first time since arriving on campus, I’m certain of one thing. Silas Blackhollow knows at least some of this town’s secrets. And one way or another, I’m going to make him tell me.

The first thing I do when my alarm goes off Monday morning is lace up my running shoes and head to the campus gym.

I’d spent my weekend digging up everything I could about Silas and the Heirs, hoping to figure out a way to cross paths with them again. The internet was full of information about their famous families, but there wasn’t much about the men themselves. I found a few stories about the lacrosse team—they were all senior starters—and the occasional photo from charity galas or campus events, but nothing very useful.

Unfortunately, my computer skills were nothing like Josh’s. I couldn’t hack into the university’s registry to find their class schedules or anything like that, so my best option was to go where they were likely to be. And if there was one thing I knew about guys built like that, it was that they spent time in the gym.

I arrive at the Alden Recreation Center just before 6 a.m. It’s less university gym and more luxury athletic club. Inside are floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water, rows of brand-new cardio machines, and an entire wing dedicated to strength training. There’s even an indoor climbing wall.

I toss my backpack into a locker and climb onto the first open treadmill I see. For me, running has never been about staying skinny. It’s about staying ready. Josh used to say, Life doesn’t care whether you’re tired. If you want to survive, you keep moving.

So I do.

Three miles on the treadmill, then forty-five minutes in the weight room, moving through the same routine I’ve followed for years. Deadlifts. Pull-ups. Bench press. Curls. Lunges. Abs. By the time I’m ready to leave, I’m disappointed not to have seen any signs of Silas or his friends. Perhaps the lacrosse team has its own private workout facilities.

Back at my dorm, my shower washes away the sweat but not the nerves. Today is my first day of classes and my first real step in figuring out what happened to Josh. After I dry off, I stand in front of the closet for several minutes before realizing I’m doing something I almost never do. Overthinking my clothes.

My wardrobe has always been practical. Jeans. Boots. Oversized sweaters. A worn leather bomber jacket that’s been with me since high school. Clothes meant to last, not impress. But over the weekend, I’ve learned one painfully obvious lesson. Nobody at SFU dresses like that. Everyone here looks effortlessly polished without appearing as though they tried. Cashmere sweaters with logos draped over shoulders. Tailored trousers. Crisp white sneakers that have somehow never seen dirt.

Not flashy. Old money.

I’d gone into town yesterday afternoon and wandered into a tiny boutique called Moon & Wick that was tucked between an antique bookstore and an old apothecary. The owner had convinced me to buy a deep emerald knit top after insisting the color made my green eyes look “positively enchanted.” It was the first piece of clothing I’d bought for myself in over a year.

I catch my reflection in the mirror as I pull it over my head. It fits well, and I have to admit she was right. The rich green hue really does make my eyes pop and brings out the copper tones in my hair, though it also makes my freckles stand out more than I’d like. I tug on dark jeans and lace up my boots before grabbing my backpack. If you squint hard enough, I almost look like I belong here.

A few minutes later, I arrive at Ipswich Hall, home to the history department. Students stream along the brick walkways carrying laptops and coffee cups, greeting one another. The lecture hall is already half full by the time I walk through the double doors. I eye the room, looking for a place to sit when someone near the middle raises a hand, beckoning me over.

Wren.

She smiles and gestures toward the empty seat beside her. I make my way down the aisle, sliding into the chair, grateful to recognize a friendly face.

“Enjoying your first day?” she asks.

“So far, so good.”

I learn a little more about her while we wait for class to begin. She tells me she’s studying museum conservation and working nearly thirty hours a week through the university’s work-study program. I tell her I’m finishing my accounting degree through an exchange agreement with Northeastern.

The bell rings and the professor, a silver-haired and impeccably dressed older gentleman in a tweed jacket, strides toward the head of the lecture hall. He sets down a stack of worn, leather-bound books on the podium and smiles as the room quiets.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says, opening his notes. “I’m Professor Nightwing. Welcome to Foundations of New England Institutions.”