Page 9 of Salem’s Rise

He pauses as the classroom door opens once more. Every head turns as the three Heirs walk in. A group of students in the front row immediately gathers their things and moves without being asked. Once the Heirs have settled into their seats, the professor resumes.

“As I was saying, welcome in,” the professor says. “For those of you who are seniors, congratulations. This is likely the final general education course standing between you and graduation.” A few people chuckle. “I know what many of you are thinking. Why are business students, engineers, pre-med, and English majors all sitting in the same history class?” He picks up a piece of chalk and turns toward the blackboard. “Because if you’re going to spend four years at Salem’s Fall University, you should probably understand the institution that’s about to put its name on your diploma.”

Three names appear in neat block letters on the blackboard.

BLACKHOLLOW

ASHCROFT

HAWTHORNE

“These three names are impossible to ignore. Once you start looking, you’ll see them everywhere around campus and in town,” Professor Nightwing continues. “Scholarships. Research grants. Endowed professorships. Entire wings of hospitals. If you’ve lived anywhere in New England, you’ve probably encountered at least one of these names.”

My eyes drift toward the front of the lecture hall where the Heirs sit. Silas has one arm draped over the back of his chair, eyes half closed as though bored. Rowan is flipping idly through the syllabus while Van appears more interested in whatever is happening on his cell phone screen than the class.

Professor Nightwing taps the first name with the chalk.

“The Blackhollows built their fortune in venture capital and cutting-edge technology. They’re probably the most recognizable of the three families, thanks in part to their large corporate footprint and their generous philanthropy.” He nods toward the windows overlooking campus. “If you’ve ever been treated at the state-of-the-art Blackhollow Wing at Boston Children’s Hospital or visited the New England Historical and Cultural Heritage Museum, you’ve benefited from Blackhollow donor generosity.”

There isn’t a flicker of reaction from Silas.

“The Ashcrofts made their fortune in newspapers and broadcast media before becoming one of the country’s most influential political families,” Professor Nightwing says, moving on to the second name. A few female students sneak admiring little glances at Rowan. He notices, offering them an easy grin.

“And finally, the Hawthornes.” The professor pauses. “The Hawthornes have long been associated with defense and strategic security. They built railroads. Controlled shipping routes. Founded private security firms. For more than three centuries, if there was dangerous work to be done somewhere in New England, odds are a Hawthorne was involved.”

Van smiles coldly at that, proud of his heritage.

“Together, these families transformed what began as a small settlement into a bustling center, where they founded one of the most prestigious universities in the country.” Professor Nightwing sets the chalk down. “Their descendants continue to sit on the Board of Trustees at Salem’s Fall University, funding research and shaping the future of this institution.”

A student near the front raises his hand.

“My roommate said there used to be another founding family. Is it true?”

Professor Nightwing sighs dramatically. “It never fails. Every year, at least one student asks about that,” he says, leaning against the edge of his desk. “Officially, university records recognize only three founding families. Unofficially…” He shrugs. “Salem’s Fall has accumulated more legends than most towns.”

“So they did exist?” a girl behind me asks. “What happened to them?”

“No one seems to agree.” The professor begins pacing slowly across the front of the room. “Some accounts claim the family line simply died out. Others insist they left Salem’s Fall under mysterious circumstances.” He pauses. “As historians, our job isn’t to decide whether legends are true. Our job is to ask why people continue telling them.”

Professor Nightwing picks up a remote.

“Now,” he says, “let’s move on to something we know with absolute certainty did happen.” He clicks to the first slide, and an image fills the projection screen at the front of the classroom: women standing before crude wooden gallows in a crowded village square. “The infamous Salem’s Fall witch trials that took place right here in the late seventeenth century.”

For the next forty minutes, he walks us through the witch trials—religious hysteria, political rivalries, property disputes masquerading as accusations of witchcraft. He talks about how quickly the courts lost control of it, how the mobs at places like Strega’s Hollow didn’t always wait for a verdict before deciding someone’s fate themselves. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, the persecution stopped being a shameful chapter the town wanted to forget and became the foundation it was built on.

By the time the lecture ends, laptops and notebooks are snapping shut all around me. I wait until most of the class has filed out before making my way toward the front row. Silas looks up first, and I almost forget why I walked over. He really is that beautiful up close. Black hair falling across his forehead. Those impossibly dark eyes fixed on mine. A full, perfectly shaped mouth that looks entirely too soft for the rest of him. He looks like someone carved out of marble and taught how to breathe.

“Silas Blackhollow?”

“Yes?” he answers with unhurried indifference.

“My name is Jack Mercer.” I swallow, suddenly aware of how dry my mouth is. “I think you know my brother, Josh.”

Something flickers in his eyes that looks like recognition, but it’s gone so quickly, I’m not sure if I imagined it.

“And?”

“He was a student here last year,” I say, my words tumbling out. “He was studying historical preservation and archival science on the Blackhollow Foundation Fellowship,” I continue. “He mentioned you a number of times.”