Page 34 of Salem’s Rise

“I’m sitting with Wren. You’re welcome to join us—or not,” I say.

Rowan lets out a resigned sigh. “Of course you are.” He looks at me, almost amused despite himself. “Lead the way then.”

Wren shifts over the moment Rowan and I reach the booth, and I take a seat beside her. The guy on the other side of her is broad and soft around the middle, with light brown skin, round wire-frame glasses, and a knitted mustard-colored cardigan that looks handmade. Across from him, a petite Black woman with long caramel-colored hair and the kind of cheekbones people pay good money for lifts two fingers in greeting. She wears heavy combat boots and a patched denim jacket covered in pins. The second guy sits slightly apart from the others, one arm stretched along the back of the booth. He’s lean and pale, wearing a vintage band T-shirt beneath a battered leather jacket, with dark blond hair bleached white at the tips and a silver ring through his lower lip.

“Blessed turning,” Wren says brightly. The others repeat it.

“Blessed turning,” Rowan replies.

They all look at me expectantly.

“Uh—what does that mean?”

“It’s something we say to each other during the Fall Equinox,” Wren explains. “It’s for good luck. It means, ‘May the season turn kindly toward you.’”

“We could all use a little luck here in Salem’s Fall,” the guy beside her in the yellow cardigan says, raising his mug in my direction. His smile is immediate and warm. “Hi, I’m Micah Mehta. Excellent baker.” He pushes a large brown bag with grease on the outside in my direction, opening the top for me and Rowan. “Pumpkin spice cookies. Just baked ’em this morning for the equinox. Have one.”

Beside me, Rowan gives the bag a dubious look, like homemade cookies from a stranger are somehow beneath him. I take one to be polite. I bite into it, and buttery sweetness practically melts on my tongue.

“Wow. These are amazing,” I say.

“Lena Saldana,” the petite woman in the denim jacket says, giving me a welcoming nod. “I’m studying environmental science. I don’t bake, but I eat most of what Micah makes.”

“She’s my quality control,” Micah agrees.

“I consider it my civic duty,” Lena says, grabbing a cookie and eating it whole in one bite. “I’m keeping the public safe.”

I like both of them immediately.

“And this is Jonah Hawthorne,” Wren says, introducing the guy with the lip ring. “He doesn’t speak much, but don’t let it bother you. Broodiness is sort of his shtick.”

“Hawthorne?” I ask.

His expression closes a fraction. “It’s common around here.”

Except it’s not. I look toward Van and then back at Wren, wondering which Hawthorne Jonah’s related to and just how concerned I should be to be sitting with him.

“Don’t worry,” Wren says, immediately reading my expression. “He’s part of the dishonored, disappointing, and unfortunately broke Hawthorne faction, just like me.”

“Evening, Jonah,” Rowan says, giving him a quick nod.

“Ashcroft.”

The exchange is perfectly polite on the surface, but underneath, there is a dark tension, like two knives being placed carefully on a table.

“Great.” Wren claps her hands. “Now we’re all friends. Drinks?” She raises a hand and waves a waiter over. A moment later, a pitcher of beer dyed purple and called “Witch’s Brew”—naturally—is dropped off at our table.

The conversation flows after that. Micah tells me which downtown bakery has the best cronuts. Lena warns me which professors to avoid before noon. Wren complains about tourists asking whether she can perform curses on demand. Surprisingly, Rowan seems to fit right in. He is charming without seeming to try. He makes Micah laugh. Lets Lena insult his sports car. He even ignores Jonah’s occasional jabs. Every time someone says something funny, I find myself looking toward Rowan to see him laughing too.

I have a disconcerting thought. Maybe he really is a good guy underneath it all, just tangled up with some asshole friends.

Complicated. Privileged. Occasionally unbearably cocky.

But good.

Wren lifts her glass. “To the equinox,” she says, and everyone raises their frosted mugs.

“And to every door that should stay closed,” Rowan says, his gaze briefly settling on me. Something passes around the table, an almost imperceptible ripple of fear.