Page 54 of Salem’s Rise

“Well, aren’t you a magnificent sight?” Rowan says, appearing at my side, an appreciative smile curving his lips. He’s dressed in a custom-tailored deep-blue suit that brings out the color of his eyes.

“Thanks.” I grin back. “You clean up nice too.”

He offers me his hand, and I let him lead me toward the dance floor. The crowd closes around us, the music shifting into something slower as his hand settles against my waist.

Over his shoulder, my eyes immediately find Silas across the room. I don’t mean to look for him, especially while I’m in Rowan’s arms, but I can’t help myself. My gaze is like a heat-seeking missile for the man.

He’s unfairly beautiful tonight in his fitted tuxedo, dark hair swept back, perfectly at ease among the room’s wealth and power. He looks less like a college student and more like the heir to something dangerous. Georgina is in his arms, her silver gown clinging to her like poured mercury. Her dark hair is pinned in a sleek twist, her hazel eyes striking beneath long lashes. They move together with the effortless familiarity of people who have known each other forever. Something that feels suspiciously like jealousy twists in my chest as I watch them.

I’m immediately disgusted with myself.

I have no claim on Silas Blackhollow—nor do I want one. The sight of him with another woman shouldn’t bother me in the slightest. So why does seeing them together make me feel vaguely sick?

He looks up then, and our eyes meet across the ballroom. Something unreadable flickers across his face, the distance between us seeming to disappear. Georgina follows his gaze, and her expression sharpens as she catches me. A slow, knowing smile curves her lips as she slides one hand higher onto his shoulder, drawing him closer.

I don’t care that they’re here together, I think to myself.

I hate him.

Unfortunately, my traitorous heart doesn’t seem to get the message.

I close my eyes and force myself to focus on the music. I cannot afford to forget who Silas Blackhollow really is. He is a man standing between me and the truth about Josh—and may very well be the heir to the most dangerous family in the history of the Veil.

After another dance, I excuse myself and slip upstairs in search of the ladies’ room… and maybe to do a little investigating.

The second floor is quieter than the ballroom. Two corridors branch off the landing, one leading to the men’s room and the other to the women’s. I wander farther down the hallway, peeking into a few open rooms. One has been arranged as a sitting room with velvet chairs and a crackling fireplace. Another appears to be a small library, its shelves filled with antique books behind locked glass doors. Every other door I try is locked or empty. If Strega’s Hollow is hiding secrets tonight, I don’t think I’m going to find them upstairs.

After using the restroom, I find Georgina standing just outside the door, as though she’s been waiting for me. Her smile is pleasant. Her eyes are not.

“Jacqueline Mercer,” she says. “I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

“Were you?”

She looks me over slowly, cool disdain settling over her features. “You’ve developed an unfortunate habit of finding yourself in places you don’t belong.”

I can’t tell whether she means being here at the Blackhollow Ball with Rowan, my little adventures at Blackthorn Manor, or something else entirely.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“No. I suppose you wouldn’t.” A faint smile touches her lips. “Be careful tonight, Jacqueline.”

I bristle at the warning.

“I can take care of myself.”

She steps closer, lowering her voice. “I’m sure you believe that, but Veil Night has a way of reminding people exactly who they are and who they are not.”

Veil Night.

She’s the first person who’s actually said the words aloud to me.

“What’s going to happen tonight?” I ask, a chill running through me.

“If no one has told you by now,” she says, “there’s probably a reason.” Then she turns and disappears into the crowd.

I start after her, but before I can make it more than a few steps down the staircase, something slams hard into my back. My footing slips. I catch the banister at the last second, barely stopping myself from crashing onto the marble below.

I spin around to find Van Hawthorne standing a few steps above me, one hand resting lightly on the carved railing. He’s dressed in a black tuxedo with a blood-red pocket square, his eyes glittering with quiet malice.