Page 100 of Salem’s Rise

At thirty, the pain spreads beneath my ribs and along my spine, sharp enough to feel almost electrical. Every instinct inside me screams for me to pull the bell, but I resist. Silas has already put us in second. If I can last long enough, we can win. Not Van. Not some other pair.

Us.

Sixty seconds.

A shadow rises several yards away as the first chair is hauled toward the surface. Despite everything, a fierce little spark of triumph shoots through me. One pair out.

The pressure inside my chest grows vicious. I clamp my lips tighter, as though determination can keep my lungs from collapsing on themselves. I think of Silas at one hundred sixty seconds.

Impossible.

I will never reach that.

Eighty seconds.

My vision sharpens strangely at the edges, every glint of light above me too bright. The bell cord cuts into my palm as someone else surfaces. A fierce excitement takes hold. Only one chair remains to my left. If I wait until they go up, we win the round. The thought is almost enough.

Almost.

But my diaphragm spasms so badly my body jerks involuntarily against the restraints. Panic tears through every stubborn scrap of pride. I can’t help it⁠—

I pull the cord.

I cannot hear the bell ring beneath the surface, but I feel the vibration traveling down the line into my hand. I wait for the chain to move and for Silas to yank me up like he said he would.

A second passes.

Then another.

At first, I think maybe he didn’t feel it. I yank the cord again. Harder this time. Then again.

Nothing.

My thoughts begin to spiral. I realize with a horrifying jolt that he must be waiting for the other chair to give way first. The knowledge comes with such certainty that it hurts more than the lack of air. He thinks I can last.

Or worse, he thinks the points matter more than I do.

My chest convulses and the edges of my vision begin to gray. I yank the cord again, desperately, terror clawing through me as Carter’s pale, dead face flashes through my mind, his body hanging limp in the restraints.

No.

Silas promised.

I pull again.

And again.

No help comes.

A wave of despair hits me as I finally understand. No help is ever coming. The certainty settles over me with a terrible, crushing clarity. Silas isn’t going to save me. He was never going to save me.

Everything I’d convinced myself I’d seen in him—the moments of kindness, the way he looked at me, the way he’d held me in his arms at Blackthorn Manor—none of it was real. It all meant exactly what he’d said it meant earlier on the pier.

Nothing.

I’d had Silas right from the very beginning.

He really was the monster I thought he was all along.