Page 33 of Salem’s Rise

“DTSF?” I ask.

“Mayor thought giving downtown Salem’s Fall an acronym might help attract a younger demographic, like how New York has SoHo,” he says.

“Ah. Marketing, right?” I ask, remembering what he said about the town and its commoditization of all things spooky. “Clever.”

As we walk farther down the harbor, street vendors try to sell us a variety of wares. Black felt witch hats. Hand-carved broomsticks. Tiny bottles labeled with things like Protection, Fortune, and Revenge. Despite my protestations, Rowan buys me a gorgeous single black rose and presents it to me grandly.

Farther down the street, a group of musicians plays beside a bonfire contained in an iron basin while a woman in a charcoal gray cloak reads tarot cards beneath a striped awning. The smell of caramel-coated nuts curls through the air, mingling with cider, woodsmoke, and the ocean. The place really is a storybook version of autumn come to life.

You’d never guess that underneath it all is a gruesome history of innocent people being tortured and murdered only a few centuries ago.

“Why do you think Professor Endicott cut us off like that?” I ask. “She looked scared when she saw that donor.”

“She already told us.” He shrugs. “She had a meeting.”

We stop in front of a sketchy-looking dive bar. The windows glow with warm light, revealing a crush of patrons packed around scarred wooden tables and worn leather booths. Fiddle music spills through the walls, chased by drunken laughter and the occasional roar of applause. Rowan nods toward the crooked wooden sign hanging above the entrance.

THE WITCH’S BREW

Beneath it, a painted witch hangs from a scaffold, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

“Charming,” I say.

“Best bar near the harbor.”

I eye the doors warily. “It looks like a place sailors go to die.”

He leads me inside the crowded bar. Dark wooden beams cross the low ceiling, and candles flicker in old green bottles along the walls. Dried bundles of rosemary and sage hang between framed maritime maps. A stone fireplace crackles at the far end of the room beneath a mounted raven with glass eyes. Someone has strung miniature pumpkins around its neck.

The place is absolutely ridiculous, but warm and cozy at the same time. It feels lived in. Like generations of locals and tourists alike have hidden in these booths to drink, argue, kiss, and make decisions they’ll probably regret the next morning.

“Jack!” Wren hollers, waving me over. She’s crammed into a round booth with three people I’ve never seen before, surrounded by half-empty mugs and plates of fried food.

Rowan stops beside me. “No.”

I glance at him.

“No?”

“We are not spending the evening with the Island of Misfit Toys.”

“Those are my friends,” I say, even if they aren’t really, but I don’t like Rowan’s attitude. I don’t like snobs, probably because I’ve never fit in myself. And though I’m still not sure how I feel about Wren, it has nothing to do with her social standing.

Across the room, several members of the lacrosse team have taken over a long table near the bar. Broad shoulders, expensive watches, loud laughter. A cluster of beautiful girls occupies every available space around them.

“You’re welcome to join your people over there,” I say to him and point toward the jocks.

“They are not my people.” His mouth tightens. “I have multitudes and will not allow you to put me in a box.”

“They’re literally wearing the same team jacket you have.”

I find myself scanning the lacrosse table automatically, as if looking for someone. It takes me another moment to realize who I’m looking for, and then I’m disgusted with myself.

In any event, Silas isn’t there.

The disappointment comes so quickly, I nearly mistake it for relief, though it makes no sense. I shouldn’t care that he isn’t here. Silas is rude, cruel, and apparently incapable of speaking to me without turning it into a threat. I should be thrilled he’s nowhere in sight.

Van catches me staring and gives me a glare cold enough to frost the glass mug in front of him.