Page 78 of Salem’s Rise

Silas steps onto the ledge first, testing each anchor point along the rope before he trusts his weight to it. Satisfied, he waves me ahead of him.

“Do not fight the wind,” he says, falling in close behind me once I’ve found my grip on the line. “Lean into the cliff when it rises. Move when it drops.”

We follow the ledge as it curves upward and around the ridge. Torches burn in metal cages fixed to the rock, but the gusts make the light unstable. Shadows erase the path, then reveal it again.

Finally, we arrive at the midpoint and the wind slams into us hard enough to throw me against the cliff. My shoulder screams, but it’s the sudden lurch of empty air beneath my boot that turns my stomach to ice.

Silas moves immediately, his hand closing over mine on the rope. The contact steadies me more than the rope does.

“Stay still,” he says. “Three breaths.”

“What?”

“The gusts are peaking in intervals. Count.”

I listen as the wind rises, holds, then drops. One breath. Two. Three. Then we move together again, climbing higher. Silas matches his pace to mine. When the wind rises again, we stop at the same instant. I shift my weight and he adjusts similarly.

At the next opening, I notice the pines below bending in a rolling sequence.

“Wait,” I tell him.

Silas stops.

A violent crosswind tears around the cliff a second later, strong enough to rip the beanie from my head. Silas catches it against the rock with one hand. He looks at me, impressed.

“You saw that coming,” he says.

“It was the treetops, like you said. I saw the movement.”

He hands the hat back. “Nice work.”

We are the first to reach the top of the ledge, with the other competitors still scattered along the course behind us. I spot Rowan and Georgina quickly approaching, Van and his partner not far behind them. I scan farther down the path below, but Wren and Lena are nowhere in sight. A brief flicker of worry passes through me.

“They’re fine,” Silas says, knowing exactly who I’m looking for.

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re right.” He sighs. “I was trying to make you feel better. They’re probably not fine, and we won’t be either if we don’t keep moving.”

I expect his cold bluntness to annoy me, but strangely, the truth hurts far less than false reassurance.

Directly ahead of us lies the greatest challenge so far: the bridge. It stretches across a deep ravine, much longer than it looked from below, bucking and swaying in the wind. A narrow line of planks and rusted cables disappears into the darkness between two rocky outcroppings. Several boards are missing, while others hang crookedly from the cables. A single safety line runs overhead, clipped at intervals to metal rings, with several climbing harnesses hanging from the posts at either end.

Silas crouches beside the first anchor point and pulls hard on the line. It gives several inches before catching.

“Looks like it should hold,” he concludes.

“Should? Well, that sure inspires confidence.”

He glances up at me, a slow rakish grin pulling at his mouth. “Don’t worry, Mercer. If you fall, I’ll catch you.”

That damn smile does something annoyingly pleasant and inconvenient to my insides, which seems particularly ill-timed considering I may be about to fall to my death.

“Come on. Let’s get you strapped in.”

Silas takes one of the harnesses from the post and loops it around my waist. His body is suddenly inches from mine, close enough that I can feel his warmth as he reaches around me to secure the first buckle. His knuckles brush the sliver of skin beneath the hem of my sweater, and a spark of heat races through me.

He either doesn’t notice or pretends not to. His attention remains fixed on the harness as he works his way through each strap with focused precision, tightening and testing every buckle. Efficient. Deliberate. Maddeningly thorough. Like he’s done this a hundred times, though I doubt strapping women into climbing harnesses is a typical Blackhollow pastime.