Page 80 of Salem’s Rise

His gaze snaps to mine, his dark eyes flaring with a flicker of raw panic he quickly buries. For one breath, he simply holds me there, one arm banded across my stomach, the other wrapped around my back, his mouth close to my ear. Then he releases me and steps between Van and me.

“Touch my partner again, Hawthorne,” Silas says, his voice edged with quiet menace, “and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Van turns, smiling. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”

Van’s smile vanishes. Something passes between them, old and lethal, and Van seems to shrink beneath Silas’s stare.

“Why are you protecting her?” he asks, sounding almost aggrieved. “She’s gutter blood, Silas. We all know that. She doesn’t belong here.”

“Be very careful who you accuse of not belonging,” Silas says. “My uncle purged your parents for their disobedience. He chose to spare you.” He lets the reminder sit between them for a beat. His fingers flex at his sides, as though resisting the urge to put them around Van’s throat. “Don’t give me a reason to finish what he started. I doubt the Veil would mourn another dead Hawthorne.”

Goosebumps rise along my arms at the sheer violence radiating off Silas. He takes one step toward Van, and I’m reminded just how frightening he can be when he really wants to—tall and broad, every line of his muscular body coiled and ready, barely restraining the aggression beneath the surface. He could take Van apart with very little effort. It makes me realize just how much he’s been holding back with me this whole time. Every threat he’s ever made to me now pales in comparison. Suddenly, I understand why everyone is afraid of him—even people like Van.

Van’s face goes ashen, his mouth tightening as though he wants to say more but knows better. Instead, he grabs a harness and jerks it on, his partner quickly following suit. They clip onto the safety line and hurry across without another word. The bridge sways dangerously beneath their combined weight.

“Idiots,” Georgina mutters as she and Rowan make their way cautiously onto the bridge next.

A bell rings somewhere in the distance, faint and far off.

The sound draws my attention toward the ravine below, where I count six iron bells strung along its length. They’re bolted to posts driven into the rock face at uneven intervals, each one hanging just above the tree line. I’d assumed they were only markers—something to help contestants track the course in the dark.

But then a second bell rings, closer.

Then a third.

The gust slams into the bridge a second later. Van drops to one knee as the planks pitch beneath him, while his partner is thrown sideways, catching the outer rope to stop himself from going over. Behind them, Georgina loses her footing and crashes into Rowan, who grabs her as the bridge bucks beneath them. Each movement amplifies the next until the planks roll beneath them in long, ugly waves.

Even after the gust finally passes, no one dares move for nearly a minute, shaken and clinging to the ropes long after the bridge settles.

I go still.

The bells…

It wasn’t random. The bells rang in sequence just before the gust hit, the trees bending along the ravine in the same progression. The wind traveling in a straight line, tripping each bell as it passed.

“It’s a pattern,” I whisper to Silas. “The bells are a warning system. They ring in the order the wind hits them. By the time the third one rings, we’ve got maybe two, three seconds before it reaches the bridge.”

“You’re certain?”

“Pretty certain.”

“Excellent.” He looks toward the bridge ahead. “We move when the wind drops then.”

“And if I’m wrong about the bells?”

His mouth gives the slightest twitch. “Then I’ll revise my opinion of your intelligence posthumously.”

We step onto the bridge, and it shifts instantly beneath us. Every instinct tells me to stiffen, but Silas reaches back and takes my hand. “You’re okay,” he says, warmth racing along my skin at the feel of his fingers lacing with mine. “I’ve got you.”

We move three planks at a time. The first bell rings. Then the second and third.

“Stop,” I say.

We crouch and brace for the wind. Seconds later, the gust strikes hard enough to tear breath from my lungs. The bridge swings left and Silas moves with it, pulling me into the same rhythm. His hand shifts from my fingers to my wrist, securing me in place.

When the wind slows, we move again. My heart drops when I see the next section of the bridge. Two planks are missing entirely, leaving nothing but open air between the remaining boards.