Curse of Salem
Titles by Kay Hooper
Bishop / Special Crimes Unit Novels
Haven
Hostage
Haunted
Fear the Dark
Wait for Dark
Hold Back the Dark
Hidden Salem
Curse of Salem
The Bishop Files
The First Prophet
A Deadly Web
Final Shadows
BERKLEY
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Copyright © 2021 by Kay Hooper
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hooper, Kay, author.
Title: Curse of Salem / Kay Hooper.
Description: New York : Berkley, [2021] | Series: The Bishop/Special crimes unit
Identifiers: LCCN 2021025319 (print) | LCCN 2021025320 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984802927 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781984802941 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3558.O587 C87 2021 (print) | LCC PS3558.O587 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021025319
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021025320
Adapted for ebook by Estelle Malmed
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_6.0_141624929_c0_r1
CONTENTS
Cover
Titles by Kay Hooper
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Character Bios
Psychic Terms and Abilities
Author’s Note
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Salem, North Carolina
Megan Hales could feel her heart pounding, her pulse beating in her ears, a panicked, fluttery sensation that stole her breath.
I need to leave. I need to get out of here.
She had to move fast. Before he could stop her.
Even with the stark uneasiness driving her, she kept telling herself that was stupid, he wouldn’t do that, there was no reason he would . . . but she kept remembering a look in his eyes the day before, something undefined that had caused her to go cold all of a sudden.
Fear. She was afraid of him.
The sense of safety she’d always felt in Salem, in the house where she’d grown up, was gone. The familiar bedroom felt weirdly alien, as if all the lights were on too bright, hurting her eyes. The silence thrummed in her ears, and her fingers felt awkward as she hurried.
Hands shaking, she crammed clothing into the larger of her two bags and managed, with an effort, to zip it closed, the sound loud and ragged in the early-morning silence.
She froze for a moment, listening, then pulled the bag off her tumbled bed. Her duffel bag sat waiting, also stuffed with her things, and as she hooked the strap over her shoulder she spared a brief moment to wish she didn’t have to leave so much behind.
Enough. Enough of that. She had to leave.
Now.
She carried both bags through the silent house, desperate not to make any noise at all. Just enough of the dawn light came through the windows to show her the way so she didn’t run into furniture or bang one of the bags against the wall or a doorjamb. She wasn’t sure whether she drew a full breath until she was outside in the grayish and muggy summer morning, the front door closed silently behind her.
Megan paused only a moment, still aware of the pounding of her heart even as she told herself he couldn’t possibly know she intended to leave today. No one could. And even if he had some idea, it was so early, way earlier than she ever got up, and why would he even be up himself, much less be out here in the valley near her home?
He wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t.
She had parked her car in the driveway’s turnaround the night before, making sure she wasn’t blocked in by any of the family cars. Still trying to be as quiet as possible, she put both bags in the back seat of her little Chevy and eased the door shut again.
It was so . . . still. Unusually hot for early morning, even in July, the humid air promised a storm later. She stood beside her car, nervous fingers toying with the strap of her handbag and then diving inside to find her keys.
She looked down at her hand, at the diamond engagement ring winking in the faint light, and pain throbbed through her, jagged and raw. She had been so excited, so certain that all her plans—all their plans—would lead them along the path to a happy life.
Today should have been her wedding day.
And now . . . she felt lost, suddenly rudderless, the whole rest of her life stretching out empty and lonely.
But that was just here in Salem, she told herself. There was nothing here for her now. Not anymore.
Still, she hesitated, breathing in the scents of honeysuckle and cut grass and, faintly, the neighboring stables. It smelled like summer in Salem. It smelled like home. She was vaguely surprised by the sudden intense regret she felt. Because it didn’t have to be forever, of course it didn’t. She could come back. One day. Maybe.
All she had to do—
“Megan.”
Her pounding heart lodged suddenly in her throat, and she swallowed as she forced herself to turn, to conjure a faint surprised smile.
“What’re you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
She glanced around at the gray morning that was just beginning to brighten and forced out a little laugh. “At the crack of dawn?”
“You’re up,” he pointed out, taking a step closer.
She wanted to ask how he’d known she would be, but part of her didn’t want that answer. He had Talents, she knew that. Strange Talents. He was staring at her, eyes intense in his otherwise calm face, and she couldn’t help shifting her weight uneasily.
“I can’t talk right now,” she said. “I . . . have an appointment in town. Made it days ago. I really don’t want to be late.” She could hear her voice shake.
Stupid. Stupid. Should have left last night.
“You’re packed for a trip,” he said.
Forcing surprised carelessness into her voice, she said, “Just for a week or so. I told you I might leave. For a while.” She felt cold suddenly, wondering if that was why he was here. But what could he do, after all? It wasn’t like he had any right to stop her.
“You can’t go,” he said.
“It’s just for a while,” she repeated. “I told you. I’d rather not watch everybody trying to think of something . . . kind . . . to say to me. Watch them feel sorry for me. It’s better if I get away for a while.”
She held her keys in one hand and fumbled with the other behind her for the driver’s-side door. “I’ll call you,” she added brightly.
“You can’t go,” he repeated.
Megan wanted to maintain her forced unconcern, but her heart was pounding harder than before, she felt cold even in the muggy air, and some instinct she’d never before been aware of urged her to move quickly, to get away from him.
Never mind being polite, being reasonable.
Just move.
He looked suddenly unfamiliar in the grayish morning light, oddly . . . blurred. Except for his eyes. Those sharp, intense, strangely colored eyes. It had been exciting at first, having his focused gaze on her, looking at her in a way no one ever had before, as if nothing had existed for him except her. Seeing her, she’d thought, so clearly. But now all she felt was the overwhelming need to escape.
“I’ll call you,” she repeated, and forced herself to turn her back on him, a strange crawly sensation creeping over her body, all her muscles tensing. Weird. It was so weird—
“No.”
Megan tried to pull the car door open, but it was as if all the strength drained out of her in a rush and she couldn’t move suddenly, couldn’t do anything but look down at her own hand, watch it shake, watch his much larger one covering hers, tightening until she wanted to cry out in pain.
Why couldn’t she move?
“No, Megan,” he said almost sadly. “I can’t let you leave Salem. I can’t let you leave me.”
The gray, muggy morning was abruptly so cold her whole body ached, and the familiar smells were gone. All she could smell now was something sharp, acrid, something that was utterly strange and yet . . . not. It was something she thought she should recognize, even though she knew she had never smelled it before.
Something that terrified her.
She opened her mouth to scream but the only sound that escaped her tight throat was a thready, childlike whimper.
Darkness closed over her.
ONE
Washington, D.C.
Hollis Templeton opened her eyes and blinked at a ceiling that looked . . . odd. She reached out a seeking hand with what had become habit, encountered only smooth sheet, and sat up abruptly.
The bed beside her was empty of her FBI Special Crimes Unit partner and lover, Reese DeMarco. That was strange enough, and unsettling enough, that it took Hollis another moment or so to realize that wasn’t the only wrong thing.
The sheets she knew were pale blue looked gray. So did the duvet cover, which was supposed to be a muted but attractive print of several colors. She touched with tentative fingers and found that it felt normal—except for the chill. She felt chilled, which wasn’t all that surprising since she wasn’t wearing a nightgown or pajamas and it was March.
Still, the cold Hollis felt was due to something other than a chilly room and her own nakedness. It was a slightly familiar chill, and just acknowledging that made her feel even colder, especially when she also recognized the very faint, almost elusive odor that was, in an oddly primal way, unpleasant and difficult to identify.
But familiar.
Even so, she fixed her mind on calm mode and made no attempt to reach through the easy telepathic connection to Reese in order to wake him. In fact, she eased the “door” on her side closed. Because he could share her dreams, even from time to time walk with her through them, especially if she had a nightmare or was otherwise upset, and she did not want him sharing this place even if he could. Which she was reasonably sure he couldn’t. At least he hadn’t ever before.
And she’d probably need him to anchor her on the living side, in case she got into trouble. Or even if she didn’t.
She looked up, finally, to examine the room. A pleasant bedroom in their pleasant condo, it was spacious and decorated simply and comfortably because they agreed about such things and how a home should feel even if they were seldom present to enjoy the comfort of home for very long.
But it was gray.
And it wasn’t supposed to be gray.
Hollis hesitated a moment, then pushed back the duvet and sheet and slid from the big bed. She found the nightgown she had briefly worn on the floor, which was where it usually ended up, and put it on. The robe that matched it was silky and not made to warm up the body, but she found it lying over a chair near the bed and put it on as well, tying the flimsy little strings beneath her breasts.
She wondered, fleetingly, why she bothered, because it wasn’t like she was really here. Or really here in body, at least. She didn’t suppose her spirit required clothing, although she couldn’t recall ever seeing a naked spirit. Then again, if she encountered anyone else—and she particularly wanted to encounter at least one other person, presumably also in spirit—she preferred to be dressed.
Hollis wasted a moment or so wondering if she really had dressed her spirit, or if she hadn’t but had only gone through the motions because one did. If she saw herself clothed because she wanted to see herself that way. And if she saw other spirits clothed because she preferred to see them clothed. It struck her as one of those imponderable questions that often littered her life, especially in recent years, and she decided not to ponder it further. Not right now, at least.
She was very careful not to look back at the bed at first, not wanting to confirm what she knew was happening and half-afraid, as always, that she’d freeze solid like Lot’s wife. But Hollis was nothing if not curious, so she finally looked back over her shoulder and saw what she expected, even if it made her feel even colder. And totally creeped out.
Herself. Lying there seemingly alone, her face peaceful in sleep, her body a bit curled near the center of the wide bed, under the covers and comfortable, one arm flung out as though it were lying across a broad chest that was not visible because Reese was not visible.
She wondered, suddenly and disturbingly, why she was even able to see her own body in the gray time. Because her spirit was here? Was that why she couldn’t see Reese, because he was in their bed body and spirit, in the normal realm of existence for them?
And not this cold and gray realm of . . . wherever?
An icy finger traced up and down her spine.
“Shit,” she said, and heard the peculiarly hollow sound of her own voice that was normal in the gray time. She forced her gaze away from her sleeping self in the bed and took a moment to look slowly around the room again. Everything was gray and oddly one-dimensional and featureless. The framed prints on the wall looked like smudges; even the two very colorful paintings she had attempted in recent months and Reese had had framed looked gray; and the paneled woodwork looked flat. And gray. Furniture was one-dimensional, no depth or light or shadow. And gray.
Everything was gray.
That was the overwhelming sense she got, that everything around her was gray and cold and empty, really, of color or dimension, light or shadow. Or life. Desolate. She always forgot how utterly desolate this place—or time—was. Until she was in it. She felt very, very alone.
She found a slipper half-hidden beside the bed, having to kneel on the bedside rug and reach under for its partner. She got up, slid her feet into them, and turned away toward the room’s door.