The following is a chapter from the follow-up to Hunting For Witches — Salem’s Burning
In the morning, Ashton woke up with his mind still on Ada, their interaction from the night before putting him in a foul mood he couldn’t shake. To his relief, his roommate wasn’t pressing him further on the details of his temporary love affair, and a hundred rounds of push-ups and sit-ups before breakfast helped him channel the bad energy into something positive and refreshing.
Unfortunately, the start of Ashton’s day was fated to only get more bothersome and irritating. While he was heading down the staircase, he felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. Another ghost from his past was coming back to haunt him; it wasn’t enough that he had an infuriating run-in with the lying witch who was responsible for his loving girlfriend’s disappearance. He was also receiving calls from his former friend who had the gall to act like Mercy going missing was something ordinary and routine.
Ashton ended up taking the call, but he terminated the conversation quickly. He wished that lowlifes like Ada and Tyler would disappear from his life forever, but that seemed like too much to hope for. Ever since becoming an initiate of the Scarlet Council, people he had excised from his life seemed to keep turning up.
When Ashton and Marcus entered the dining hall, Miles, Ian, and Tanner were already present. They were eating their breakfast in silence, all of them dressed in the familiar burgundy blazers that Marcus and Ashton were both wearing.
Emmanuel was sitting at the head of the table. He appeared to be playing the role of “headmaster” to the boys since Ada had murdered the last man to hold this position.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Rose?”
Ashton’s body stiffened, noticing that all eyes were on him following Emmanuel’s inquiry.
“Just a damn sales call,” Ashton grumbled.
The less attention he gave to the reasons for Tyler’s call, the better. Ashton just wanted to put the past behind him, prepared to dive into his breakfast when he noticed a fancy envelope sealed with red wax next to his plate.
“What’s this?”
Emmanuel smiled with amusement. “Inside, you will find the name of where the Council has placed you for the educational portion of your stay.”
Ashton was surprised to learn of these developments. He glanced over to Marcus and observed him tearing open his envelope and noticed that all the other boys had done the same. Perhaps that was why they were so quiet when he entered.
“That reminds me,” Emmanuel added. “There will be a short group exercise this evening. Eight o’clock sharp.”
Ashton frowned with indifference. He was feeling progressively more baffled by what was expected of him as a Council initiate. His confusion only escalated after discovering what was inside the envelope; a small card containing a single sentence:
“The Council places you at Babble Industries.”
As Ashton and Marcus exited Chapter Nine to greet the sunny day that awaited them (and the stray dog once again sitting outside), Ashton started to unload on his companion all the questions that were consuming him. “We’re not enrolled in any classes, but they’re making us do a college internship?
“Internships are what secure your place in the modern workforce,” Marcus replied good-naturedly. “Learning stuff at school no longer means anything.”
Ashton questioned Marcus more on the subway, both of them having been placed at the same location. They took the Orange Line, emerging from the underground onto a busy urban street in Back Bay. “I thought … you know, secret society. I thought they’d be having us reading magic books and junk.”
Marcus stifled a laugh at his companion’s ignorance. “Only Seventh Scholars have to read that stuff. This, my friend, is the only book you’ll ever need.”
Marcus fished into his bag and presented a worn paperback book to Ashton. The book was Propaganda by Edward Bernays, the infamous text that served as a guide for marketing and public relations during the early parts of the 20th Century. A book that was even more notorious in its attitudes for prescribing methods to manage public opinion and manufacture the consent of the masses.
Marcus pat Ashton on the back.
“Grab some coffee?”
After leaving a nearby coffee shop (Ashton with his coffee black and Marcus with a mocha latté—hold the whip), they crossed to the towering skyscraper across the street: an intimidating monolith known as the Bruegel Building. While making their way to the modest courtyard, Ashton noticed Marcus glancing back at the coffee shop at a punky blonde girl sitting at a café table. The girl’s hands were covering her face, so he couldn’t determine if his roommate was stealing a look because he thought she was cute or if there was something else that grabbed his attention. Ashton hadn’t known Marcus for very long, so his interest in her was a mystery.
So far, Ashton’s opinions of Marcus were mostly positive. Whenever he happened to glance over at him, Marcus was always smiling with that friendly puppy dog look that was immediately disarming. His baby-blue eyes had a sparkle to them that seemed to indicate he was someone who cared deeply about people and desired to be a positive and comforting force in their presence. He was a strange character to find in the ranks of a malevolent secret society—if that was what the Council was at the end of the day. Ashton still hadn’t a clue; all he knew was that the Scarlet Council was supposed to be an elite social club. No signs had been revealed that they took part in the types of dastardly activities that Ada had claimed were the organization’s primary feature.
Killing witches—that was the only sin he knew the Council took part in. And recent experiences convinced him that this was not only just but a necessity.
Babble Industries was on the sixtieth floor of the building with a view that allowed the two initiates to see most of the city. The outer lobby was modern and stylish with a pretty receptionist at the front desk whose demeanor was just as infectious as the casual smile worn by Marcus. Upon their arrival, they were introduced to several executives who took a quick liking to the new interns while several off-color jokes were exchanged.
“You boys will fit right in here,” one of the executives said.
“That’s what she said,” Marcus joked, igniting a wave of riotous laughter and pats on the back in response.
“Mr. Rose. Mr. Chase.”
Ashton and Marcus turned to observe a smiling middle-aged man with thick glasses and fair hair. His casual business attire reeked of upper management, and he shook their hands vigorously. “Danny Macintosh, COO. We’re about to sit down for our morning meeting. Care to join us?”
The boys exchanged anxious grins as Macintosh held the doors open for them. “Welcome to the world of advertising, gentlemen.”
At the meeting, Ashton and Marcus listened to the staff reporting on various projects. The phrase, “Perception is reality” was tossed around several times, and at the end of the meeting, they met the pool of creatives who they would be working under.
The boys were looking forward to all they would learn at the company and weren’t deterred from the simplicity of the tasks set before them. At the end of the day, they were sitting at a large boardroom table, stuffing envelopes, when Macintosh passed by the door to check in. “You can wrap it up for the day,” he said. “Nice having you aboard.”
Marcus smiled earnestly. “Thanks. It’s nice to be here.”
“Oh—by the way,” Macintosh added. “I don’t know if anybody told you about the little competition we’re having. Come up with a winning slogan for our new soft drink client, and we’ll put you in the running to handle the Brandy Nebula campaign. Her latest album will be dropping in a few weeks.”
Marcus’s eyes lit up. “Wow. Cool.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
Once Macintosh had left, Marcus turned to Ashton. “Did you hear that? Brandy Nebula. Can you believe it?”
Ashton shrugged his shoulders. “First time I’ve heard of her.”
Marcus glared at him like he was from another planet. “What? Oh, come on. Have you been living under a rock? Brandy Nebula! ‘Tear Me Up, Tear Me Down?’ You haven’t heard this?”
Marcus reached for his laptop, opening up YouTube and turning the screen to face his nescient friend. When Ashton started watching the video, it was only to humor his roommate. He had no interest in pop music and expected this would just be another mediocre party song that would capture the attention of teenage audiences before they were distracted by some other shiny new thing.
The video itself wasn’t entirely original. It was shot in a sparse modern apartment, telling the story of a bad breakup. The thing that captured Ashton the most was Brandy herself—a powerfully charismatic young African-American woman with striking looks and moves like a wildcat. Soulful eyes, long dark hair, luscious lips. She was a little on the shorter side but possessed an energy that could fill a whole room and was dressed like she was from another world.
It was no surprise that Brandy was a star on the rise, but the most alarming thing about her was that she looked like the spitting image of Ashton’s missing girlfriend. This wasn’t just a superficial resemblance—she looked exactly like if Mercy was a pop star from the future, dancing and sweating in her apartment as she sang the chorus to her hit single, challenging the listener to tear her up and tear her down over and over again.
Marcus grinned, noting his expression. “Isn’t she excellent?”
Ashton couldn’t take his eyes away.
He was spellbound.
It felt like another ghost from his past was paying him a visit. And, unlike any of the other recent visitations, he didn’t want this one to end.
Unfortunately, the start of Ashton’s day was fated to only get more bothersome and irritating. While he was heading down the staircase, he felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. Another ghost from his past was coming back to haunt him; it wasn’t enough that he had an infuriating run-in with the lying witch who was responsible for his loving girlfriend’s disappearance. He was also receiving calls from his former friend who had the gall to act like Mercy going missing was something ordinary and routine.
Ashton ended up taking the call, but he terminated the conversation quickly. He wished that lowlifes like Ada and Tyler would disappear from his life forever, but that seemed like too much to hope for. Ever since becoming an initiate of the Scarlet Council, people he had excised from his life seemed to keep turning up.
When Ashton and Marcus entered the dining hall, Miles, Ian, and Tanner were already present. They were eating their breakfast in silence, all of them dressed in the familiar burgundy blazers that Marcus and Ashton were both wearing.
Emmanuel was sitting at the head of the table. He appeared to be playing the role of “headmaster” to the boys since Ada had murdered the last man to hold this position.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Rose?”
Ashton’s body stiffened, noticing that all eyes were on him following Emmanuel’s inquiry.
“Just a damn sales call,” Ashton grumbled.
The less attention he gave to the reasons for Tyler’s call, the better. Ashton just wanted to put the past behind him, prepared to dive into his breakfast when he noticed a fancy envelope sealed with red wax next to his plate.
“What’s this?”
Emmanuel smiled with amusement. “Inside, you will find the name of where the Council has placed you for the educational portion of your stay.”
Ashton was surprised to learn of these developments. He glanced over to Marcus and observed him tearing open his envelope and noticed that all the other boys had done the same. Perhaps that was why they were so quiet when he entered.
“That reminds me,” Emmanuel added. “There will be a short group exercise this evening. Eight o’clock sharp.”
Ashton frowned with indifference. He was feeling progressively more baffled by what was expected of him as a Council initiate. His confusion only escalated after discovering what was inside the envelope; a small card containing a single sentence:
“The Council places you at Babble Industries.”
As Ashton and Marcus exited Chapter Nine to greet the sunny day that awaited them (and the stray dog once again sitting outside), Ashton started to unload on his companion all the questions that were consuming him. “We’re not enrolled in any classes, but they’re making us do a college internship?
“Internships are what secure your place in the modern workforce,” Marcus replied good-naturedly. “Learning stuff at school no longer means anything.”
Ashton questioned Marcus more on the subway, both of them having been placed at the same location. They took the Orange Line, emerging from the underground onto a busy urban street in Back Bay. “I thought … you know, secret society. I thought they’d be having us reading magic books and junk.”
Marcus stifled a laugh at his companion’s ignorance. “Only Seventh Scholars have to read that stuff. This, my friend, is the only book you’ll ever need.”
Marcus fished into his bag and presented a worn paperback book to Ashton. The book was Propaganda by Edward Bernays, the infamous text that served as a guide for marketing and public relations during the early parts of the 20th Century. A book that was even more notorious in its attitudes for prescribing methods to manage public opinion and manufacture the consent of the masses.
Marcus pat Ashton on the back.
“Grab some coffee?”
After leaving a nearby coffee shop (Ashton with his coffee black and Marcus with a mocha latté—hold the whip), they crossed to the towering skyscraper across the street: an intimidating monolith known as the Bruegel Building. While making their way to the modest courtyard, Ashton noticed Marcus glancing back at the coffee shop at a punky blonde girl sitting at a café table. The girl’s hands were covering her face, so he couldn’t determine if his roommate was stealing a look because he thought she was cute or if there was something else that grabbed his attention. Ashton hadn’t known Marcus for very long, so his interest in her was a mystery.
So far, Ashton’s opinions of Marcus were mostly positive. Whenever he happened to glance over at him, Marcus was always smiling with that friendly puppy dog look that was immediately disarming. His baby-blue eyes had a sparkle to them that seemed to indicate he was someone who cared deeply about people and desired to be a positive and comforting force in their presence. He was a strange character to find in the ranks of a malevolent secret society—if that was what the Council was at the end of the day. Ashton still hadn’t a clue; all he knew was that the Scarlet Council was supposed to be an elite social club. No signs had been revealed that they took part in the types of dastardly activities that Ada had claimed were the organization’s primary feature.
Killing witches—that was the only sin he knew the Council took part in. And recent experiences convinced him that this was not only just but a necessity.
Babble Industries was on the sixtieth floor of the building with a view that allowed the two initiates to see most of the city. The outer lobby was modern and stylish with a pretty receptionist at the front desk whose demeanor was just as infectious as the casual smile worn by Marcus. Upon their arrival, they were introduced to several executives who took a quick liking to the new interns while several off-color jokes were exchanged.
“You boys will fit right in here,” one of the executives said.
“That’s what she said,” Marcus joked, igniting a wave of riotous laughter and pats on the back in response.
“Mr. Rose. Mr. Chase.”
Ashton and Marcus turned to observe a smiling middle-aged man with thick glasses and fair hair. His casual business attire reeked of upper management, and he shook their hands vigorously. “Danny Macintosh, COO. We’re about to sit down for our morning meeting. Care to join us?”
The boys exchanged anxious grins as Macintosh held the doors open for them. “Welcome to the world of advertising, gentlemen.”
At the meeting, Ashton and Marcus listened to the staff reporting on various projects. The phrase, “Perception is reality” was tossed around several times, and at the end of the meeting, they met the pool of creatives who they would be working under.
The boys were looking forward to all they would learn at the company and weren’t deterred from the simplicity of the tasks set before them. At the end of the day, they were sitting at a large boardroom table, stuffing envelopes, when Macintosh passed by the door to check in. “You can wrap it up for the day,” he said. “Nice having you aboard.”
Marcus smiled earnestly. “Thanks. It’s nice to be here.”
“Oh—by the way,” Macintosh added. “I don’t know if anybody told you about the little competition we’re having. Come up with a winning slogan for our new soft drink client, and we’ll put you in the running to handle the Brandy Nebula campaign. Her latest album will be dropping in a few weeks.”
Marcus’s eyes lit up. “Wow. Cool.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
Once Macintosh had left, Marcus turned to Ashton. “Did you hear that? Brandy Nebula. Can you believe it?”
Ashton shrugged his shoulders. “First time I’ve heard of her.”
Marcus glared at him like he was from another planet. “What? Oh, come on. Have you been living under a rock? Brandy Nebula! ‘Tear Me Up, Tear Me Down?’ You haven’t heard this?”
Marcus reached for his laptop, opening up YouTube and turning the screen to face his nescient friend. When Ashton started watching the video, it was only to humor his roommate. He had no interest in pop music and expected this would just be another mediocre party song that would capture the attention of teenage audiences before they were distracted by some other shiny new thing.
The video itself wasn’t entirely original. It was shot in a sparse modern apartment, telling the story of a bad breakup. The thing that captured Ashton the most was Brandy herself—a powerfully charismatic young African-American woman with striking looks and moves like a wildcat. Soulful eyes, long dark hair, luscious lips. She was a little on the shorter side but possessed an energy that could fill a whole room and was dressed like she was from another world.
It was no surprise that Brandy was a star on the rise, but the most alarming thing about her was that she looked like the spitting image of Ashton’s missing girlfriend. This wasn’t just a superficial resemblance—she looked exactly like if Mercy was a pop star from the future, dancing and sweating in her apartment as she sang the chorus to her hit single, challenging the listener to tear her up and tear her down over and over again.
Marcus grinned, noting his expression. “Isn’t she excellent?”
Ashton couldn’t take his eyes away.
He was spellbound.
It felt like another ghost from his past was paying him a visit. And, unlike any of the other recent visitations, he didn’t want this one to end.