ONE
NARLA
The candles were misbehaving again.
Narla watched the flame on her display table flicker from amber to violet, a color that had no business existing in honest fire. She’d poured these particular candles three days ago, infused them with the usual intentions—peace, clarity, gentle protection—but lately, her magic had other ideas.
The Autumn Equinox Festival swirled around her booth in a chaos of fairy lights and sugar-spun laughter. Haven Shores knew how to celebrate the turning seasons, and the central park had transformed into a fever dream—vendor tents in harvest gold and deep burgundy, strings of enchanted lanterns bobbing overhead, the distant thump of drums from the main stage where a local band played with more bass than rhythm.
The air smelled of Dahlia’s pastries drifting from the Honey & Hex table two rows over, of mulled wine and woodsmoke and the particular electricity that came with liminal nights. Children ran past her booth shrieking, trailing streams of spelled ribbon that changed color with their moods. A group of wolves congregated near the beer tent, their laughter carrying on the breeze. Somewhere behind her, Junie’s voice rose in an animated argument about potion ingredients.
Normal festival chaos. Nothing that should make Narla’s heart race.
Magic ran strongest at the equinox. Everyone knew that.
What Narla knew, what she felt crawling beneath her skin and pressing against her ribs with every breath, was that the surge had been building for weeks. Not merely the general magical amplification affecting all of Haven Shores, but a force distinctly her own. Personal. Her power strained against barriers she’d spent half a decade constructing, and tonight, those barriers felt thin as parchment.
She adjusted a row of harvest-scented pillars, checking that the price tags were straight. The simple, mundane task helped. It usually did.
You’re fine. You’re in control. Nothing is going to happen.
The violet flame stretched higher, mocking her.
Overhead, Ember circled in tight, agitated loops. Her familiar hadn’t settled on his perch since sundown. The small owl’s feathers shifted between brown and gray in the festival lights, and every few minutes, he’d swoop low enough to fix her with a look that clearly said,Danger approaches.
“I know,” she murmured, not caring if passersby thought she was talking to herself. “I feel it too.”
Ember’s response was a sharp cry that made a nearby tourist jump. The owl banked hard and resumed his circling, feathers ruffled with agitation.
Thirty-five years. He’d been with her that long, since he’d flown through her childhood bedroom window and refused to leave. He knew her moods, her fears, her secrets. He knew everything she’d buried and everything she was still running from.
Tonight, he knew more than she did. And that terrified her.
A young wolf couple approached her table, pulling her back. The woman had bright red hair and a nervous smile, alreadyreaching for an autumn spice candle while her mate’s attention snagged on the violet-tinged flames. He was newly shifted, Narla guessed—there was still that awkward awareness in how he held his body, that careful tension of a predator learning to pretend he wasn’t dangerous.
“These are so beautiful.” The woman turned the candle in her hands. “Do they actually have magic in them, or is that marketing?”
Narla smiled—the serene, competent smile she’d perfected over years of practice. “Subtle enchantments. Nothing flashy. This one promotes peaceful sleep. That one—” She gestured to a deep green pillar. “—helps with focus and clarity.”
“And the weird color?” The man nodded toward the violet flame.
“Festival energy. The equinox affects all magic.” The lie came easily. Too easily. “It’s completely harmless.”
The woman’s scent registered in Narla’s awareness—happiness, bright and lemony. New love, sticky-sweet. And underneath, a thread of anxiety that probably had nothing to do with candles and everything to do with integration into a new pack.
Ordinary customers with ordinary concerns. Nothing that should send her hands trembling.
She wrapped their purchase in tissue paper while the violet flame danced higher. Neither of them noticed. People rarely did—they saw what they expected to see, and no one expected Narla Wright’s candles to burn in impossible colors.
The couple wandered away, already leaning into each other, already forgetting the strange widow with the strange fire. Narla’s hands trembled as she set down the cash box.
Steady. Breathe.
She’d survived this long by hiding. By wearing calm over terror. By watching and waiting and never, not once, lettingthe facade slip in public. The morning panic attacks happened behind locked doors. The nightmares stayed in her bedroom. The evidence of what Derren really was stayed in her cellar, buried and waiting.
But the surge didn’t care about her control. It pressed against her defenses anyway, relentless as the tide, and somewhere deep in her chest, the foundations were starting to crack.
Her wedding ring—Niccolas’s ring, the one she’d worn for fifteen years—hung warm against her sternum on its chain. She touched it without thinking. An old comfort. An old grief.
