“Sure.” He gestures to Benny, and the two of them head toward April’s makeshift bar.
I exhale, pressing a hand to my chest. My skin feels electric, buzzing with something I can’t name. I try to find Amara or Damon, but the crowd’s swallowed them up.
The rain gets heavier. Lightning flashes across the sky, a jagged white vein against the black. The music doesn’t stop—it grows louder, faster. Someone shouts something about fireworks, and a moment later the air bursts into color. Red. Blue. Gold.
For half a second, it’s beautiful.
Then everything changes.
The air hums with static, too much of it. My hair lifts from my skin. Every witch in the quarry feels it—the sudden surge, the wrongness. The Rift’s magic crackling through the storm.
A charm spell nearby flickers out. Sparks dance along the wet grass. Someone screams.
Lightning hits the far tent. Fire bursts through the fabric like it’s been waiting for an excuse.
Panic spreads faster than the flames.
People shove past me, voices overlapping—shouts, spells, the screech of metal. My heart kicks up, and all I can think is,Amara.
I spin, scanning faces, calling her name, but there’s too much movement. Smoke stings my eyes. Someone grabs my arm, but I shake free and run toward the trees, away from the crush of bodies.
She has to be okay. Damon’s with her. Damon knows what to do.
Another surge rolls through the ground, throwing me off balance. My magic flares against it instinctively, protective, defensive. I bite back a curse and keep running.
This is bad. This is worse than anything I’ve felt in years. The Rift’s bleeding energy again. Every spell within a mile radius will start to slip, twist, backfire.
I should’ve stayed home. I could’ve been on the couch with Thistle curled up beside me, watchingSex and the Cityreruns and pretending the world outside didn’t exist.
“Oh fuck,” I whisper, pushing through a tangle of wet grass. “Where the hell is Amara?”
“Caroline!”
I look up, breath catching. Damon’s coming toward me from the other side of the quarry, rain sliding off his shoulders. Amara’s behind him, hair wild, eyes wide.
He grabs my arm. “You need to get out of here. Both of you. Now.”
Amara’s panting, clutching her shoes. “We’re fine?—”
“Now,” he snaps, cutting her off. “You’ll be fine as long as you get out of here as fast as possible.”
His eyes flick up toward the ridge, where the fire’s spreading fast. The wards won’t hold if the surge keeps building.
I nod, throat tight.
Amara grabs my hand, and we run through the rain, toward the road where the forest opens up. The storm’s alive around us, lightning flashing bright enough to blind.
Behind us, I hear Damon shouting orders to the crowd, trying to keep everyone from stampeding.
The air smells like smoke and ozone and something ancient.
This isn’t just a storm.
It’s the Rift.
We run until my lungs feel scraped raw. Mud slaps against my legs, rain streaking down my arms. Amara’s hand is slickin mine, her breath sharp and uneven as we stumble out of the woods and onto the gravel road. By the time we reach the car, my heart’s a drumbeat in my ears.
Amara fumbles with the keys, dropping them twice before she manages to get the door open. We tumble inside, dripping, shaking, the air so heavy it feels like it’s pressing us into the seats. For a few seconds, neither of us moves.
