“We found something,” Damon says. “At the tavern last night. In Gideon Ash’s father’s old boxes.”
“Gideon’s father? Victor Ash?”
“Victor Ash built a secondary ward structure around the quarry. Hidden underneath the legitimate wards. Those secondary wards have been funneling energy into the Rift instead of containing it. For at least fifteen years. Maybe longer.”
I stare at him. “What?”
“There’s more. The Ash family records in Aunt Etta’s library have been sealed by the Council. Classified. And there are bonding failure reports from the nineties that were filed directly with a regional representative named V. Ash.”
“Who else has access to the library?” Who the hell did this?
“Everyone. I would need to ask Aunt Etta about this.”
“And Victor Ash was a regional representative?”
“Apparently.”
I set my mug down because my hands are shaking. “So someone has been deliberately destabilizing the Rift. For years.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“And the Omegas going into heat early, the bonds not taking?—”
“All connected. If the Rift is being manipulated, everything that flows from it is affected. Every flare, every disrupted cycle, every bond that fails.”
The kitchen feels smaller. The morning light that seemed so warm a minute ago now feels harsh, exposing.
“There’s something else,” Silas says. “No pack bond has successfully formed in this town in ten years. Not one. If the Rift manipulation is preventing bonds from taking, then that affects us, too. Whatever this is between the four of us—whatever we might want it to become—there could be a barrier we can’t cross.”
The words land hard. I feel them in my chest, a cold weight settling in where the warmth was a moment ago.
“So what do we do?” I ask.
Silas is quiet for a moment. “I have to go back to Chicago. Talk to my sister. Find out what the Council knows about Victor Ash, about the sealed records, about why bonding failures were being filed with a regional representative who was also building hidden wards around a Rift.”
“Now?”
“Not right now. But soon. There are things in the Council archives that I need to see—things I might not have had access to before, but that I can demand now that I have evidence of tampering.”
I look at the table, at my coffee going cold, at Thistle who has given up on ankles and is now sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor cleaning his paw.
“The festivals are starting,” I say quietly. “The Elmwood Fairgrounds. The seasonal market, the pie competition, all of it. There hasn’t been a flare in two days. The wards are holding. Can we just… have a normal day? Before any of that? Before Chicago and Council records and whatever Victor Ash was doing?”
No one answers right away.
“What do you want to do?” Damon asks.
“I want to go to the fairgrounds. Walk around. Eat too much fried food. Watch Griffin try to win a stuffed animal at one of those rigged carnival games.” I look at Griffin, and he rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. “I want to be normal for a few hours. Is that okay?”
Damon looks at Silas. Silas looks at Griffin. Griffin looks at me.
“Yeah,” Damon says. “That’s okay.”
We leave after lunch. I change into jeans and a sweater, and the three of them put on clothes that don’t smell like my bedroom. Griffin drives because his truck is the biggest, and the fairgrounds are on the other side of town.
The seasonal market is already in full swing when we arrive. String lights crisscross between the stalls, even though it’s the middle of the day. The smell of caramel corn and fried dough hangs in the air. Someone is playing fiddle near the entrance, the notes bright and fast, and kids are running between the stalls with cotton candy staining their fingers.
It’s chaos. It’s wonderful.
