My hands tighten around the wheel as I navigate the slick streets, thinking through the wards, the surges, the little enchantments Caroline and the others have woven into town life. I can almost feel the hum of magic beneath the asphalt, the lineages and legacies embedded in every corner, every brick, every street lamp.
I’m tired, drained, but necessary. I’m the sheriff. It’s what I do. This town is my responsibility. And I’ll fix it, one precise move at a time.
The truck tires hiss through puddles, headlights cutting through the mist, and I take a deep breath and drive to the manor.
I push open the grand double doors of the manor, rain streaking my coat and plastering my hair to my forehead. The hall smells faintly of wax polish and cedar, a comforting counterpoint to the storm outside. The fire in the parlor flickers low, casting shifting light across the library doorway.
I step inside and find Silas exactly where I expected him—leaning against the massive oak shelves, head bent over a scattering of parchment, runes meticulously inked and stamped across every surface.
Only he isn’t alone.
My aunt Etta stands beside him, sleeves rolled back, her expression a mix of curiosity and cautious concern.
“Damon, are you all right?”
I glance at her, the tension in my shoulders loosening a fraction. “I’m okay.” My throat still feels tight from the quarry, the exhaustion, and the surge. I brush at the wet strands of hair stuck to my temple. “Thanks for asking.”
“You must be starving,” she says, stepping aside, motioning to the shelves like she could offer sustenance and calm in equal measure. “I’ll get you some tea.”
I nod, grateful. The faint aroma of chamomile and mint drifts toward me even before she’s reached the kettle. I settle my gaze on Silas, noting the tight line of his jaw and the focused tilt of his head over the runes. “Have you found what you were looking for?”
His eyes flick up, just long enough to meet mine. “The wards are powered by very specific runes, Damon,” he says, voice clipped but not unkind. “I believe we can bolster them. They’ve held up surprisingly well, all things considered, but reinforcing will prevent a repeat surge from overwhelming the town.”
I nod, lips pressed together as I consider the magnitude of what he’s proposing. I’ve worked the wards for years, keeping them maintained and checked, but a surge like that is a reminder of how delicate the balance is.
My chest tightens with both pride and unease at the responsibility.
Aunt Etta reappears, holding a steaming cup of tea and a plate of cookies. She sets them carefully on the table before me.
Silas gives a faint smile, fleeting but genuine. Aunt Etta’s cheeks bloom with a soft pink, her fingers brushing the rim of the cup as she hands it to me.
“Here,” she murmurs. “You’ll feel better with this.”
“Thanks,” I say, lifting the cup and inhaling the fragrant steam. It’s calming. I glance at her, then back to Silas, realizing just how quiet and composed he seems, even after the stress of the quarry and the wards. He’s like a rock in a flood.
I shift, trying to hide the tension as I ask, “Where’s Amara?”
“She’s still sleeping,” Aunt Etta says lightly, brushing back a strand of hair. “When did she even get back?” Her eyes narrow slightly, curiosity mixed with suspicion.
I swallow, knowing I need to cover for my cousin. Aunt Etta and Amara have never been close. “She was at Caroline’s,” I say smoothly, “let her sleep in for a bit. She’s always affected by the magic after a surge.”
Silas watches the exchange with interest.
“Aunt Etta and I were talking,” he says finally, “and we think it would be beneficial if more Omegas were advised to join the TrueBond App. Part of the town’s initiative. Stronger connections, better stability. Prevents issues during surges.”
I groan, rubbing at the back of my neck. “Maybe we can discuss that another time. For now, we need to work on the wards, and I still need to do a headcount for everyone, especially the party attendees. Last thing I need is to find someone wandering into a flare.”
Silas bites into a cookie, the crunch loud in the quiet library. He chews slowly, watching me. “Fine,” he says, finally. “Let’s go. The sooner we get through this, the sooner I can take a shower. I’ve been working since last night. I need a shower and sleep.”
I can’t help the faint smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, thinking about how rigid he always seems, yet he needs the simplest comforts just like anyone else. “All right,” I mutter, standing and brushing off the damp from my coat. “Let’s move.”
As we head toward the door, Silas turns to Aunt Etta. “You can totally apply,” he says.
I arch an eyebrow, glancing between them. “Wait, what are you two talking about now?”
“Your dear aunt is thinking of volunteering for the council,” Silas says casually, as though he’s discussing the weather, “and moving to Chicago. I offered to write her a recommendation letter.”
I feel the irritation prickling under my skin, the sense that suddenly I’m being pulled into a political maneuver I don’t have time to manage. “Let’s just go,” I say, letting my hand rest lightlyon the doorframe as I usher us out. Rain still pelts the windows in quick bursts, a relentless rhythm against the manor.
