“Yeah.” The answer comes easy, even if my head says otherwise. The hum under my skin hasn’t let up since I crossed the town line. It buzzes behind my eyes, tightens my jaw. I swallow and take a pull from my canteen. The water tastes like metal and plastic, but it helps.
We move on, street by street, dousing flare-ups before they can dig in. Noah’s voice crackles over the radio with updates and directions, calling people by their first names, his tone calm but clipped. Every now and then, he calls meson, and every time it lands somewhere in my chest.
Between calls, my thoughts drift where I don’t want them to go. Caroline. Her house isn’t far from here. I know which street, which corner, which maple tree drops leaves all over her driveway every fall.
I wonder if she felt the surge like I did, if it rattled her bones, if it woke something in her she wasn’t prepared to deal with. Itell myself it’s none of my business. I left. I don’t get to check in now.
But the town doesn’t care what I deserve. It keeps pulling.
We turn onto a narrower road where the houses sit closer together. Someone’s garden fence lies flat, scorched along one edge. A mailbox smolders, paint blistered and peeling. Soren kicks dirt over it and stamps it out with the heel of his boot.
“Feels wrong,” he says. “All of it.”
I grunt in agreement. Wrong is a good word for this. Not broken exactly. Twisted, maybe. Like something got nudged and hasn’t settled back yet.
A flash of movement catches my eye near the end of the block. A man stands in the road, rain plastering his hair to his forehead, arms lifted toward the sky like he’s trying to catch the storm itself. He’s shouting, words tumbling over each other, eyes bright in a way that makes my skin prickle.
“Hold up,” I mutter, jogging forward. “Sir, you need to get inside.”
He spins toward me, face splitting into a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You feel it too, don’t you?” he calls. “It’s speaking. It’s telling us what comes next.”
Soren swears under his breath. “Pastor Gide.”
Of course it is. The man’s been predicting the end of everything since I was twelve. Used to corner people outside the grocery store with pamphlets and wild-eyed sermons. I thought he’d mellowed with age. Apparently not.
I keep my hands visible as I approach. “You’re in the middle of the road. Let’s get you somewhere dry.”
Lightning flashes overhead, close enough that thunder cracks almost immediately after. Gide laughs, throws his head back, rain running down his face like tears. “You can’t stop it,” he says. “None of you can.”
My head throbs, sharp and insistent. The air around him feels thick, charged in a way that makes my magic recoil. I grit my teeth and step closer.
“Sir,” I say, firmer now, “people are working. You’re going to get hurt.”
For a second, something like clarity flickers across his face. He blinks, lowers his arms. “I was just… I heard…”
Soren moves in smoothly, guiding him toward the sidewalk. “Let’s get you home,” he says. “Your sister’s been looking for you.”
That seems to do it. Gide lets himself be led away, still muttering, but quieter now. The pressure behind my eyes eases a notch.
I drag a hand down my face and blow out a breath. “Every town has one,” I mutter.
Beckett snorts. “Only one? You’ve been gone too long.”
We keep moving. The quarry comes into view as we crest the next rise, the open pit dark and slick under the rain, lights from emergency vehicles reflecting off standing water. The ground here feels different under my boots. Charged. Like stepping onto a live wire wrapped in dirt and stone.
I slow without meaning to. My magic reacts before my mind does, curling tight, then stretching, drawn toward the pit like a compass needle finding north. I press my palm against my thigh, grounding myself through the familiar weight of my gear.
Noah’s here already, barking orders, coordinating crews from Willowbrook and Rosehill both. When he spots me, his expression shifts, relief cutting through the strain.
“Hey boys,” he says as I approach. “Weather witches got spooked. Lightning jumped where it shouldn’t have.”
“I can feel it,” I say. The words slip out before I can stop them.
He nods once, sharp. “Then you know where to start.”
I move to the edge of the pit, rain soaking my hair and running down my neck.
The wards are old, set into stone markers spaced around the perimeter. I remember helping carve them during training drills. My hands were clumsy as Noah corrected my angles and constantly reminded me that patience mattered as much as power.
