I want to say yes. God, how I want to say yes. But something holds me back. Beckett’s words, Caroline’s face, the mess of it all.
“Can I take a rain check?” I ask, hating the disappointment that flashes in her eyes. “I’d love to, but tonight’s been complicated.”
She nods, understanding dawning in her expression. “Of course. Another time, then.”
“Another time,” I confirm, relief washing over me. “I’d like that a lot.”
“Me too,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips. “Goodnight, Griffin.”
“Goodnight, Celeste,” I say, watching as she unlocks her door and disappears inside.
Then I turn around and head in the opposite direction. I need to get some answers.
Circle of Protection:
Iron filings and salt. Draw a line. What crosses pays the price.
The blue light of the television flickers across the living room, painting the walls in shifting shadows. On screen, Carrie Bradshaw is wrestling with some romantic crisis.
I’m curled on the sofa, a bag of salt and vinegar chips balanced on my chest, a can of Diet Coke sweating on the coaster beside me. This is my version of self-care after a day that felt like it lasted a week.
Today was a marathon. The apothecary was a madhouse, everyone jittery and demanding after the Rift surge. My hands still ache from grinding herbs. My nose still tingles with the phantom scents of lavender and panic.
When I finally stumbled home, Amara was waiting, a whirlwind of energy and concern. We spent an hour together—her updating me on town gossip, me pretending my world hadn’tbeen tilted off its axis. Then she left, off to pack for her return trip to school.
A long, hot shower washed away the grime of the day, but not the memories. Not the phantom ache between my legs, not the scent of Damon that seems to have seeped into my skin. A nap helped, plunging me into a dreamless sleep that left me groggy but more human when I woke. Now, this. Chips, soda, and the judgmental wisdom of four women in New York City.
Thistle is a warm weight against my thigh, his purr a vibrating rumble that’s more soothing than any potion I could brew. His eyes are half-closed, content in his kingdom of cushions. I scratch behind his ears, and he rewards me with a flick of his tail tip.
“See, Thistle?” I murmur, popping another chip into my mouth. “This is the life. No drama, no Rift, no… complications.”
He opens one eye, as if to say, “Speak for yourself.”
Then comes the knock.
Not a tentative tap. Not a frantic pounding. Three decisive raps that cut through the TV dialogue and make my heart jump. I pause the show, Carrie’s face frozen mid-monologue. Thistle’s head lifts, his ears swiveling toward the door, his purr silenced.
Nine o’clock. Who the hell is knocking at my door at nine o’clock?
My mind races through possibilities. Amara, forgetting her keys? Unlikely, she has a spare. June? My mom? A neighbor, needing help with a minor magical ailment? Also possible.
Or… Damon.
The thought sends a jolt through me, equal parts dread and something I refuse to name. I push myself off the sofa, my bare feet silent on the cool wood floor. I peer through the peephole, my breath catching in my throat.
It’s not Damon.
It’s Griffin.
My heart skips a beat. He’s standing on my porch, under the warm glow of the porch light, looking both familiar and strange. His dark hair is slightly messy, his jaw shadowed with stubble. He’s wearing a jacket over a button-down shirt and slacks—dressier than his usual firefighter gear.
And he smells… I can smell him even through the door. Faintly of alcohol, that specific tavern scent of spilled beer and woodsmoke that clings to clothes long after you’ve left.
He cups the back of his head with one hand, a gesture I remember all too well. It’s his nervous tic, the one he used to do when he was about to say something difficult.
I unlock the door, my hand trembling slightly. “Griffin? Everything okay?”
He lowers his hand, and his eyes meet mine. They’re the same deep brown I remember, but there’s something new in them, a tension I can’t quite read. “Hey, Caroline. Sorry to just… show up like this.” He glances away, then back. “I had a weird conversation and… can I come in?”
