“Don’t bet,” I tell him. “You’ll lose.”
Rory’s behind him, fumbling with his clipboard, eyes darting between us like he’s not sure if this is a joke. He’s got that baby-faced eagerness that makes me both proud and tired. “Should I, uh, start the patrol logs for the night?”
“Yeah,” I say. “And check the east wards while you’re out there. Storm’s rolling in faster than it should.”
The fire captain’s voice comes through on the line before I can hang up. “You getting the same readings I am?”
“Feels like it,” I answer, watching lightning split the distance between two mountain peaks. “Pressure’s off. Sky’s wrong. Smells like Rift weather.”
“Damn it,” Noah mutters. He’s never been one for flowery language. “Been over a year since the last flare. Let’s not make it a streak.”
“Tell that to the kids planning a kegger at the quarry,” I say.
He sighs. “You take your end; I’ll keep my crew on standby. Call if anything shifts.”
The line goes dead, but my pulse hasn’t slowed.
Storms make my skin itch. The kind that carry static so heavy it rattles in your teeth, right before the air tears open. My father used to say you could feel a Rift flare coming three hours before it hit. He wasn’t wrong.
I glance at the old photo on my desk, the one of him in uniform—broad smile, clean-shaven jaw, hand resting easy on my shoulder. He’d been driving home the night the flare hit, the surge cutting every protective ward across three counties. His truck had gone off the road before the energy settled. I was twenty. He’d been invincible until that night.
The town lost its sheriff, but I lost the only man I had ever looked up to.
I rub a hand down my face, grab my keys, and head out.
The rain hits the brim of my hat as soon as I step outside. The parking lot’s slick, reflecting the flicker of the red-and-blue lights from the station sign. Simon and Rory are loading up the cruiser, joking about who’s buying donuts later. Maggie’s still inside, headset on, laughing at something I can’t hear.
For a second, it feels normal. Then thunder rolls low, and my chest tightens again.
“I’ll meet you out there,” I call to Simon.
“You got it, boss,” he says, hopping into the car. Rory waves like we’re headed off to summer camp.
I slide into my truck, the old engine growling awake. The wipers swipe away sheets of rain, but it’s barely enough to see. My fingers drum against the steering wheel. I don’t like the way the storm’s moving. It’s too charged.
I should call someone. So I do.
“Damon?” My mother’s voice filters through the speaker, warm and soft with that New York hum she’s picked up already. I can almost smell her baking—sugar and spice, even from two states away.
“Hey, Ma.”
“You sound tense. What’s wrong?”
“Storm’s bad,” I tell her. “Feels like Rift weather again. There’s a party at the quarry tonight.”
“Another one?” she groans. “When will people learn not to tempt fate near the ley lines?”
“Never,” I mutter. “You settling in okay?”
She laughs quietly. “It’s been a week, Damon. The bakery’s not even open yet, but I already have three regulars. City folks love their scones.”
“I miss you,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her tone softens. “I’ve only been gone a week, sweetheart.”
“I know,” I say. “Still.”
There’s a pause, then the sound of her moving something heavy, probably a mixing bowl. “You need to be careful driving in that weather. You know how these storms can get.”
