“I checked the wards last week,” I tell her. “All eight around town. The barrier runes are holding fine. Even if there’s a flare, they’ll absorb most of it.”
“Most of it,” she repeats. “You sound just like your father when you say things like that.”
That’s the thing. I’m not sure if that’s supposed to make me proud or terrified.
“Ma,” I say, trying to smile through the weight in my chest, “I’ll be fine. Promise.”
She sighs, a small sound full of love and worry. “All right. Call me in the morning, let me know you’re alive.”
“Deal.”
When the call ends, the truck feels too quiet. I sit there a minute longer, watching rain streak down the windshield, then shift into drive.
Brass Lantern Café glows like a lantern in the dark as I pull into Main Street. The old building’s painted the color of buttercream, windows fogged from the warmth inside. The smell of sugar and cinnamon hits me the moment I step through the door.
Martha Hartwell stands behind the counter, rolling dough. She’s wearing her usual cardigan and an expression that says she’s already judged half the town today and come out victorious.
“Evening, Sheriff,” she greets, not looking up. “Weather’s got the cats hiding and the drunks drinking early.”
“Sounds about right.” I brush rain off my jacket. “You got any blueberry pie left?”
“Last slice,” she says, sliding a plate my way before I even ask. “You always want blueberry when the storm hits.”
“It’s the only thing that makes this job tolerable.”
She smirks. “That, and my good company, I’m sure.”
“Something like that.” I take a forkful. Warm, sweet, tart. Feels like home. “You heard anything about a party at the quarry tonight?”
Martha tilts her head, eyes gleaming like she’s got secrets stacked in the pantry. “My son didn’t mention it, but he left about an hour ago with a cooler and a pack of those misfit friends of his. I’d wager my best rolling pin that’s where they’re headed.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter under my breath.
She arches a brow. “Language, Sheriff.”
I finish the pie in two bites and leave enough cash on the counter to make her roll her eyes. “You didn’t hear that.”
“Oh, I heard it,” she says. “And so did my pies. You know they don’t bake right when there’s cursing in the air.”
I give her a look that says I’m not in the mood for her pie witch superstition, but she’s already laughing, shooing me toward the door.
Back in the truck, I check the clock. Nearly nine. The rain’s turned heavier, and lightning flashes in quick succession over the ridge. The quarry’s a ten-minute drive out, maybe less if the roads hold.
I take the back route, the one that runs parallel to the ley line border. The wards hum faintly when I pass them—thin threads of blue light flickering against the trees like veins under skin. They’re strong, steady. The runes etched into the stones last week are still glowing, no signs of fracturing.
But there’s something else in the air. A pull deep in my bones, like the ground itself is shifting. I grip the wheel tighter.
Over the years, I’ve seen what happens when people forget what kind of place Willowbrook really is. I’ve pulled potion witches out of rivers when their concoctions reacted to Rift energy. I’ve cut kids free from charm nets they didn’t know how to untangle. Once, I stood with Noah on the edge of the woods while a weather witch’s storm went rogue, tearing roofs from houses until her Alpha calmed her down.
This town looks peaceful, but it’s a thin peace, held together by magic and the people’s stubbornness and willingness to forget the past. Willowbrook sits on a pool of magic, with ley lines intersecting across the entire town. The quarry is the source of the rift, and whenever magic leaks, there’s a flare. Some people, including the council up in Chicago, think the number of unbonded Omegas in town makes the rift worse.
I believe them. Noah believes them.
The only other person who believes this is Pastor Gide, a local spiritual man who walks around town, warning that the rift is a punishment for all of our sins.
Okay, he seems crazy most of the time, which doesn’t bode well for my argument, but… I do believe the rift is a ticking time bomb.
I wish more people took it more seriously.
