The wind howls through the trees, bringing with it the scent of ozone and something metallic.
The Rift’s waking up again.
By the time I see the glow of headlights up ahead, I already know it’s going to be one of those nights that leaves a mark.
I turn up the road toward the quarry, the sound of distant music just barely cutting through the rain.
The storm’s building, the wards humming louder, and I can feel the weight of the night pressing down like a warning.
I pull onto the gravel, headlights sweeping over a line of parked cars and the shimmer of a bonfire that should not be burning this close to a ley line.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter, stepping out into the rain.
Long night ahead.
Potion for Bravery:
Steep ginger and lemon balm. Drink before stepping into danger.
The rain doesn’t seem to care that there’s a party going on. It falls in cold, steady sheets, turning the ground at the quarry into a slick mess of mud and grass and glittering puddles.
Someone’s strung fairy lights across the tents, and they shimmer against the storm like tiny rebellions. The tents themselves are the big ceremonial kind—tall, peaked canopies with heavy canvas sides and scalloped trim, the sort designed to anchor into the ground and stay upright no matter how hard the wind pushes.
Inside, the fabric glows with warm light, the outlines of people moving in loose shadows while the music thumps loud enough to pulse in my ribs.
Amara’s already dancing, a drink in one hand, her curls wet and wild around her shoulders. She looks like chaos bottled up. I love her for it.
I tug my jacket tighter, feeling rainwater slip under the collar. The quarry always feels different during storms—the air heavier, humming like the whole world’s running on too much current. Still, there’s laughter and the faint scent of burnt sugar and alcohol drifting through the crowd.
April Brooks, Hearthlight’s other bartender, has somehow turned an old folding table into a makeshift bar, shaking up cocktails that look way too fancy for a field in the middle of nowhere.
“This is fun,” I admit.
Amara grins, bumping her hip against mine. “Told you. You’ve been moping for weeks. Time to remind your body what joy feels like.”
“I don’t mope.”
“You nest and stay indoors watching Netflix, same thing.”
Before I can argue, she’s distracted by Benny. The look he gives her makes it clear that he’s more than ready to go home with her. She laughs, twirls, lets him catch her waist.
That’s when Theo Hartwell appears.
His blond hair is damp from the rain, green eyes bright with mischief. He’s always been the golden boy of Willowbrook—smiling behind his mother’s counter at the Brass Lantern, handing out pie slices like they’re talismans. Tonight, he’s different. His white T-shirt clings to him, jeans dark from the rain, a motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm.
“Caroline,” he says, flashing that grin. “Dance with me?”
I blink up at him. “In this weather?”
“Best time for it.”
There’s a spark in his eyes, the kind that makes it hard to say no. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I feel that restlessbuzz under my skin, the one that says maybe I’m allowed to stop being careful for one night.
I’m single, after all.
So I say yes.
He takes my hand and leads me toward the makeshift dance floor—a patch of grass between tents and parked trucks where the speakers are blasting some remix that feels like it’s syncing with my heartbeat. The ground squelches beneath my boots, but I don’t care.
