“Sounds good,” Damon says, shutting the back door.
We wait as Noah helps Dahlia out of the cruiser. He turns to me. “You need a ride?”
“My car is at the station,” I confirm.
“Get in,” Damon tells me.
I slide into the passenger seat. Damon starts the engine, the lights cutting a path through the rainy darkness. Noah follows in his own vehicle as we pull away from the curb.
The drive is silent. The only sounds are the swish of the windshield wipers. I can feel Damon’s tension, a coiled energy in the confines of the car. He’s not just a sheriff dealing with a missing person.
After a few minutes, he speaks, his eyes fixed on the road. “Just ask.”
I turn my head to look at him. His profile is illuminated by the dash lights. “Ask what?”
“Whatever it is you’re thinking,” he says, a dry edge to his words. “I can practically hear the gears turning in your head from over here. You’re a Council man. You want to know why you’ve never heard of an Omega shadow witch in Willowbrook. So, ask.”
I consider my words carefully. This is a delicate situation. I’m an outsider, a representative of an authority he clearly doesn’t trust. But he is giving me an opening. I decide to take it.
“Why was this kept from the Council?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral. “An anomaly of this magnitude… it should have been reported.”
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “And what would the Council have done? Sent a team of researchers to poke and prod her? To run tests? To lock her away in some sterile facility in the name of magical ‘progress’?” He glances at me, his gaze hard. “Dahlia is a person. She’s not a specimen. She gets nightmares. Sometimes she sees things before they happen. Bad things. Itscares her. It scares her mother. But she doesn’t harm anyone. She never has.” He looks back at the road, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “There was no reason to report it. It’s our problem to handle.”
I study his face. The strong line of his jaw. The way his eyes stay focused on the road ahead. I see the conviction there. The fierce, protective loyalty. This isn’t a man who blindly follows orders. This is a man who follows his own code.
“Are you going to tell them?” he asks. The question hangs in the air between us.
He’s afraid. I can see it now. It’s not a fear of me, not personally. It’s a fear of what I represent—the cold, impersonal machine of authority that could descend on his town and tear apart everything he’s trying to protect. He’s asking me if I’m his enemy.
I look out the window, at the dark, rain-slicked streets of Willowbrook. I think of Helena’s contempt, my father’s disappointment. I think of the flawed theory, the impossible mission. I’m already failing in their eyes. What’s one more secret?
Besides, this is far more interesting.
I turn back to him. I don’t answer his question with words. I just give a small, almost imperceptible shake of my head.
A moment of silence passes. Then I see the tension in his shoulders ease, just a fraction. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t have to.
I’m in deeper now, an accomplice to his secrets. And as we drive through the storm-battered town, I realize, with a startling lack of remorse, that I don’t mind at all.
Potion for Steadiness:
Mix chamomile, valerian, and honey. Sip with your pack.
The secret of Dahlia Cross now sits between us, a fragile, unspoken truce. I keep my eyes on the road, on the dark storefronts and swaying trees, but my mind is replaying the scene in the town square. The terror in her eyes. The raw power in her scream.
Then I see it. A figure standing at the edge of the road, just under the halo of a malfunctioning streetlight. Another figure joins them, running up from the direction of the residential side streets. I slam on the brakes, the tires hydroplaning for a second before catching the pavement. The car jerks to a stop.
I have to be hallucinating. No one is out in this.
“Give me a minute,” I tell Silas. I don’t wait for a reply. I throw the door open and step out into the wind. The rain is immediate, plastering my hair to my forehead.
“No one is supposed to be out here!” I shout, my words swallowed by the gale.
The smaller figure spins around, and her scent hits me a second before her face registers. It’s Caroline. But it’s not her usual scent. It’s the warm honey and cinnamon I know, but it’s amplified, laced with a thick, cloying sweetness that signals only one thing. My gut clenches.
The man beside her is Griffin, the firefighter. He’s got a hand on her arm, his body angled as if to shield her from the storm. From me.
“Damon!” she calls out. She sounds so scared. “You have to help us.”
