Chapter 24
What does a witch do when her son is rescued from a deranged wereape scientist who aged him ten years and tried to use him as a magical lab rat?
She throws him a party, that’s what.
Harry Connick, Jr.’s “It Had to Be You” played in the background, the jazz tones floating through Davenport House like they’d been charmed to match the vibe.
Because nothing says “welcome home” quite like classy crooning, family, and enough food to feed a small supernatural army.
Or in Darian’s case, enough food to feed whatever supernatural growth-spurt metabolism he was currently operating under.
I was beginning to suspect my son now consumed calories the way ley lines consumed magical energy.
And the food? Ruth had outdone herself. The dining table was loaded with trays of cheesy mini quiches, puff-pastry broomsticks, deviled dragon eggs (with a tiny disclaimer: “Not from actual dragons. Mostly.”), charmed crescent sandwiches that spelled out “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DARIAN” every time someone bit into them, and a cauldron-shaped bowl of bubbling fruit punch that smelled suspiciously of both berries and firewhiskey.
There were also three different cakes because apparently one birthday cake wasn’t enough when you were trying to compensate for several missing birthdays.
Beverly had argued for five cakes. Ruth had wanted seven.
Dolores had attempted to impose cake regulations. Nobody listened.
Well, technically it had started as a “welcome home” celebration after we got Darian back.
Then Ruth pointed out that Addison had stolen years from us. Years. Missed birthdays. Missed milestones. Missed celebrations. And according to her, if some lunatic wereape was going to skip our kid ahead several years, we were absolutely going to celebrate every birthday she’d robbed us of.
Tinker Bell zipped past me with a teeny tray in her hands, practically vibrating with pride as she offered a plate to our guests.
“Dragon Tail Bites?” They were miniature sausage rolls, but apparently everything sounded more impressive when dragons were involved.
The fairy looked so excited you’d think she’d catered the event.
Knowing Tinker Bell, she probably believed she had.
So far, Darian had somehow received six birthday presents already despite the party only being twenty minutes old. At this rate he’d be opening gifts until puberty. Which, considering recent events, felt like a dangerously inaccurate timeline estimate.
“Back off, furball,” said Ruth, swatting Hildo’s paw as he tried to snatch one of the veggie pastries straight off the cooling rack. Her apron read: I FOLLOW RECIPES THE WAY PIRATES FOLLOW LAWS. Knowing Ruth, that wasn’t a joke. It was a mission statement.
Across the room, I spotted Gilda, the late Gilbert’s cousin and falcon shifter, locked in a staring contest with Dolores.
She was short and stocky, with curly brown hair piled on top of her head in a way that looked both deliberate and completely accidental.
She reminded me of a hobbit. Not one of the adventurous hobbits who went off to save the world, either.
One of the stubborn ones who argued with neighbors about property lines and then held a grudge for three generations.
My aunt’s voice floated above the low hum of conversation, carrying with the effortless authority of someone who genuinely believed the universe functioned better when people listened to her. “I am the mayor, Gilda. That means I get final say.”
Gilda huffed, folding her arms so tightly I was surprised they didn’t disappear into her torso. “And it is my store so I get the final say.”
Dolores pinched her face. “We’ll see about that.”
Yeah. Dolores was living her best life. Some people relaxed with gardening, yoga, or long walks.
My aunt preferred minor political disputes and completely unnecessary power struggles.
If there was a hill available, Dolores would climb it, plant a flag on top, and prepare to defend it until the end of time.
The fact that Gilda seemed equally committed to the argument only made the whole thing more entertaining.
Ever since Addison had been hauled away by the Gray Council, Dolores had been acting like she’d solved the entire case through superior intellect, magical excellence, and what she would undoubtedly describe as proper investigative procedure.
Never mind that we’d been there too. Details.
Minor details. Completely irrelevant details, according to Dolores.
If she wrote the official report, she’d probably list herself as the primary hero, secondary hero, and magical consultant.
I heard a flirtatious giggle and glanced over to find Beverly in the corner, her arms wrapped around two burly men who looked like they’d just walked off a lumberjack-themed cologne ad.
Both were vying for her attention. One had thick, muscular arms and a square jaw.
The other stood tall with a broad chest and the kind of build that came from years of hard labor or dedicated training.
Or carrying entire trees around recreationally.
“I told you,” Beverly said to them, her eyes twinkling. “You can take turns fanning me with that napkin, or I’ll have to pick a favorite.”
Yeah, she was loving this too.
And then, my eyes found Iris and Ronin in the living room, talking on the couch.
Iris’s legs were tucked under her, a wine glass balanced in one hand, while Ronin sat beside her, his gaze fixed like he never wanted to look away.
They looked stupidly, annoyingly in love.
I was happy for them. I really was. The kind of happy that was only slightly ruined by the urge to throw a pillow at them for being so disgustingly adorable.
But a part of me still drifted back to that day. To Addison. To that laboratory hidden away in a human town. To all those notes and machines and time she’d spent obsessing over my son. The woman had built her entire life around a disease and a cure that didn’t exist.
Somewhere along the way she’d stopped seeing people as people.
Darian wasn’t a little boy to her. He was data, a solution, a test subject.
Every time I thought about it, my blood pressure climbed another notch.
It was hard to wrap my head around how someone could look at a child and see an experiment instead of a person.
A cure instead of a kid who loved cartoons, cookies, and asking impossible questions at bedtime.
The whole thing still made my stomach twist.
Still, Addison was gone now.
Darian was home.
And right this second, my son was laughing somewhere in Davenport House while surrounded by people who loved him.
For the first time in days, that thought felt stronger than the anger.
Life in Hollow Cove was already returning to normal.
Or at least our version of normal, which admittedly wasn’t setting the bar very high.
In Hollow Cove, “normal” usually meant nobody was actively being cursed, possessed, kidnapped, or accidentally opening portals into inappropriate locations. We considered that a win.
I adjusted the charmed decorations above the fireplace—floating candles, glittering black and silver streamers, and a crystal banner that blinked: HAPPY BIRTHDAYS, DARIAN (WE’RE MAKING UP FOR LOST TIME).
The blinking letters kept changing colors every few seconds like they couldn’t decide whether this was a birthday party or a magical emergency.
Honestly, same. The banner had also started adding extra exclamation marks every few minutes, which felt emotionally accurate.
Only yesterday, I thought I’d lost years with my beautiful boy forever.
Not metaphorically. Literally. As in, mad scientist wereape, secret laboratory, magical injections, accelerated aging, and enough emotional trauma to keep therapists employed for decades.
The stuff of nightmares. The stuff I might need therapy for until I was one hundred and eighty.
But that was the past now. Sort of. At least that’s what I kept telling myself every time my brain attempted to revisit the laboratory for the seventeenth time today.
Yesterday, I thought I’d lost him. My Darian.
And no matter how many times Obiryn told me the growth had stopped, no matter how many times Dolores assured me Addison’s magical catalyst was gone, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that years had been stolen from us.
From him.
“He doesn’t like it when you do that,” came my mother’s voice, pulling me around.
Amelia was perched on the edge of the Davenport couch. Her eyes were locked on Katherine, who was fussing over Darian like she was trying to make up for every missed grandmother moment all at once.
“Of course he does,” Katherine replied smoothly, straightening the collar of Darian’s new shirt for the third time in five minutes. “Marcus always hated having his clothes adjusted too. It’s genetic.”
Darian rolled his eyes.
Actually rolled his eyes.
The sight nearly broke my brain.
Four-month-olds weren’t supposed to roll their eyes like experienced teenagers. But Darian wasn’t just a few months old anymore. He was way past that.
“Grandma,” he groaned. “It’s fine.”
Katherine froze. Then her eyes filled with tears.
Oh dear.
“Katherine?” asked Amelia.
“He sounds older too,” whispered Katherine.
And just like that, everyone in the room became very interested in literally anything else.
“He’s still Darian,” I said gently.
“I know that,” Katherine answered quickly. “I know.” She smiled at him, but I could see the sadness behind it. “It’s just... yesterday he was climbing onto my lap asking me to read him stories.”
“I still like stories,” offered Darian.
That earned him a hug so fierce I thought she might accidentally crack a rib.
“See?” said Ruth, walking by with a tray of tiny frosted cupcakes. “Still the same kid. Just taller. And more expensive to feed.”