2. Damon
Circle of Vigilance:
“Draw three lines of chalk. Stand at the center of the intersecting lines. What enters can’t lie.”
The call comes through just as I’m finishing my second cup of coffee. Maggie’s voice crackles through the radio, full of her usual knowing tone.
“Sheriff, got word there’s gonna be a party up at the quarry tonight. Kids, witches, maybe a few from out of town.”
I stare out through the office window, where the sky’s already gone bruise-dark. The wind’s picking up, throwing rain sideways against the glass. Great.
“Copy that,” I say, even though what I want to do is put my head down on the desk and pretend I didn’t hear her. “Who told you?”
The dispatcher laughs through the line, that throaty sound that says she’s two steps ahead of me. “Oh, honey, people tell me everything. You know that.”
Yeah. Maggie Trent is very tuned in to the gossip mill of this town. This is why I insisted on getting her hired as the 911 dispatcher. Nothing ever gets past her. I need that for my team.
“Fine. Round everyone up,” I tell her. “We’ll check it out before it turns into another near-death highlight reel.”
One of my deputies is already standing by the door, pulling on his jacket. Simon’s all clean lines and easy smiles, blond hair that never seems to stay down no matter how hard he tries.
“Bet it’s the Turner twins again,” he says. “They’re magnets for bad ideas.”
“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.”
“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.
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.