6. Damon
Charm Against Storms:
Tie red thread around a pine branch. Hang above your door.
Igrip the wheel tighter as I drive, the road slick with rain, the lights of Willowbrook blurring in the haze.
My shoulders ache, and my stomach churns with frustration. I thought the hardest part of tonight would be working on the wards with Silas. The man practically drips arrogance.
Half my team is out of commission from last night’s surge, and Noah Kemp has been stretched so thin he’s practically living in the rain, running between downed power lines and buildings still smoldering from fire.
I can hear the distant rumble of thunder, smell ozone and wet earth through the cracked window.
And on top of all of that, Oscar Dune, the aspiring romance writer, apparently decided it was a brilliant idea to sell enchanted love potion pastries at the quarry. I’m almost glad he had the sense to report himself before things got worse.
I tighten my jaw. That’s why I’m headed to Foxglove & Finch. Maybe I can get an antidote. Maybe I can pull this back from the ridiculous edge it’s teetering on.
I turn onto the small side street, headlights catching the fog rolling off the hills. The shop looms ahead, soft light spilling through the windows, faint scent of herbs and baked goods drifting into the damp air.
I push the door open and step inside. The bell chimes, and I catch the scent of cinnamon and lavender. June is behind the counter, apron dusted with flour, her hair tucked messily into a bun. I blink at her, surprised. Where is everyone else?
“Where’s the rest of the crew?” I ask, shaking off rain from my coat.
“Caroline and August are resting,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel. “What can I do you for?”
I glance around the shop, shelves stacked with jars and bottles, their contents glowing faintly under the warm lighting. It almost feels like a sanctuary after the chaos outside, but I don’t have time to appreciate it.
“Oscar Dune sold love potion pastries at the quarry last night. Someone might need an antidote. I need to make sure it doesn’t get out of hand.”
“Caroline worked on the potions.” She picks up her phone, then turns to the register.
I rub my forehead and exhale, leaning against the counter. Figures that Caroline somehow got tangled in this mess. She’s always in the thick of it.
“Did you manage to reach her?” I ask.
“I called her,” June replies, glancing at the small monitor by the register, “but she isn’t picking up. Checked the order number, though. The portion Oscar bought? Mild. It’ll wear off in a day or two. No permanent damage. Oh, that boy is a menace.”
I can’t help but smile, despite the tension. “I’ve got a lot more to deal with than arresting a boy for a mild love potion. Let him stew for a bit on his own.”
June quirks an eyebrow. “That’s surprisingly diplomatic for you.”
I shrug, tapping the counter with my fingers. “Tonight has left me little patience for drama I can’t fix immediately. I’ve got wards to check, fires to contain, surges to stabilize. Oscar can survive a few days as long as he lays low.”
The shop smells of fresh herbs and baked sugar, but the faint, lingering magic makes my skin crawl. I run a hand over my face and glance at the bottles lining the shelves. Each jar hums softly, a reminder of the order and control this place can wield if handled right.
My mind races, flicking through the tasks waiting for me.
Silas and the wards come first. The man’s precise, methodical approach clashes violently with the mess left by the storm and the quarry.
But I can’t help noticing the way his magic inscribes itself in everything he touches, the disciplined hum of power contained in runes and wards.
I tighten the buttons on my coat, rain dripping from my hair onto the floor. June leans closer. “You want an antidote now, or just checking if things are under control?”
I take a deep breath. “Checking. I don’t need another mess tonight. I’ve got half the town destabilized from last night’s surge and a council warlock breathing down my neck. I’ll see to Oscar myself.”
Her face softens. “Alright. You’re handling it a lot better than most people would.”
I nod, thanking her for her kind words.
I glance at the door and the street beyond.
Rain still hammers the pavement, puddles forming like mirrors, reflecting the neon signs of nearby shops.
The world outside seems ordinary, almost peaceful in comparison to the quarry and the wards.
But I know better. The balance of power, the surge of magic—it’s all precarious, like holding water in cupped hands.
The sooner I can get the wards up and running, the better it will be for everyone. The surge has affected the weather witches, hence the rain.
I need to get that part under control.
June watches me with a faint smirk. “You’re good at managing chaos, for a small-town sheriff.”
I chuckle softly, running a hand over my stubbled jaw. “Small-town? I’ve got half a council breathing down my neck, fires erupting in the middle of a storm, and enchanted pastries causing heart flutters. ‘Small-town’ doesn’t cover this.”
She laughs, shaking her head, returning to her counter.
I pull a chair close and settle my elbows, letting my coat hang loose.
My mind is already planning the next steps: wards, the flares, the townsfolk, and Silas.
That man, precise and almost annoyingly flawless, will either be the help I need or the headache I didn’t ask for.
But his runes can stabilize what I can’t, and I need to see them up close, make sure the wards aren’t failing completely.
I sip the water June set out, grateful for the cool relief against my dry throat. The magical residue from last night still tingles under my skin.
Outside, the storm hasn’t abated. The sky is heavy with dark clouds, rolling with low rumbles that echo the pulse of magic still lurking through the town. I step back into the rain, the water plastering my hair to my forehead, and let it wash over me.
My boots squelch in the puddles as I head to my truck.
The town is buzzing, unstable, half of it recovering from last night’s chaos, the other half teetering on the edge of the Rift.
I slide into the driver’s seat, wiping rain from my face. Oscar’s mild disaster can wait. The wards with Silas won’t.
My hands tighten around the wheel as I navigate the slick streets, thinking through the wards, the surges, the little enchantments Caroline and the others have woven into town life.
I can almost feel the hum of magic beneath the asphalt, the lineages and legacies embedded in every corner, every brick, every street lamp.
I’m tired, drained, but necessary. I’m the sheriff. It’s what I do. This town is my responsibility. And I’ll fix it, one precise move at a time.
The truck tires hiss through puddles, headlights cutting through the mist, and I take a deep breath and drive to the manor.
I push open the grand double doors of the manor, rain streaking my coat and plastering my hair to my forehead. The hall smells faintly of wax polish and cedar, a comforting counterpoint to the storm outside. The fire in the parlor flickers low, casting shifting light across the library doorway.
I step inside and find Silas exactly where I expected him—leaning against the massive oak shelves, head bent over a scattering of parchment, runes meticulously inked and stamped across every surface.
Only he isn’t alone.
My aunt Etta stands beside him, sleeves rolled back, her expression a mix of curiosity and cautious concern.
“Damon, are you all right?”
I glance at her, the tension in my shoulders loosening a fraction. “I’m okay.” My throat still feels tight from the quarry, the exhaustion, and the surge. I brush at the wet strands of hair stuck to my temple. “Thanks for asking.”
“You must be starving,” she says, stepping aside, motioning to the shelves like she could offer sustenance and calm in equal measure. “I’ll get you some tea.”
I nod, grateful. The faint aroma of chamomile and mint drifts toward me even before she’s reached the kettle. I settle my gaze on Silas, noting the tight line of his jaw and the focused tilt of his head over the runes. “Have you found what you were looking for?”
His eyes flick up, just long enough to meet mine.
“The wards are powered by very specific runes, Damon,” he says, voice clipped but not unkind.
“I believe we can bolster them. They’ve held up surprisingly well, all things considered, but reinforcing will prevent a repeat surge from overwhelming the town. ”
I nod, lips pressed together as I consider the magnitude of what he’s proposing. I’ve worked the wards for years, keeping them maintained and checked, but a surge like that is a reminder of how delicate the balance is.
My chest tightens with both pride and unease at the responsibility.
Aunt Etta reappears, holding a steaming cup of tea and a plate of cookies. She sets them carefully on the table before me.
Silas gives a faint smile, fleeting but genuine. Aunt Etta’s cheeks bloom with a soft pink, her fingers brushing the rim of the cup as she hands it to me.
“Here,” she murmurs. “You’ll feel better with this.”
“Thanks,” I say, lifting the cup and inhaling the fragrant steam. It’s calming. I glance at her, then back to Silas, realizing just how quiet and composed he seems, even after the stress of the quarry and the wards. He’s like a rock in a flood.
I shift, trying to hide the tension as I ask, “Where’s Amara?”
“She’s still sleeping,” Aunt Etta says lightly, brushing back a strand of hair. “When did she even get back?” Her eyes narrow slightly, curiosity mixed with suspicion.
I swallow, knowing I need to cover for my cousin. Aunt Etta and Amara have never been close. “She was at Caroline’s,” I say smoothly, “let her sleep in for a bit. She’s always affected by the magic after a surge.”
Silas watches the exchange with interest.
“Aunt Etta and I were talking,” he says finally, “and we think it would be beneficial if more Omegas were advised to join the TrueBond App. Part of the town’s initiative. Stronger connections, better stability. Prevents issues during surges.”
I groan, rubbing at the back of my neck. “Maybe we can discuss that another time. For now, we need to work on the wards, and I still need to do a headcount for everyone, especially the party attendees. Last thing I need is to find someone wandering into a flare.”
Silas bites into a cookie, the crunch loud in the quiet library. He chews slowly, watching me. “Fine,” he says, finally. “Let’s go. The sooner we get through this, the sooner I can take a shower. I’ve been working since last night. I need a shower and sleep.”
I can’t help the faint smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, thinking about how rigid he always seems, yet he needs the simplest comforts just like anyone else. “All right,” I mutter, standing and brushing off the damp from my coat. “Let’s move.”
As we head toward the door, Silas turns to Aunt Etta. “You can totally apply,” he says.
I arch an eyebrow, glancing between them. “Wait, what are you two talking about now?”
“Your dear aunt is thinking of volunteering for the council,” Silas says casually, as though he’s discussing the weather, “and moving to Chicago. I offered to write her a recommendation letter.”
I feel the irritation prickling under my skin, the sense that suddenly I’m being pulled into a political maneuver I don’t have time to manage.
“Let’s just go,” I say, letting my hand rest lightly on the doorframe as I usher us out.
Rain still pelts the windows in quick bursts, a relentless rhythm against the manor.
Silas hums softly, hands tucked into his coat pockets, as though the rain doesn’t touch him at all. He’s methodical and annoyingly calm in the face of the storm outside. I can’t decide whether I envy him or want to shake the arrogance out of him. Probably both.
The air is thick with moisture, every breath pulling in the scent of wet earth, cedar from the manor, and the faint trace of wards humming faintly across the town.
The weight of responsibility presses against me, but I keep my posture straight, shoulders squared.
We need to stabilize the wards, account for every partygoer, and ensure nothing else triggers a surge of the Rift.
“I’ll handle the wards,” I say as we step into the truck, rain pelting the hood, “but after that, we need to run a headcount. I don’t want anyone left vulnerable.”
Silas nods. “Agreed. And after we finish the wards, a proper review of the runes. Some may need reinforcement. Others may require re-inscription entirely.”
He reaches over, tapping the dashboard with a finger. “We’ll start with the outer wards,” he says.
There’s no argument here, only action. I start the truck, headlights cutting through the rain-soaked street as we head toward the first ward.
We pass through the quiet streets of Willowbrook, checking each corner for anomalies in the wards, every stone, every line of magic traced in the foundation of the town.
The storm rumbles overhead, a reminder that the Rift is restless, and every measure we take has to be exact.
Silas adjusts the car’s rearview mirror, catching my gaze for a brief second.
“Once we finish the outer wards, I’ll need to inspect the inner wards with you,” he says. “The surge left residual instability. We can’t take any chances.”
I nod. “Then we get to work.”
The truck rounds the corner toward the first set of wards, and I let my attention settle where it belongs. By the time we stop, Silas is already climbing out into the rain. My irritation eases into grudging respect. Whatever else he is, the man knows his craft.