8. Damon
Potion for Clarity:
Steep mint, thyme, and rainwater. Sip slowly until thoughts settle.
Iwake with a dull ache pressing behind my eyes.
For a moment I stare at the ceiling, trying to place myself. The manor’s guest room always does this to me. My phone vibrates on the nightstand, then again, then again, until the screen lights up with a stack of missed calls and messages.
Media. Town council. A reporter I blocked two years ago and apparently forgot to keep blocked.
I scrub a hand over my face and exhale through my teeth.
Of course this is what they’re circling.
Not the damaged wards, not the burned acreage, not the people who spent the night coughing smoke out of their lungs or shaking through residual magic.
Headlines want spectacle. They want blame. They want a quote that fits in a box.
My head pulses again, sharp enough that I mutter a curse into the empty room.
Noah’s name sits near the top of my call log. I spoke to him late last night, our voices raw with exhaustion. He informed me that most of the fires have been contained. A few structures damaged. No fatalities.
That last part mattered enough to repeat twice.
I close my eyes and let that settle. It could have been worse. That’s the truth I cling to while everything else threatens to tip sideways.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there longer than necessary, elbows braced on my knees. Today isn’t going to give me mercy.
Hospital first, to see the aftermath with my own eyes and hear it without filters.
Then Foxglove & Finch. June needs to know what to watch for, and I need to know if anyone’s coming in reporting side effects from Oscar’s stupidity.
Love potions at a quarry party. I still can’t quite wrap my mind around that.
I can’t believe that after all this, I’ll have to call a fucking community meeting. People need to hear it from me. They need to understand why the quarry is off-limits, why the wards matter, why one reckless night ripples outward.
The ache behind my eyes sharpens again. I swear under my breath and stand.
The shower helps, hot water pounding across my shoulders, steam fogging the glass.
I brace my hands against the tile and let my head tip forward.
For a few seconds I pretend the sound of water is enough to drown out everything else.
It isn’t, but it takes the edge off. I dress in my uniform with practiced movements, fingers finding buttons and seams without thought.
Badge. Belt. Boots. It all settles me, familiar as breath.
So much to do. So little time.
I catch my reflection in the mirror before I leave the room. Lines at the corners of my eyes that weren’t there a decade ago. Stubble shadowing my jaw. The sheriff staring back at me looks composed enough. That will have to do.
The manor’s hallway is washed in morning light, pale gold filtering through tall windows.
A memory surfaces without warning. Me at fifteen, sprawled on the floor of the old study with books open around me, chalk dust on my fingers from copying runes again and again until they stuck.
Aunt Etta knocking on the door well past midnight, telling me to sleep, telling me I could learn more in the morning.
I’d ignored her then, convinced that if I understood my magic well enough, I could control every variable. That if I studied hard enough, nothing would ever slip.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
The scent hits me halfway down the stairs. Toasted bread, herbs, something sweet and warm. My stomach answers with an unhelpful growl. I take another step, then hear laughter. Light, familiar, and another voice layered with it. Male. Smooth. My gut tightens.
Aunt Etta stands at the counter, hands wrapped around a teacup, her hair pinned back in a way she only bothers with when company is present. Silas Thorn sits at the small table, long legs stretched out, dressed far too comfortably for someone who arrived with a Council agenda. He’s wearing a robe.
My robe. What a fucking asshole!
“Well,” I say, keeping my tone even as I reach for the coffee pot. “Good morning.”
Aunt Etta beams like this is the most natural thing in the world. “Good morning, sweetheart. You look exhausted.”
Silas lifts his cup in a mock salute. “Morning, Sheriff. I had no idea you Willowbrook types started business this early.”
I pour coffee, black, and take a long swallow. “We don’t. Emergencies do.”
Aunt Etta’s hand settles over Silas’s for a brief second, her smile fond. “He was just saying how impressive it is that you keep everything running here. Such responsibility.”
Silas glances down at their hands, then back at me, amusement flickering across his face. “Your aunt has been educating me.”
I ignore the robe, the hand, the way irritation pricks at the base of my skull. “I’ve got a few stops to make. Hospital. Foxglove & Finch. I’ll see you around noon.”
He arches a brow. “Already assigning me a schedule?”
“Already telling you mine.”
My aunt laughs softly. “Then Silas can stay and keep me company. We were just getting to the good part of the conversation.”
I don’t ask what the good part is. I grab an apple from the bowl on the counter and take a bite, the tart sweetness cutting through the coffee. “Where’s Amara?”
Aunt Etta tilts her head, thinking. “She was up about an hour ago. Had some cereal, said she felt nauseous, then went back to her room.”
My jaw tightens. “How did she look?”
“Grumpy as usual,” Aunt Etta says, entirely unbothered.
I nod, tamping down the urge to push. “I’ll check on her.”
Silas stands, rolling his shoulders like a man entirely at ease. “I’ll see you later, Sheriff.”
“Don’t redecorate,” I mutter, already turning away.
The hallway feels longer on the way to Amara’s room. The manor creaks softly under my steps, wood settling, old bones remembering other mornings like this. I stop outside her door and lift my hand, hesitating for half a breath before knocking.
“Amara,” I call. “It’s me.”
No answer.
I knock again, firmer. “Open up.”
The door cracks open, just enough for one wary eye to peer out. “What?” she mutters.
“You okay?”
She shrugs, then winces, pressing fingers to her temple. “Head hurts. Stomach’s off. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I didn’t ask for a diagnosis.”
I sigh. “You need anything?”
She considers that, then shakes her head. “Sleep.”
“Text me if that changes.”
Her eye narrows. “You’re hovering.”
“It’s kind of my thing.”
She snorts and closes the door.
I stand there for a second, waiting and listening for movement. When there’s none, I turn away.
Outside, the morning air is cool against my skin.
The hospital parking lot is already busy when I arrive, a cluster of people gathered near the entrance.
Some are wrapped in bandages, others simply look exhausted.
I make my way inside, checking names and speaking with the staff.
Smoke inhalation. Minor burns. Magical fatigue. Nothing life-threatening.
Relief loosens something in my chest I hadn’t realized was clenched.
Foxglove & Finch is quieter than usual when I arrive. June stands behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, eyes tired. She looks up when the bell chimes.
“Sheriff,” she says. “You look like hell.”
“Good to see you too.”
She leans forward. “Everyone’s asking. Any reports yet?”
“Nothing severe,” I tell her. “What about Oscar’s pastries?”
Her mouth twists. “No one has come in looking for an antidote so that’s a good sign. I’ve heard that a lot of the Omegas are still having side effects, but I think that’s more to do with the surge than anything else. August and I are doing okay, but my apprentice and Caroline… not so much.”
“Have you heard from her?”
June hesitates. “Not this morning.”
I nod, filing that away. “If anyone comes in reporting symptoms that don’t match what we expect, call me.”
By the time I leave, my phone is buzzing again. Messages piling up. Requests. Demands. I ignore them long enough to step back outside and breathe. Fatigue settles deep in my bones. I need to make sure everyone there’s doing okay.
I think of that kid on the study floor, chalk-stained fingers, convinced knowledge could prevent every disaster. I think of the room I grew up in, the house that’s still mine even if I haven’t slept there in weeks.
There’s work to be done. And I’m not done yet.
The air is cool and damp, the kind that clings to the inside of my lungs. Clouds hang low, thick and swollen from last night’s rain, and the gravel crunches under my boots as I head toward the cruiser. I yawn, a deep, aching pull that makes my jaw pop and drags tears into the corners of my eyes.
My head still throbs, a dull reminder of too little sleep and too much responsibility stacked back to back.
I’m already mentally drafting a community meeting agenda. Hospital updates. Fire damage. Quarry access. Media boundaries. I’m halfway through deciding where to hold it when something darts across the driveway.
I curse and slam on the brakes.
The cruiser jerks to a stop. My heart jumps so hard it hurts, a thud against my ribs. A black blur freezes in front of the bumper, low to the ground, eyes bright as coins.
“Fucking hell,” I breathe, shoving the door open.
The cat sits there, tail flicking in slow irritation, looking more offended than afraid. Rain beads on his fur, turning it glossy. Yellow-green eyes lock on me, unblinking.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter. I crouch, careful, hands open. “Hey. Easy. Please don’t bite me.”
He sniffs my fingers, nose twitching, then presses his head into my hand like he owns me.
Then it clicks.
Thistle.
Caroline’s cat.
My chest tightens. I’ve seen him sprawled on her windowsill, stalking dust motes like prey. I’ve felt his judgment from café counters. He’s unmistakable.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask, glancing down the road, then back toward town.
He answers by meowing once, low and demanding.