13. Griffin #2
“Thanks, Captain,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Couldn’t have done it without the team.”
“Now get some rest. You’ve earned it,” he says, a rare smile touching his lips.
As we pack up the truck, the town starts to come back to life, lights flickering on in windows up and down the street. The surge of magic seems to recede, its presence fading as the fear and panic subside.
“We make a good team,” Soren says, slapping me on the back.
“The best,” Beckett agrees. “Now, who’s up for a drink? My treat.”
“I’m in,” Soren says. “Griffin?”
I hesitate, thinking about Caroline, about the conversation we need to have. But then I push the thought away. Tonight’s not about that. Tonight’s about celebrating a small victory in a town that’s constantly under siege.
“Count me in,” I say, a smile touching my lips. “But I’m buying.”
They laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet street. For a moment, everything feels normal, like we’re just regular firefighters celebrating a job well done. But then I feel the Rift under my feet, a reminder that normal is relative in Willowbrook.
The Hearthlight Tavern is alive tonight, buzzing with the kind of energy that only follows near-disaster.
The air smells of spilled beer, woodsmoke, and relief.
Soren’s already at the bar, his arm draped around April’s shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She’s leaning into him, laughing at something he just said, her dark hair catching the firelight.
“Look who decided to join the land of the living,” Soren calls out as we approach. “Thought you might turn in early, hero.”
I roll my eyes, but a grin tugs at my lips. “Someone’s got to keep this town from burning down.”
April turns, her smile warm. “We heard about the transformer. That was some quick thinking.”
“All in a day’s work,” I say, though my chest swells with pride. It feels good to be useful, to be part of something that matters again.
Beckett flags down Benny, who’s working the bar like a man possessed. “A round of whatever’s strongest, my good man. And a shot for each of us to start.”
Benny nods, already pouring. “On the house for the heroes of the hour.”
The tavern is packed, bodies pressed close, voices overlapping in a cheerful cacophony. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls. For a moment, I allow myself to just be here, to soak in the atmosphere, to feel like I belong.
The shots arrive first—small glasses filled with something amber and potent. We raise them in a silent toast, then throw them back. The liquid burns down my throat, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. It’s exactly what I need.
“Another round?” Beckett asks, already signaling to Benny.
I hold up a hand. “One more for me, then I’m switching to beer.”
“Suit yourself,” he shrugs as Benny slides another shot in front of me.
As I sip my beer, my eyes scan the room, taking in the scene. That’s when I see her.
She’s playing pool in the corner, her movements graceful and precise.
She’s got soft curves, pale skin that seems to glow in the dim light, and chestnut hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head.
Round glasses perch on her nose, and her gray-blue eyes are focused on the game, a dreamy look in them that makes my heart skip a beat.
It’s been a while since I found a woman attractive. Too long, if I’m being honest with myself. The reminder hits me low and hard, a sudden ache that has nothing to do with the fire or the Rift.
“Who’s that?” I ask, nodding in her direction.
Soren follows my gaze, a knowing smirk on his face. “That’s Celeste Monroe. Works at Evermere Books. Helps with the coven records too. Real quiet type.”
“New in town?” I ask, already making up my mind.
“Few months now,” April confirms. “Keeps to herself mostly. Sweet girl, though.”
I nod, finishing my beer in one long swallow. “Wish me luck.”
The walk to the pool table feels longer than it should, each step heavy with anticipation. She doesn’t notice me at first, too focused on her shot. She lines it up carefully, then executes it with a precision that surprises me. The ball drops into the pocket with a satisfying clink.
“Nice shot,” I say, leaning against the wall nearby.
She startles, turning to face me with wide eyes. “Oh. Thank you.”
“Griffin,” I say, extending a hand. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Celeste,” she replies. She’s barely audible over the tavern’s noise. She takes my hand, her grip gentle, tentative. “Celeste Monroe.”
Her scent hits me then—lavender and old parchment, like a library after a rainstorm. It’s intoxicating.
“Nice to meet you, Celeste Monroe. You play a mean game of pool.”
She blushes, a pretty pink that spreads across her cheeks. “I’m not that good. Just lucky tonight.”
“Sometimes luck is all you need,” I say, my eyes tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck.
She shifts her weight, looking uncomfortable. “I should probably let someone else have a turn.”
“Nonsense,” I say, gesturing to the table. “I was just admiring your technique. Mind if I watch?”
She hesitates, then nods, turning back to the table. “If you want.”
She lines up another shot, her movements sure and confident. There’s something about her, something quiet and unassuming, that draws me in. I want to know more about her, to understand what makes her tick.
“How long have you been in Willowbrook?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
“A few months,” she says, her focus still on the game. “I like it here. It’s… different from where I used to live.”
“Different how?” I prompt, genuinely curious.
She pauses, considering her answer. “Quieter. More… magical. Not just the Rift stuff, but the people. They feel more real here.”
I nod, understanding what she means. Willowbrook has a way of getting under your skin, of becoming a part of you whether you want it to or not.
“It grows on you,” I agree. “Like moss. Or a fungus.”
She laughs, a soft, musical sound that makes my chest tighten. “Something like that.”
We fall into an easy conversation, talking about the town, about books, about the strange and wonderful things that make Willowbrook what it is. She’s smart and funny, with a dry wit that catches me off guard. The more I talk to her, the more I want to know.
“I should probably get going,” she says finally, glancing at the clock over the bar. “Early start tomorrow.”
“Already?” I ask, disappointment washing over me. “The night’s still young.”
She smiles, but it’s tinged with sadness. “I’m not much of a night owl.”
“Can I walk you home?” I offer, before I can stop myself.
She hesitates, then nods. “I’d like that.”
“Great,” I say, my heart pounding. “Just let me use the restroom first, and then we can go.”