23. Griffin
Rune of Restraint:
Inscribed on silver, it cools the blood when fire rises.
The fluorescent lights of the airport terminal hum, grating on my already frayed nerves.
I’m leaning against the counter, my passport and boarding pass spread out on the scratched surface.
The woman on the other side, whose name tag reads “Brenda,” has a patient, practiced smile that doesn’t do a thing to soothe the coiled tension in my gut.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she says for the third time, her tone unchanging. “All flights into Willowbrook are grounded until further notice. The weather service is reporting some kind of anomalous atmospheric event. It’s being described as a localized hurricane.”
“A hurricane?” I repeat, the word tasting like ash. “In the middle of the mountains? That’s not possible.”
“I’m only relaying the information I have, sir.” Her smile remains fixed, a brittle mask. “It’s a no-fly zone. For everyone’s safety.”
I left. I just packed my bag and left. The thought has been a loop in my head since I boarded the first plane out of Chicago.
I’d gotten the call from Rosehill to get back to work.
It was duty. But the way I left things with Caroline…
a hasty text, a promise to call. It felt wrong. I hadn’t even said goodbye to her.
So I’d called my captain. I’d asked for a few days off. An emergency, I’d said. A personal one. He’d understood. And now I’m here, so close I can almost taste the pine-scented air of home, and I’m being told I can’t go in.
“I have to get there,” I say. I lean forward, my hands flat on the counter. “It’s an emergency. I’m a firefighter. My town needs me.”
I pull out my wallet, flipping it open to my department ID. The laminated card, with my picture and the Fire & Rescue insignia, is a familiar weight in my hand. I slide it across the counter toward her.
Brenda’s eyes flick from my face to the ID and back again. The professional smile finally wavers. She picks up the ID, studying it. “Griffin Clarke. Rosehill Fire Department.”
“That’s right.”
“But that’s not in Willowbrook, sir.”
“I know. I was on assignment in another town, but this is where I live.” I hand her my driver’s license. “See, born and raised. I have to be in town today. People are relying on me, Brenda. I can give you my boss’s number if that will help.” I have now resorted to bluffing. “He can vouch for me.”
She sighs, the sound heavy with resignation. She taps a few keys on her keyboard, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Okay. I can’t get you a direct flight. Nothing is getting through that airspace. But maybe… maybe there’s another way.”
I hold my breath.
“There’s a flight to Grand Junction in forty-five minutes,” she says, her fingers flying across the keyboard.
“From there, you can catch a connecting train to Goode Springs. It’s a scenic route, so it still runs in most weather.
The last leg, from Goode to Willowbrook, you’d have to rent a car.
The roads are still open, I think, but they’re advising against travel.
It’s a five-hour trip, minimum. Maybe longer with the weather. ”
“I’ll take it,” I say, without a second of hesitation. Five hours. It’s better than nothing. It’s better than sitting here, helpless, while my town is in the path of a fake hurricane and my… God knows what.
She prints the new tickets. “The gate is C-22. You’ll have to run. Good luck, Mr. Clarke.”
I grab the tickets and my ID, shoving them into my pocket.
“Thanks,” I manage to say, already turning away.
I don’t run, but my stride is long and fast, my duffel bag bumping against my leg.
The terminal is a blur of faces and concession stands, but my focus is a single, sharp point: Gate C-22. Home.
The flight to Grand Junction is a torture of anticipation. I’m crammed into a middle seat, the hum of the engines a reminder of the distance still between me and Caroline.
I pull out my phone. The screen lights up, and I open my messages. Her name is at the top of my recent contacts. I type out the words:
On my way home. See you soon.
I hit send. The message changes to “Delivered.” I stare at the screen, willing the tiny gray letters to change to “Read.” A reply. Anything. The minutes tick by. I switch my phone to airplane mode.
A cold knot of dread forms in my stomach. Caroline always has her phone. Why isn’t she answering?
The unease from the airport, the one I’d tried to dismiss as impatience, comes roaring back. Something’s wrong.
The journey is a disjointed series of waiting rooms and moving platforms. The train from Grand Junction is an old thing with worn velvet seats and large windows that look out on a landscape of canyons and rushing rivers.
The sky is a strange, bruised purple, and the wind buffets the car, making it sway on its tracks.
I watch the scenery, but I don’t see it. My mind is in Willowbrook. Is she safe? Is she at the shop or at home? Did she get my message? The train feels impossibly slow, each clack of the wheels on the track a hammer blow against my patience.
By the time I reach Goode, the light is beginning to fade. The wind is even stronger here, whipping down the valley with a vicious howl. I find the rental car counter, flashing my ID again to expedite the process. I’m handed the keys to a dark sedan, and I’m on the road.
The drive is the final, grueling test. The highway snakes through the mountains, and the storm, or whatever it is, is getting worse.
Rain lashes against the windshield, and gusts of wind push the car around on the road.
Debris—branches, trash, rocks—litters the shoulders. I see two other cars the entire way.
It feels like I’m driving into the heart of a ghost story. The five hours Brenda predicted stretch into six. Every minute is an agony.
Finally, I see the sign. Welcome to Willowbrook. The relief is so potent it’s almost painful. But the feeling is short-lived.
The town isn’t right. The main street is deserted.
The streetlights are on, but they cast a sickly, yellow glow in the gathering dusk.
The wind funnels down the street, a constant, mournful shriek.
Several shop windows are boarded up. The OPEN sign at the diner is dark.
A trash can lies on its side, its contents scattered across the wet pavement.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. Where is everyone?
What happened here? My first instinct is to go to her house, but I force myself to think.
If something is wrong, if people are hurt, the center of it all would be the town square.
And the center of the town square is the apothecary.
June will know what’s going on. June will know if Caroline is okay.
I park the car in front of the apothecary, the engine still rumbling.
The shop’s lights are on, but the CLOSED sign is hanging on the door.
I get out, the wind nearly tearing the door from my hand.
I slam it shut and jog toward the entrance, my boots splashing in the puddles on the sidewalk.
I’m about to try the door when a figure hurries around the corner of the building, colliding with me.
“Whoa, sorry.” August stumbles back. He looks pale and flustered, clutching a brown paper bag to his chest.
“August? What’s going on? Where is everyone?”
“Griffin? Man, you’re back,” he says, his eyes wide. “It’s crazy. The Rift… it went nuts earlier. It’s calmed down some now, but everyone’s still hiding. June sent me on a run.”
My gaze drops to the bag in his hands. It has the apothecary’s logo stamped on the side. “A delivery? In this?”
“Yeah. For Caroline.” When he says her name, my entire world narrows to that single word. “She wasn’t feeling good. June packed a few things. I was supposed to drop it on her porch, but with the wind… I don’t know.”
Dread washes over me. Not feeling good. The unanswered text. The boarded-up town. It all clicks into place, a picture I don’t want to see.
“I’ll take it to her.” I hold out my hand. It’s not a request.
August hesitates for a second, then nods, seeming grateful to be rid of the responsibility. “Okay, yeah. That’s probably better. June’s number is on the receipt if you need anything.”
He thrusts the bag into my hands and takes off down the street, his head down against the wind. I’m left standing alone in front of the dark shop, the paper bag feeling heavy, ominous. I look at the receipt. I know what this is. An Omega in distress. A pre-heat kit. Maybe a full heat kit.
The wind howls, a lonely, frightening sound. I look down the street, toward the direction of her house.
All I can think about is getting to her. The town, the storm, the danger—it all fades away.
There’s only her. I need to see her. I need to know she’s safe. I need to hold her.
I climb back into the car, toss the bag onto the passenger seat, and pull away from the curb.
I hope Caroline is safe.
The drive to her house is the longest of my life.
The town is a disaster zone. The windows of the bookstore are shattered.
A large tree branch has fallen across the entrance to the park, its splintered wood pointing like an accusatory finger at the sky.
Every dark window watches me like an eye, radiating the town’s collective fear.
My grip on the paper bag tightens, the crinkling sound lost in the gale. Inside this bag is the answer to the question that has been gnawing at me since I got Brenda’s call. Anomalous atmospheric event, my ass. This is the Rift. This is the magic that fuels our town, and right now, it’s broken.
And Caroline is caught in the middle of it.
I should have been here. I shouldn’t have left. The thought is a vicious, self-flagellating loop. I was chasing a career, a promotion, a life outside of this town, while the one person who matters was here, facing this alone.
The text I sent her feels like a joke now. See you soon. I should have never left.
Finally, I turn the corner onto her street. It’s just as deserted as the main road, but then I see her house. Every light is on, warm and golden, spilling out onto the wet porch and the rain-slicked lawn. The sight of it sends a surge of relief through me so powerful it almost buckles my knees.
I pull up to the curb and kill the engine. For a second, I just sit there, staring at the house, letting the relief wash through me.
She’s there. She’s safe. She’s home.
I grab the paper bag from the passenger seat and climb out into the rain. I cross the street, my boots sinking into the sodden grass of her lawn. I climb the porch steps, the wood groaning under my weight. I can hear the wind howling around the eaves of the house, but inside, there’s only silence.
I knock. Three raps against the wood. The sound is swallowed almost immediately by the storm.
I wait. My entire body is coiled, tense. I strain to hear something, anything, from inside. Nothing. I raise my hand to knock again, louder this time, but I hear it. A floorboard creaking. The soft, hesitant sound of footsteps approaching the door.
A shadow falls across the peephole. I see the tiny glass disc darken as she looks out.
The silence stretches for an eternity. Then, the sound of the deadbolt turning. The lock clicks open.
The door swings inward, and there she is.
My breath catches in my throat.
She looks… wrecked. Her hair is a wild mess around her face, her cheeks are flushed a deep, feverish pink.
She’s wearing a simple T-shirt, and her bare legs are visible, pale and trembling slightly.
But it’s her eyes that get me. They’re wide, dazed, and filled with a storm of emotions I can’t begin to untangle.
Shock. Relief. And something else. A deep, haunting fear.
And then her scent hits me.
It’s the sweet, warm honey and cinnamon I know, but it’s laced with something else. It’s the scent of an Omega in the throes of a pre-heat. It’s a biological siren song, a call that bypasses all thought and reason and goes straight to the Alpha part of my brain.
My cock hardens instantly. My hands clench into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to lunge forward, not to pull her into my arms and bury my face in her neck.
“Griffin?” Her voice is a hoarse whisper, full of disbelief. “What… what are you doing here?”
I hold up the paper bag, my hand shaking slightly. “August was bringing this. I took it from him.” I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “Are you okay, Caroline?”
She just stares at me, her lips parted, as if she can’t quite process that I’m real, that I’m standing on her porch in the middle of a storm. Her gaze darts from my face to the bag in my hand and back again.
“I… I’m fine,” she says, but the tremor in her voice gives her away.
“You’re not fine.” I take a step forward, into the warm, fragrant air of her house. “I can smell it.”
A fresh wave of color floods her cheeks, a deep, mortified blush. She looks away, her arms wrapping around herself in a protective gesture. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“The hell I shouldn’t,” I say.
I step inside, kicking the door shut behind me. The sound of it closing is final, cutting off the storm and sealing the two of us in together. The air in the small entryway is thick.
I set the bag down on the small table by the door and turn to face her. She’s standing there, looking small and vulnerable, and the protective instinct in me is so strong it’s overwhelming.
“I came back for you, Caroline,” I say, the words raw and honest. “The moment I heard something was wrong, I came back.”
Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “But the roads… Rosehill…”
“I found a way,” I say. I close the remaining distance between us, my hand coming up to cup her cheek. Her skin is burning hot, so hot it’s alarming.
She flinches at my touch, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Tell me what you need,” I whisper, my thumb stroking her jawline. “Just tell me.”
She looks up at me, her eyes searching mine. The fear is still there, but now it’s mixed with something else.
“I don’t know,” she confesses. “I don’t know what I need.”
I lean down, my forehead resting against hers. I can feel the fine tremor running through her body. “Yes, you do,” I murmur. “You just have to let me give it to you.”