Chapter 2
LIZA
By midnight, I'm counting the minutes.
My feet are sore, my voice is two octaves lower, and I have enough festival glitter in my hair to constitute a personal emergency.
I stick around after the last of the fireworks, making sure every kid and inebriated adult gets safely funneled home or into the town rideshare. The street sweepers won't roll through until dawn, but the town's feral cat colony has already started its shift on the dropped hot dogs.
Only in Blackthorn Bay do the feral cats smell like the smokehouse.
I glance at my watch.
It's past the time I half expected to bump into Cassian at the seawall for coffee and a recap, but he's probably still on his last sweep before lockup. If history's any guide, he'll end up on Wharf Street.
I push through the remnants of the parade route: soggy confetti, toppled folding chairs, the odd drenched banner fluttering in the breeze.
I was sidetracked earlier by a marshmallow fire and an impromptu interpretive dance-off between the jazz band and the local Mothman Club. Unfortunately, the moths became easily distracted by the spotlights and forfeited the contest.
I break into a jog down Main, ducking around two vampires who've somehow used super speed to restack the rickety chairs. The city budget is so thin we cycle the same props through three generations of volunteers—it's a miracle we ever make it to the Fourth of July.
The air smells like ozone and wet paper.
I stop to tear down a sagging banner across the town archway and nearly trip over a trio of goblins arguing in three different languages.
Wharf Street is deserted except for the warm glow spilling from Cassian's office.
Sure enough, half the department's windows are lit.
I peer through the glass and spot him at the booking desk, hip cocked against the counter, arms crossed, radiating that wolf-pack calm I've come to know.
No jacket tonight—only a fitted Henley and jeans, which makes him look more like a guy who collects Harleys than the police chief.
On the other side of the glass, Beatrix and Howard Mendel—the town's infamous goblin couple—are locked in mortal combat over a suitcase, screeching and whacking each other with rolled-up pamphlets.
Cassian isn't intervening.
This is his genius: he knows when to let chaos burn itself out.
I slip inside just as Beatrix whirls and hurls the case at her husband's knees.
Cassian doesn't flinch at the racket.
His gaze finds mine, and I catch a flash of a grin before it tugs at his lips.
"Evening, Miss Morales. I thought you would've headed home by now."
"I run on spite and free-range carbohydrates," I reply. "How's the holding cell?"
"I'm about to charge them with fourth-degree disturbing of the peace," he rumbles.
"Is that even a real charge?" Beatrix snaps, jabbing a finger at his chest.
"Only in goblin law," he says. "We swear by Hammurabi and the Girl Scout Manual."
I open my mouth to ask a follow-up question, then choose to smile instead.
"You hungry?" he asks quietly, just for me. "I would kill for a cinnamon roll."
"Try the leftover lemon curd at Hex & Honey," I say before thinking. "It's practically a controlled substance."
He hesitates, then nods, and for a second I expect him to offer to walk me over.
Instead, he just claps a big hand on my shoulder, gentle as a Labrador.
"We're wrapping up here. Go get some sleep, Morales."
His eyes flicker, almost serious.
I want to ask what's really on his mind, but the goblins are now rolling around on the floor, and Cassian's job description is clearly goblin wrangler first, confidant second.
I step back into the midnight chill, tasting that odd afterglow of almost but not quite.
Halfway home, the heel of my boot catches on a root, and I go sprawling across the sidewalk.
My clipboard tumbles. Loose keys scatter like confetti.
I lie there a moment, letting the pins and needles in my palms fade, staring up at the sky.
Tonight it's clear.
Blackthorn's stars are so bright they almost hurt.
I count satellites until my thoughts slow.
There's a restlessness in me, something ancient and frantic, as if standing still might snap me in two.
I wonder if you can miss someone who's never been yours.
Cassian is... Cassian.
Steady as the breakwater.
No sane person would build a future around a werewolf with a savior complex and a cinnamon-roll habit.
I've heard the rumors. I know what wolf-shifters are supposed to be like.
Doesn't stop me from wanting it.
I gather my things, dust myself off, and press on home.
Inside, I fling my keys on the table and collapse onto the couch.
The wind rattles the windows overhead, and I pretend it's someone moving through the apartment.
In this town, you can believe in ghosts.
Or in kind hands unseen, keeping the small disasters from burying you.
For a long time, I teeter on the edge of sleep, legs curled under me, replaying Cassian's laugh and how it lands right in my chest.
The last thing I remember before I drift off is the firm warmth of his hand on my shoulder, steady and certain—even when I'm about to fall.
Someday, I think.
Maybe someday.
Or maybe tomorrow.
Something about this town makes you believe in wild things.