2. Freddie #3
Satisfied that the air coming out of the vents won’t give me hypothermia, I drop the shifter into reverse and pull out of the lot.
I glance up at the rearview mirror and have to hide a smile—both Jett and Twyla are already fast asleep, completely lulled by the warm air and the rhythmic pounding of the rain on the roof.
Lightweights, the both of them.
I turn onto Main Street, squinting through the sheet-like rain while my windshield wipers slap back and forth in a frantic beat. A tiny silver disco ball hangs from my mirror, swaying lazily with the motion of the car and tossing little flecks of orange streetlight around the dark interior.
Even in a downpour, Amberhollow has its strange, grounded charm.
It’s a gothic blend of old-world magic and everyday reality—gabled rooftops, glowing lantern shops, and ancient cobblestones sitting right alongside a 24-hour laundromat, an Ace Hardware, a greasy-spoon diner, and the local pharmacy.
Mountains loom up like dark giants around us, thick with pine trees that smell like damp earth whenever it rains.
I forget how big this valley actually is sometimes.
I’d be lying to myself if I said there wasn’t a tiny part of me that was curious about what exists outside of it.
I’ve flipped through the magazines in our local library—gazing at glossy pages filled with places like New York, Boston, Chicago, California.
Giant glass skyscrapers, ocean piers, endless crowds of people.
I’ve always had a bit of an adventurous spirit; I want to know what it feels like to stand in the middle of a massive city and feel entirely swallowed up, like an invisible speck lost in the center of the world.
And technically, leaving Amberhollow isn’t impossible.
You can ask Mayor Brightfang for a border pass and have an elder witch cut a tear in the Veil for you that they quickly repair afterwards.
But, once you step through that tear, the Veil strips you completely clean.
You lose every single memory of Amberhollow and everyone in it. And you lose your magic, forever.
I could never do it. I could never trade Stella—who is as close to a real sister as I’ll ever have—or Jett, or Twyla, or my family, just to see a bunch of tall buildings. I love this stubborn little community and all the weirdos in it way too much.
Besides, what if I got out there and absolutely hated it? What if human life was just too…boring? I’d never be able to hop on my broomstick on a crisp autumn night. I’d never weave another charm or feel the warmth of my magic thrumming beneath my skin.
Frankly, I don’t even know how regular humans survive without magic when it’s so vital to existing—when it’s stitched directly into the very fabric of who you are.
The blinking yellow caution light at the split for the Old Ridge Cutoff looms up through the fogged windshield.
Going left takes me straight down lower Main and back to Spellspin, the record store, where my cramped little apartment sits tucked up above the back stockroom on the second floor.
Ten minutes, max, and I could be out of this halter top, swimming in my oversized sweatpants, and letting the kettle whistle on the stove.
Right is the long way around. The scenic loop that winds up past the creaky wooden covered bridge, hugging the high edge of the gorge where the hemlocks hang so low over the road they form a thick, pitch-black tunnel of pine needles.
On a clear night, it’s gorgeous—you can see the glow of the valley lights flickering through the mist below—but right now it’s just rain, dark trees, and winding asphalt.
Taking it tacks on another twenty to twenty-five minutes.
Easily closer to thirty-five in a storm this thick.
I slow down, my foot hovering over the brake as Mercury idles at the fork, the windshield wipers slapping out a thump-thump.
I flick a glance up at the rearview mirror.
Jett has his chin buried against his front paws, his ribs rising and falling in slow, dead-to-the-world breaths.
Twyla is wedged so deep into the curve of his tail that all I can see is a tiny patch of her layered flower-petal skirt, her miniature shoulders twitching faintly as she dreams.
They both look so completely spent. Safe, warm, and entirely insulated from the cold dread that Stella walked into the Inn with twenty minutes ago.
Letting out a resigned sigh, my fingers relax their grip on the steering wheel as the heater blows a steady wave of dusty air across my knees.
Maybe we don’t need to hurry back to an empty apartment just yet. Maybe we all need a little extra time in this warm, cozy bubble before tomorrow forces us to start dealing with missing people and dying magic or whatever the fuck was going on.
I reach out and nudge the volume dial on the tape deck to the right, letting Stevie’s raspy voice fill the car, blending with Tom Petty’s smooth guitar line.
Easing off the brake, I turn the wheel and take the scenic route home.