Chapter 11 Dean
Dean
Storm debris litters the festival grounds—broken branches, rain-soaked Spanish moss, and the occasional hay bale, left out in the open after its protection ward failed to hold, now drenched and flattened by the storm.
I clutch an Americano from the Whisk against my chest as I trace the ward lines.
Most parts held up. Others need reinforcement.
Oddly, my magic feels settled this morning, despite the exhaustion weighing me down and caffeine being the only thing keeping me upright.
The damage could have been worse. Much worse, if not for…
I push away thoughts of moonlit music and vanilla-scented kisses. Force myself to focus on the task at hand. Grammie Rae’s voice cuts across the field from where she’s directing the cleanup crew with her particular blend of iron will wrapped in a grandmotherly Southern accent.
“Thomas Andrew Bryson, that is not where those pumpkins go. I know your grandmother taught you better than that.”
Tom, arms full with a storm-dampened oversized pumpkin that’s soaked his flannel, shoots me a pleading look. “A little help here?”
I take a slow sip of coffee, grateful it’s bitter enough to match my mood. “I distinctly recall suggesting we wait a few weeks to decorate.”
“Oh, hush.” Grammie Rae waves off my pragmatism with weathered hands. “The magic likes pretty things. Makes it feel appreciated.”
I glance at Tom, raising an eyebrow and offering a look that probably conveys: Sorry I have nothing to offer. He groans but dumps the pumpkin into a wheelbarrow, bows his head, and gets to it while grumbling, “I don’t know how I got roped into this.”
A sentiment I understand too well. I would normally let Cordelia or someone else from the council handle festival preparation or cleanup.
I’m only out here because of the nexus and making sure the magic is stable.
Otherwise I wouldn’t intentionally subject myself to Grammie Rae’s ramblings about magic being her pal.
Then again—I force another swallow of coffee—I’m realizing all my careful research hasn’t provided answers.
More than a decade of studying magical theory, and nothing in my journals or notes or books explains what happens when Missy plays.
It’s not just when she’s performing either.
That kiss… something shifted when her lips met mine, as if the wards themselves held their breath.
Magic isn’t supposed to respond to emotion. It’s equations, formulas, control.
But then why do I feel it pulse stronger whenever she—
A loud cheer cuts through the air. The high school baseball team has arrived, half of them wearing their caps, a few with younger brothers tagging along. Tom high-fives the kids from his team then pats the older boys on their shoulders.
This is what Tom wanted when he spoke to me—easy camaraderie, shared laughter, the simple joy of belonging.
Even after a decade here, I stand apart, more comfortable with ward lines than warm greetings.
The Head Warlock isn’t meant to be anyone’s friend.
That distance serves a purpose. In towns like Magnolia Cove, where enchantments thread through every streetlamp and sidewalk crack, the role demands restraint. Detachment. Control.
Or at least, it did before Missy started making me question everything I thought I understood about magic. And about connection.
The teenagers’ arrival transforms the cleanup into something closer to organized chaos—hay bales become impromptu fortresses, leaves turn into ammunition.
Iris, who has spent the morning refreshing wilted flowers, ducks behind a display of chrysanthemums, giggling as Tom theatrically dodges her handful of maple leaves.
“Your aim is terrible!”
“Says the woman hiding behind flowers!”
I should probably stop them, insist on order and a good use of everyone’s time. But even Grammie Rae has resigned herself to chuckling and rolling her eyes. I smile behind my coffee cup then the expression drops just as quickly.
I’m getting soft. Letting sentiment cloud judgment. Exactly what I promised myself I wouldn’t do after—
“Good morning!”
Familiar laughter that makes my pulse skip accompanies Rachel’s voice.
Missy walks beside her and I’m not the only one who stopped by Ethan’s bakery this morning.
They both hold whisk-stamped coffee cups that curl steam into the cool post-storm air.
Morning light makes Missy’s hair gleam. The memory of how that hair felt twisted in my fingers during our storm-swept kiss sends electricity down my spine.
Rachel walks them closer to Tom and Iris, who are still laughing, a few leaves caught in their hair. Missy looks back. Catches my eye. Blushes so deeply the red spreads across her cheeks, reaching her ears. She shoots her attention back to the group but I’m frozen, unable to breathe.
“Well, well.” Grammie Rae appears at my elbow, a butcher-knife-wide smile pasted on. “A little Magnolia Cove magic in the air, eh, oh mighty Head Warlock?”
My fingers tighten on the half-empty cup. “What do you mean by that?”
She shrugs but looks over to Missy who is, most unfortunately, looking back at me again. Grammie Rae’s smile widens. “I told Ethan that the magic wanted her sister. It seems it’s not satisfied with just one of them, though, does it?”
“The Codex Arcanum says nothing about magical preferences.”
“The Codex Arcanum”—she stretches the words out and makes her voice high and formal—“was written by dusty old men.” She elbows me, actually physically shoves her elbow into my ribs, which shocks me enough to hold back my retort.
“The only thing they’ve ever kissed is their own asses.
Unlike some people I could mention who were spotted kissing in the rain last night, eh? ”
I choke on my coffee.
“Grammie Rae—”
“Oh, don’t worry, honey. My lips are sealed.
” She mimes locking her mouth and throwing away the key, then winks at me.
“You can’t keep secrets from me, child, the magic tells me everything.
And I have to say, it’s about time someone made our stern Head Warlock blush and come up short on words. A bit of humility looks good on you.”
Her words hit harder than her elbow. My coffee suddenly tastes bitter and filled with mint—with magic and the cost of it. The magic probably does tell her things. It’s moody and mercurial, difficult to manage. They’re practically a matched set. Nonetheless, I have a reputation to maintain here.
“I don’t know what you think you saw—”
“Child,”—she cuts me off with another knowing smile—“I’ve lived with magic longer than you’ve been breathing.
I know what it looks like when it finds something, or someone, it likes.
” She glances meaningfully at Missy, who’s helping Emma tune her violin.
“Just like I know what it looks like when someone’s fighting something inevitable. ”
The protection pendant I’d spent half the night crafting as I waited out the storm shifts in my pocket, clinking softly against the old coin I always carry.
Its magic hums against my leg, a quiet reminder of everything I’m supposed to protect.
The idea had come to me after I’d returned home and started thinking about Missy, and the way she kisses like she plays, and how her music and touch steadies my magic and made it more manageable. More… alive.
Traditional wards fight against a magic being’s unpredictable power, trying to contain it. But what if, like Missy’s music, they could work with it instead? I’d infused the pendant with elements of harmony rather than control. I still hadn’t decided if I’d give it to Emma yet, though.
Experimental magic should be documented, tested, and approved through proper channels. Not cobbled together in my study at midnight because a beautiful, passionate woman made me question everything I thought I knew about how my world works.
“The council has protocols,” I manage, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.
“The council,”—Grammie Rae pronounces each syllable like they offend her—“needs to get its collective head out of their musty books and remember that magic isn’t just formulas and wards.” She pats my arm. “It’s alive, Dean. And right now, it’s trying to tell you something. Maybe you should listen.”
She bustles off toward Tom before I can formulate a response, leaving me with uncomfortable truths and cooling coffee. The worst part is, I’m starting to worry she might be right.
I find myself ignoring the controlled voice in my head and walking over to Missy and Emma, anyway.
“A good luck charm,” I say, holding up the necklace, “for the Cove’s star performer.”
Emma’s brow furrows at first. She reaches for the necklace, then pauses. But when she meets my gaze, she releases a breath and accepts the jewel, apparently understanding. She smooths a thumb over it as she turns to Missy. “Would you help me put it on?”
I hold my breath as Missy’s fingers work the clasp. The stone glows subtly against Emma’s skin, exactly as I’d expected. Perhaps those dusty old books had some benefit after all.
Emma twirls with her violin and drags the bow across the string. The note sings as she finds her seat for rehearsal. But Missy turns to face me.
“The stone was warm,” she murmurs, looking up at me through long lashes.
I fight a groan. I can feel Grammie Rae’s knowing gaze burning into my back. Despite her romantic ideals, I can’t give Missy the truth. But I no longer wish to lie to her, either. “Sometimes things aren’t what they seem.”
Because the truth isn’t safe in the hands of someone destined to leave.
Missy’s a performer—brilliant, bold, made for grand stages and faraway cities.
She’s not like her sister, who put down roots here and earned the right to carry the weight of our secrets.
If Missy knew, really knew, it could put everyone at risk.
Not because she’s unkind or careless—but because her life isn’t meant to stay contained.
And magic this old, this hidden? It doesn’t survive exposure.
Curiosity flashes across her eyes, darkening them. It’s the same look her sister dons when she gets stubborn and fixed on an idea. But where Alex would push, Missy just shrugs. “Okay, then.”
She takes a drink of her coffee and walks toward Rachel. Missy’s lips curl around the lid, her throat bobbing as she swallows. The sight sends heat crawling up my neck. I force my attention back to ward lines, to duty, to anything but thinking about those lips and how they tasted against mine.
Later, as afternoon fades, the crowd disperses. I pretend to review the decorations once more while actually watching Missy say goodbye to Rachel. I expect her to leave next, but instead she walks over to me.
“So what exactly are you checking for the festival that takes you all day?”
“The grounds need special… preparations.” The magic humming beneath our feet is nearly warm, stronger than I’ve ever felt it. “After the storm damage.”
She frowns, a V-shaped furrow forming between her brows. “You were more honest with me last night.”
The way she whispers the words, like a confession, cracks through me. “Missy, I wish I could… it’s complicated.”
“And at the Hoopla?” Her chin lifts stubbornly. “Will there be complicated things there I’ll need to dance around as well?”
“If you want my honest opinion, then you should stay away from the festival.” I step closer, betraying my own words.
The air crackles between us like contained lightning.
The more Missy tangles into our world, the more likely it is she’ll start seeing the inevitable.
And that would be bad for everyone involved.
And if that happens—if she glimpses something she isn’t meant to—I’ll be the one forced to wipe it away.
I’ve used memory magic before. I’ve seen what it does to people when it’s not well controlled, the fractures it leaves behind.
I’d rather drain every last drop of power from my body than ever risk doing that to her.
“Is that what you want?” Her voice drops lower. “For me to stay away?”
The question hangs heavy with double meaning. We’re alone on the festival grounds, magic pulsing beneath our feet, and the sunset painting everything in fire and shadow.
I can’t lie to her any longer. I can’t continue to pretend that everything in me doesn’t long to capture her mouth with mine again, press her against me until she’s fully aware of how much I want her to stay.
“No,” I growl. “That’s not what I want.”
She closes the space between us in a moment. This kiss differs from our first—less hesitant. Her fingers curl into my shirt as mine trace the line of her jaw. When we finally break apart, reality crashes back.
“Missy, I…” I struggle to find the words, but they feel too heavy, too tangled. “This is also complicated.”
Her eyes are piercing, soft but serious, but she tightens her grip. “Because you’re on the council?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, hating the half-truth. “In a way, yes.”
Some lies protect. Other destroy. I’m no longer sure which kind I’m telling.
“Then maybe,” she whispers, “this doesn’t have to be public.” She smooths the wrinkles she’s made in my shirt. “Maybe it could just be… ours. For now. If you’re interested.”
The word ‘ours’ settles in my chest like a spark looking for kindling. Dangerous. Warm. Inevitable.
“There’s a trail,” I find myself saying, “behind the old lighthouse. Nobody goes there this time of year.”
A grin slips up her face, and her eyes sparkle. “I might need to practice there sometimes. For the album.” She taps her chin and looks up at the darkening sky. “Perhaps around six tomorrow evening?”
“I might need to ensure the area is… secure… at that time.”
Her grin widens even more. She walks away with measured steps, but glances back once. Just once. It’s enough to undo every carefully constructed argument blaring in my head.
Grammie Rae’s words echo in my mind. The magic is alive, Dean. And right now, it’s trying to tell you something.
The wards pulse beneath my feet, stronger than they’ve been in years. Some part of me knows I’m standing at a crossroads—duty and desire, protocol and possibility. But maybe Grammie Rae is right. Maybe it’s time to listen to what the magic’s trying to tell me.
Even if what it’s saying breaks every rule I’ve ever practiced.