3. Caroline
Potion for Bravery:
Steep ginger and lemon balm. Drink before stepping into danger.
The rain doesn’t seem to care that there’s a party going on. It falls in cold, steady sheets, turning the ground at the quarry into a slick mess of mud and grass and glittering puddles.
Someone’s strung fairy lights across the tents, and they shimmer against the storm like tiny rebellions.
The tents themselves are the big ceremonial kind—tall, peaked canopies with heavy canvas sides and scalloped trim, the sort designed to anchor into the ground and stay upright no matter how hard the wind pushes.
Inside, the fabric glows with warm light, the outlines of people moving in loose shadows while the music thumps loud enough to pulse in my ribs.
Amara’s already dancing, a drink in one hand, her curls wet and wild around her shoulders. She looks like chaos bottled up. I love her for it.
I tug my jacket tighter, feeling rainwater slip under the collar. The quarry always feels different during storms—the air heavier, humming like the whole world’s running on too much current. Still, there’s laughter and the faint scent of burnt sugar and alcohol drifting through the crowd.
April Brooks, Hearthlight’s other bartender, has somehow turned an old folding table into a makeshift bar, shaking up cocktails that look way too fancy for a field in the middle of nowhere.
“This is fun,” I admit.
Amara grins, bumping her hip against mine. “Told you. You’ve been moping for weeks. Time to remind your body what joy feels like.”
“I don’t mope.”
“You nest and stay indoors watching Netflix, same thing.”
Before I can argue, she’s distracted by Benny. The look he gives her makes it clear that he’s more than ready to go home with her. She laughs, twirls, lets him catch her waist.
That’s when Theo Hartwell appears.
His blond hair is damp from the rain, green eyes bright with mischief.
He’s always been the golden boy of Willowbrook—smiling behind his mother’s counter at the Brass Lantern, handing out pie slices like they’re talismans.
Tonight, he’s different. His white T-shirt clings to him, jeans dark from the rain, a motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm.
“Caroline,” he says, flashing that grin. “Dance with me?”
I blink up at him. “In this weather?”
“Best time for it.”
There’s a spark in his eyes, the kind that makes it hard to say no. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I feel that restless buzz under my skin, the one that says maybe I’m allowed to stop being careful for one night.
I’m single, after all.
So I say yes.
He takes my hand and leads me toward the makeshift dance floor—a patch of grass between tents and parked trucks where the speakers are blasting some remix that feels like it’s syncing with my heartbeat. The ground squelches beneath my boots, but I don’t care.
His palm slides to my waist, firm and confident, and he pulls me close enough that the warmth of him cuts through the chill. The world narrows to rhythm and light.
He spins me once, laughing when I nearly slip, then steadies me with both hands.
One of them drifts up, fingers tracing the line of my neck.
I stiffen when he grazes the spot near my bite mark, that faint crescent scar I try not to think about.
Something shifts inside me, like the air thins, like a thread pulls taut low in my stomach.
It’s not attraction. Not exactly. It’s something stranger.
“You look surprised,” Theo says, his breath brushing my ear.
“I’m not,” I lie.
“Sure you are.” His hand slides along my cheek, thumb brushing my skin. His eyes are all charm, all softness. He leans in just enough to say, “Didn’t think you were the dating type. Figured you were spoken for.”
A laugh stumbles out of me, awkward and breathless. “Definitely not.”
I’m hoping he doesn’t ask about my ex.
“Good,” he says instead, grin crooked.
I press a hand against his chest, feel the warmth there, the steady thump of his pulse. “Tonight’s just fun,” I tell him.
He nods, still smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners.
I glance toward Amara, who’s tangled up with Benny, hair plastered to her skin, eyes glittering.
Were they just making out?
My best friend catches me looking and winks, mouthing, “Told you so.”
And she’s right. I needed this. I needed to stop thinking, to stop planning, to stop waiting for the next thing to fall apart.
I needed to have fun.
The song changes to something faster. People cheer. Someone lets out a spark of charm magic that bursts into golden confetti over the dance floor. The whole quarry feels alive.
Then I hear it.
“Amara fucking Wilder.”
The music dips, and every head turns toward the source of the voice.
Damon Wilder stands at the edge of the crowd, rain streaming down his face, hat in hand, uniform soaked through. The light catches the stubble on his jaw, the cut of his shoulders, the storm-gray of his eyes.
And he looks furious.
Amara freezes mid-laugh. “Oh, shit.”
Damon’s gaze locks on her, then flicks to me. “Amara. With me. Now.”
The whole quarry holds its breath.
Amara groans, handing her drink to Benny. “I’ll be back,” she mutters, squeezing my arm before slipping through the crowd.
I stand there, trying not to stare after them.
Trying and failing. Damon’s always been this looming figure in town—Amara’s cousin, the sheriff, the guy who keeps the Rift in check and scares off outsiders with a single glare.
But now, soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, uniform clinging to his body, he doesn’t look like law and order.
He looks like trouble. Beautiful, impossible trouble.
Why is my skin so warm?
“Hey, you okay?” Theo asks, leaning close.
“Yeah,” I say, though I don’t sound convincing even to me. “Can you get me a water?”
“Sure.” He gestures to Benny, and the two of them head toward April’s makeshift bar.
I exhale, pressing a hand to my chest. My skin feels electric, buzzing with something I can’t name. I try to find Amara or Damon, but the crowd’s swallowed them up.
The rain gets heavier. Lightning flashes across the sky, a jagged white vein against the black. The music doesn’t stop—it grows louder, faster. Someone shouts something about fireworks, and a moment later the air bursts into color. Red. Blue. Gold.
For half a second, it’s beautiful.
Then everything changes.
The air hums with static, too much of it. My hair lifts from my skin. Every witch in the quarry feels it—the sudden surge, the wrongness. The Rift’s magic crackling through the storm.
A charm spell nearby flickers out. Sparks dance along the wet grass. Someone screams.
Lightning hits the far tent. Fire bursts through the fabric like it’s been waiting for an excuse.
Panic spreads faster than the flames.
People shove past me, voices overlapping—shouts, spells, the screech of metal. My heart kicks up, and all I can think is, Amara.
I spin, scanning faces, calling her name, but there’s too much movement. Smoke stings my eyes. Someone grabs my arm, but I shake free and run toward the trees, away from the crush of bodies.
She has to be okay. Damon’s with her. Damon knows what to do.
Another surge rolls through the ground, throwing me off balance. My magic flares against it instinctively, protective, defensive. I bite back a curse and keep running.
This is bad. This is worse than anything I’ve felt in years. The Rift’s bleeding energy again. Every spell within a mile radius will start to slip, twist, backfire.
I should’ve stayed home. I could’ve been on the couch with Thistle curled up beside me, watching Sex and the City reruns and pretending the world outside didn’t exist.
“Oh fuck,” I whisper, pushing through a tangle of wet grass. “Where the hell is Amara?”
“Caroline!”
I look up, breath catching. Damon’s coming toward me from the other side of the quarry, rain sliding off his shoulders. Amara’s behind him, hair wild, eyes wide.
He grabs my arm. “You need to get out of here. Both of you. Now.”
Amara’s panting, clutching her shoes. “We’re fine—”
“Now,” he snaps, cutting her off. “You’ll be fine as long as you get out of here as fast as possible.”
His eyes flick up toward the ridge, where the fire’s spreading fast. The wards won’t hold if the surge keeps building.
I nod, throat tight.
Amara grabs my hand, and we run through the rain, toward the road where the forest opens up. The storm’s alive around us, lightning flashing bright enough to blind.
Behind us, I hear Damon shouting orders to the crowd, trying to keep everyone from stampeding.
The air smells like smoke and ozone and something ancient.
This isn’t just a storm.
It’s the Rift.
We run until my lungs feel scraped raw. Mud slaps against my legs, rain streaking down my arms. Amara’s hand is slick in mine, her breath sharp and uneven as we stumble out of the woods and onto the gravel road. By the time we reach the car, my heart’s a drumbeat in my ears.
Amara fumbles with the keys, dropping them twice before she manages to get the door open. We tumble inside, dripping, shaking, the air so heavy it feels like it’s pressing us into the seats. For a few seconds, neither of us moves.
“Holy shit,” Amara whispers finally. “Caroline, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think—”
“It’s okay.” My words come out rough. “We’re fine. You heard him. We’re fine.”
She looks at me like she doesn’t believe it, eyes wide, lashes clumped with rain. Then she slams the car into gear and we peel out onto the road, tires kicking up muddy water.
The drive back to town is a blur of lightning and adrenaline. The storm’s not letting up—it’s like it’s following us, tracking us. I keep catching glimpses of white arcs in the trees, that same unnatural shimmer I saw at the quarry.
When we finally pull into the driveway, Amara doesn’t turn off the engine right away. She just sits there, hands gripping the wheel, staring straight ahead.
“I shouldn’t have dragged you out,” she says, voice cracking. “You said you didn’t want to go, and I just—I thought it’d be fun, and then—”
“Hey,” I murmur, reaching over to rest a hand on her arm. Her skin is cold. “It was fun. Until it wasn’t. We didn’t know this was going to happen.”
Her laugh sounds like it’s breaking apart in her throat. “It’s always something, though, right? The Rift just—God, it’s like it knows when we start to feel normal again. A whole year later, and it has to do this now?”
We climb out and hurry to the porch. Thistle meows at the door, tail puffed up like a bottlebrush. I scoop Thistle into my arms the moment we step inside, holding him tight against my chest.
“You're okay,” I whisper, kissing the top of his head. “Keep an eye out, okay? And if anything starts to spark—you know the drill.”
He lets out an indignant little chirp, which almost makes me laugh.
My house feels strange, like the air’s been rearranged. There’s that hum again under my skin—soft but insistent, like static trying to find a way out. I shake out my arms, but it doesn’t help. It’s not fading.
“Tea,” I say suddenly. “Let’s make tea.”
“Caroline, your hands are shaking.”
“Yours are worse.” I try to smile, though it feels weak. “It’ll help. The chamomile blend. With the vervain. It always helps.”
We move to the kitchen, bumping into each other like we’ve both forgotten how to stand still. The stove won’t light the first few times. It sputters out, the spark flickering erratically. Amara curses under her breath as I set Thistle on the counter.
He watches her with narrowed eyes, like he’s supervising.
By the fifth try, the flame finally catches. The water begins to boil, the sound so ordinary it almost breaks me. Steam fogs the window, hiding the storm outside.
Amara paces while I measure the herbs, her bare feet leaving damp prints on the tile. “Last time, the surge knocked me out for two days,” she mutters. “You had that migraine for a week. What if this one’s worse?”
“It’s not,” I say automatically, though my skin is buzzing so hard now I could swear there’s a pulse under it. “We just need to ground. Rest. Let it pass.”
She nods, though her eyes are glassy. When I hand her the mug, her fingers brush mine, and we both flinch. The energy jumps between us, bright and sharp, like touching a doorknob after walking across carpet.
We take our tea to the couch, wrapped in blankets that smell faintly of sage. The house creaks as the storm drags across the roof. Amara curls up beside me, knees to her chest, Thistle wedged like a loaf of judgment on the armrest.
“Shit, my head’s still spinning,” she murmurs. “I’m never dragging you to one of these again. Not even if the band from Bridgewater shows up.”
“Liar.”
She huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Liar.”
I sip my tea, the warmth sliding through me. The jittery feeling’s still there, but it’s softer now, dulled around the edges. “At least it was fun for a bit. You were having the time of your life out there with Benny.”
Her face flushes pink even in the dim light. “Oh, shut up.”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
She chokes on her tea. “No. Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“He’s… nice,” she says after a beat, staring into her mug. “Like, stupid nice. It’s confusing.”
“Nice is good.”
“Yeah, but nice gets complicated when your cousin’s the sheriff who hates everyone you flirt with.”
I smile faintly. “You’ve always liked trouble.”
Her eyes flick up to mine. “So have you.”
The rain softens outside, turning to a steady rhythm against the roof. The adrenaline’s finally ebbing, replaced by exhaustion. I let my head fall back against the cushion, watching the flicker of candlelight play across the ceiling.
Amara sighs, stretching her legs out and nudging my foot with hers. “I think the wards will hold tonight.”
“They will,” I say quietly.
“You sure?”
I nod. “We’re safe here.”
Thistle yawns in agreement, tail twitching.
Amara hums, the sound low and tired. “Still… what Damon said. The way he looked at the ridge. You think the Rift’s actually waking up again?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, setting my mug down. “But whatever it is… we’ll handle it.”
“Like always.”
“Like always.”
The lights flicker once, briefly, and my skin tingles all over again. But then it passes. The hum dulls. The storm moves on.
By the time Amara falls asleep against my shoulder, the tea’s gone cold, and I can finally breathe without feeling like the air might bite back.