4. Silas #3
Pastor Gide stares between us, blinking rapidly. “Did you see it? The sky cracked open. Judgment’s coming.”
“I’m thrilled for you,” I mutter, helping haul him upright. My head throbs harder now, magic trying to brace against the surge rolling through the valley. “Simon.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got him.”
We get Gide onto the shoulder, out of the road. The man wobbles but stays upright.
Simon grips his arm gently. “Pastor, you need to go home. Lock your door. Stay inside until morning, alright?”
Gide nods, mumbling something about the veil thinning, then wanders off toward the trees.
“Does he do this often?” I ask.
“Only when the town’s magic spikes.” Simon climbs back into the cruiser. “But tonight? Everyone’s jumpy. Even I can feel it, and Betas aren’t usually sensitive to the magic.”
I slide in after him. “Drive.”
The quarry opens up like a wound in the earth, floodlights cutting through the rain. Cars are scattered everywhere—students’ pickups, abandoned coolers, shattered bottles. Music equipment lies half-submerged in mud. A bonfire pit still smokes despite the downpour.
Of course. Leave it to Willowbrook to hold a party beside an unstable ley rupture.
“Looks like a whole pack of idiots had a field day,” Simon mutters. “But it seems the sheriff is nowhere in sight. I can try calling him, but the radios are kind of dead.”
“Fuck! Do people party here a lot?”
He looks at me before shaking his head. “Sheriff Wilder tries to keep people away from here as much as he can, but sometimes… you know?”
“With unbonded Omegas? This place needs to be cordoned.”
I know I have said the wrong thing because his shoulders seem to stiffen. “This was no one’s fault.”
“But the unbonded Omegas—”
“That’s bullshit. Excuse my language, Mr. Thorn, but that’s bullshit.
I know the Council believes the unbonded Omegas in this town are the reason for the surges, but there are other unbonded Omegas in other towns.
What this town has that those others don’t is this damn quarry.
The ley lines hum with magic even when left alone.
So, with all due respect, this was just an unfortunate natural disaster. ”
He’s being defensive. It’s well known that this town, for whatever reason, is very protective and fond of their Omegas. Despite reports that their magic is what’s contributing to the instability of the pool of magic, they swear it’s a natural disaster.
So, I also know it will be a complete waste of time arguing facts with the deputy.
The Rift looms at the back of the quarry—an ancient fracture in the ley network, shimmering blue-white tonight. The air around it shivers like heat above asphalt. Even from the ridge, the surge radiates outward, knocking against my ribs.
A few firefighters are huddled near a truck, talking urgently. A column of smoke rises from the east ridge, likely the lightning strike Simon mentioned.
My jaw tightens. “Children playing with matches.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Let me talk to them and find out where their captain is at,” Simon says as he climbs out.
I step out of the cruiser and onto the muddy ground. The rain slides down my coat. The ley lines beneath my feet jitter like live wires. I touch the stone beside me—just a brush—and the magic jumps into my palm, too volatile to channel cleanly. This isn’t standard overload. This is a rupture.
Someone—several someones—triggered this.
Probably unbonded. Of course.
I kneel and pull a small piece of slate from my coat pocket, fingers moving through familiar patterns. Runes carve themselves beneath my touch—sigils for grounding, binding, settling flow. When the last stroke locks into place, the stone warms.
I press it into the wet earth.
Simon comes running back.
A pulse shoots from my palm. The ley lines shudder, then ease, no longer thrashing like a cornered animal.
Simon stares. “Did you just… fix it?”
“No.” I stand, wiping mud from my hands. “I slowed the bleeding. That’s all.”
He looks toward the Rift. “I was told Sheriff Wilder’s somewhere down near the lower ridge, trying to contain the burn. You’ll have to coordinate with him to reach the ward anchors.”
“I assumed as much.”
A group of teens rush past, soaked and frantic, shouting about someone passing out earlier. Simon moves to intercept them, giving orders and directing people toward shelter.
I take a slow breath, letting the rain cool the burn under my skin. The headache settles into a dull hammer, rhythmic with the town’s heartbeat.
Cooling. But unstable.
This place is a mess. Wild magic. Unbonded hormones flooding the ley network. Wards held together by the sheriff’s grit and luck.
I look toward the tree line where the sheriff is supposedly fighting fires with half-trained witches.
Small-town chaos. Why Helena ever thought Willowbrook deserved saving is beyond me. Why Whitlock cares even more so.
But orders are orders. And if doing this earns me his favor…
Then I’ll tame this place. I’ll stabilize the Rift, reinforce the lines, drag the town into compliance if I must.
I glance toward the lower path.
Time to find Sheriff Damon Wilder.