17. Damon
Circle of Guarding:
Salt, cedar, and fire ash. Draw tight when danger is near.
The door to my office swings open without a knock. Maggie stands there, her face grim, a small, stoppered vial held between her thumb and forefinger like it’s a piece of evidence. She doesn’t say a word, just walks in and places it on my desk with a decisive click.
“What’s this?” I ask, though I have a sinking feeling I already know.
“June Finch’s new party favor,” she says. “This is the ‘Threshold Ward.’ Rory found it on Clara Hopkins. Said it made her front door refuse to let her mail carrier through this morning.”
I pick up the vial, the glass cool against my skin. I unstopper it and sniff. The scent is complex, layered. Rain, clean earth, and something else… something that feels like a request, a question posed to the very structure of a building. It’s clever. Too clever.
I knew June was powerful—her potions are legendary in this town—but I clearly underestimated her. Under any other circumstance, I would have been proud of her ingenuity, her defiance. But not now. Not when Helena is breathing down my neck, when Silas is practically camped out in my town.
“Let me smell that,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn to find Silas Thorn leaning against the doorframe of my office, looking like he owns the place.
He’s in a suit, of course. Not just any suit, but a tailored charcoal gray number that probably costs more than my annual salary.
The fabric is perfect, not a single wrinkle, and it drapes over his lean frame like it was born on him.
His shirt is crisp white, his tie a deep, blood-red silk that screams power and complete disregard for rustic charm.
His face is a mask of controlled disgust, as if the very air in my office offends his refined sensibilities.
He holds out a hand, long, elegant fingers adorned with a signet ring. I hand him the vial. He brings it to his nose, sniffing once before pulling back with a look of profound distaste.
“Mimicry of a circle witch’s charm,” he says, in a low, bored drawl. “Clever for a small-town apothecary owner. But cleverness without permission is just another form of rebellion.”
“Mmh,” is all I can respond with.
“The data is needed sooner or later, Damon,” he continues, his eyes locking with mine, a cold, calculating fire in their depths. “And you have no idea how the Council reacts to towns that defy its orders.”
He sets the vial down on my desk. “There was a town once. Oakhaven. Small place, not unlike Willowbrook, situated on a minor ley line. They decided the Council’s directives were… optional. Refused to provide census data on their magical population. Thought they could handle their own affairs.”
He pauses, letting the silence hang in the air.
“The Council doesn’t like to be defied. They sent in an enforcer team.
Within a month, Oakhaven had a new mayor.
A Council-appointed mayor. Their town council was dissolved.
Their local governance was stripped away, replaced by a bureaucratic nightmare of Council-approved officials who couldn’t find their own asses with both hands and a map.
The town withered. Its magic faded. It’s a ghost town now, Damon.
A cautionary tale whispered about in Council chambers. ”
I grunt, a noncommittal sound in my throat. I know the story. Every small-town sheriff with a Rift on their doorstep knows the story. It’s the Council’s favorite bedtime story for unruly children.
“I hate that I had to fly down here for this,” Silas says, straightening his already perfect tie, “but I need the numbers, Damon. I need them yesterday. So you best make sure you talk to your townspeople and make sure they understand why this is important. This isn’t a request. It’s a requirement.”
He walks over to my chair and sits, uninvited, leaning back as if he owns the place.
“Are you coming to the meeting?” I ask.
Silas shakes his head, a flicker of amusement, or perhaps contempt, in his eyes. “I have paperwork to get started on. Preparations. I trust you can handle your constituents.”
We leave the office, the air thick with unspoken threats.
Outside Town Hall, the town square is already starting to fill up, a nervous energy radiating from the small groups of people gathering.
Word has already spread that the Council's representative has been making the rounds all day, introducing himself to business owners and reminding people that cooperation isn't optional.
The sky overhead is a dull, sullen gray, as if reflecting the mood of the town.
That’s when I see him. Fire Chief Noah, his face etched with worry, his uniform slightly rumpled, like he’s been up all night.
“Damon, we’ve got a problem.”
“What kind of problem?” I ask, my gut already twisting.
“Rosehill had an emergency, a structural collapse at the old mill. They called our guys back to help. They’re gone.
Most of our team is out of town,” he explains, running a hand through his already disheveled hair.
“And I’m concerned, Damon. Everyone is spooked.
The rumors flying around, the Council’s presence…
scared people do stupid things. They panic.
They make rash decisions. They start casting spells they shouldn’t. ”
I nod, my mind already racing. A town on edge, a depleted emergency response team, a Rift that’s been unusually active. It’s a perfect storm.
“I will handle it,” I say, trying to project a confidence I don’t entirely feel. “I’ll talk to them at the meeting. I’ll calm them down.”
Noah lets out a breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Good. Good. Because the last thing we need right now is a magical incident on top of everything else.”
“Got it.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Keep me in the loop.”
“I will,” I promise, watching him walk away, his shoulders slumped.
I turn my attention back to the growing crowd in the square. They’re my people. My responsibility. And I’m about to walk into a lion’s den, with Silas Thorn’s threats echoing in my ears and the fate of my town hanging in the balance.
Ten minutes later, the Town Hall is packed, a sea of anxious faces turned toward me. The air is tainted with the metallic tang of magic on the edge.
Every chair is filled, people are standing along the walls, and the tension in the room is a physical presence, a low thrum that vibrates through the floorboards and up into my bones. I stand at the podium, my hands braced on the worn wood.
I scan the crowd, and my eyes catch on familiar faces—Martha Hartwell, her arms crossed over her chest; Oscar Dune, looking pale and nervous; Benny from the tavern, his jaw set with determination.
And then I see her. Caroline.
She’s sitting near the front, her hands clasped in her lap, her face pale but composed.
The sight of her sends a jolt through me, a complicated mix of desire and guilt that I immediately push down.
But it’s not just her. It’s the woman sitting next to her, an older woman with Caroline’s same auburn hair, though streaked with silver.
Her face is softer. I recognize her from years ago.
That’s Eleanor West. Caroline’s mother.
I haven’t seen her in years, not since Edmund died. She keeps to herself. I think she’s a seamstress or something. Seeing her here, out in the open, is a shock to my system.
I take a deep breath, the microphone amplifying the sound.
“I know you’re all scared,” I begin, my voice carrying through the hushed room.
“I know you’re worried about the directive from the Council.
I understand the fear. But I want to be clear about one thing: I’m here to protect you. All of you.”
I pause, letting my words sink in. “I’m unhappy that people are using spells to lock everyone out of their premises.
The ‘Threshold Ward’… I understand why you’re doing it.
But it creates division. It makes it harder for us to do our jobs, harder for us to keep you safe.
We need to trust each other, not build walls between us. ”
A hand goes up in the front row. It’s Eleanor West. Her voice, when she speaks, is quiet but carries a surprising strength.
“Sheriff,” she says, her eyes clear and direct. “I have a question about the data being collected. Now that I’m a widow… does that mean I count as an unbonded Omega?”
The question hangs in the air, and it hits me then—this isn’t just about the young, the unmarried.
This is about everyone. The town is rebelling because they’re scared.
They’re seeing the Council’s directive not as a bureaucratic necessity, but as a threat to their autonomy, to their very lives.
They’re looking for loopholes, for ways to protect themselves, and they’re turning to me for answers.
I think of my father, of the night the Rift surged, of the way his truck went off the road before the energy settled.
I will always be wary of the surge, because that’s the reason he’s not alive right now.
But I can’t let my fear push me like this.
Not if it will make the entire town go into a frenzy.
“Thank you, Eleanor,” I say, my voice softer now. “That’s a valid question. And the answer is no. The Council is specifically interested in unbonded Omegas who have never been partnered before. But I understand your concern. I understand everyone’s concern.”
I look out at the sea of faces, at the fear and defiance I see there.
“I will talk to the Council. I will demand that they provide a clear explanation of the TrueBond app, of what it means, of what it doesn’t mean.
I will have that information presented to the town.
The data collection will be done at the station.
It will be voluntary. No one will be forced to provide their name. ”
A murmur goes through the crowd, a ripple of relief.