19. Caroline
Potion of Grounding:
Steep oak bark and sage. Drink during storms.
The bell above the apothecary door chimes its final, weary note as June flips the sign to CLOSED. The sound echoes in the sudden silence that follows the storm of the town meeting, a lonely, metallic ping that vibrates through the floorboards and up into my bones.
The air inside is a mix of competing scents—dried herbs and protective tinctures, the sharp citrus of cleaning solution, and underneath it all, the lingering metallic tang of fear that clung to the townspeople like a second skin.
“I can’t believe them.” June paces the length of the shop, her movements sharp and agitated.
The worn floorboards groan in protest under the force of her boots.
“Fucking Council. They think they know best. We’ve lived in this town longer than anyone else.
Other than the flares, what have the Omegas even done?
What would justify them being forced onto a dating app?
I heard Pastor Gide talking about how all the Alphas from other towns will come flocking here, turn this place into a goddamn brothel. ”
Her brother, August, sits on a high stool behind the counter, his hands wringing a scrap of burlap twine into a mangled knot. He was helping with the potion bottling, his movements usually efficient and precise, but now he just looks pale, his face sallow in the warm lamplight.
“What if it’s not a story, June? What if the Council learns about what we did? What if they fucking arrest us? Take the shop?”
“They can’t arrest us for brewing a protection potion,” I say, my voice coming out more tired than I intended.
I lean against the solid comfort of the counter, the cool wood a small relief against my back.
“That’s not how the Council works. They deal in large-scale infractions, in threats to the delicate balance, not… neighborhood disputes.”
“It’s not a neighborhood dispute when they’re making lists of Omegas!
” June stops her pacing to jab a finger in the direction of the Town Hall, as if she can see Silas Thorn through the walls.
“This is a precursor. A test. And I know they have sent an envoy who is working for them. I thought that Silas guy was only here to help with the Rift, but now I know. The Council never meddles if they don’t benefit.
I don’t trust them, that whole lot of them. ”
Her anger is a living thing, a crackling energy that fills the small space, making the air feel charged and heavy.
I understand it. I feel it too, a hot coal of resentment in my gut that has been smoldering since Thorn opened his mouth.
But underneath it all, a different kind of heat is starting to build, an insidious warmth that has nothing to do with anger.
It’s a deep, internal flush that I’m trying desperately to ignore.
“Did you see the way Tessa looked?” June continues, her rant gaining momentum like a rolling thundercloud.
“Like she was going to pass out right there in the third row. And Damon… he tried, I’ll give him that.
He at least tried to reason with us. But what can he really do against the Council?
One sheriff against a force that can erase a town from the map? ”
August’s gaze drifts toward the door, as if he expects enforcers in black tactical gear to materialize on the other side of the glass. “Maybe we should stop. Maybe we should just tell everyone the wards are off. It’s not worth the risk. The shop… our lives…”
“No.” June and I say it at the same time.
“We don’t back down,” June adds as she turns to face her brother. “Not when we’re in the right. That’s exactly what they want. They want to divide us, make us turn on each other in fear. We stick together. That’s the only way we have a chance.”
She looks at August, her expression softening just a fraction. “Besides, someone has to look out for Tessa. And I saw the way you were looking at her, August, all concerned and protective. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
A flush creeps up August’s neck, a splotch of color against his pallor. “I was just being nice. She’s scared.”
“Mmhmm,” June hums, a small, triumphant smile touching her lips for the first time since the meeting started. “Just keep an eye on her. A friendly face goes a long way in times like these.”
“She’s an Omega,” August counters, though his voice lacks conviction. “If you’re suggesting what I think you are, you know she would be better off with an Alpha.”
The mention of Alphas sends a jolt through me, a pulse of heat that spreads from my core outward in a dizzying rush. I press a hand discreetly to my stomach, trying to quell it.
It’s just stress. The long day. The crowded, overheated room. The proximity of so many anxious people.
It has to be.
“Go home, June,” I say, pushing myself off the counter. My legs feel unsteady, and I grip the edge for a moment to regain my balance. “You’re running on fumes. Both of you, get some rest. We can deal with the fallout tomorrow.”
June opens her mouth to argue, then takes a good look at me. Her brow furrows. “Are you okay, Caroline? You look a little flushed.”
“Just tired.” I force a smile, hoping it looks more convincing than it feels. “It was a lot. Go on. I’ll lock up.”
She studies me for a moment longer, her eyes missing nothing. Then she nods, a reluctant dip of her chin. “Fine. But you call me if you need anything. Anything at all. I mean it.”
“I will,” I promise.
After they leave, the silence of the shop feels all-consuming. I go through the motions of locking the door, the deadbolt sliding home with a thud. I turn off the main lights, leaving only the warm glow of a lamp over the counter, which casts shadows across the floor.
My familiar is usually weaving around my ankles by now, complaining loudly about the lateness of his dinner. But he’s nowhere in sight.
“Thistle?” I call out, my voice sounding thin and reedy in the empty room. No response. Just the hum of the refrigerator in the back.
I walk into the small storage room at the back of the shop, my movements slow. The heat is getting worse. It’s not a comfortable warmth; it’s a cloying blanket that seems to emanate from my very bones.
I strip off my cardigan, letting it fall to the floor, then kick off my shoes. The thin fabric of my shirt is already sticking to my skin, damp and uncomfortable.
I go to the kitchen sink and drink a glass of water, then another, gulping it down. The cold liquid doesn’t do a thing to cool the fire building inside me. If anything, it feels like pouring water on a grease fire, making it hiss and spit with renewed fury.
My skin prickles, hypersensitive. I can feel every thread of my shirt, every seam of my jeans, the slight roughness of the countertop under my palms. It’s a sensory overload that makes my head spin and my thoughts scatter like dust motes in a sunbeam.
I stumble into the staff room and throw open the window, my fingers fumbling with the stiff latch. I’m hoping for a breeze, for the cool night air to work its magic.
The air that rushes in is cool, but the moment it touches my feverish skin, it feels like it’s being absorbed, devoured by the heat radiating from my body. It’s a fleeting, tantalizing relief that’s gone in an instant, leaving me feeling even hotter than before.
It’s not helping. It’s getting warmer.
A wave of dizziness washes over me, so intense it makes my stomach clench. I grip the windowsill, my knuckles white, and squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for it to pass. My scent… I can smell it now, rising from my skin in thick, cloying waves.
It’s not the usual cinnamon and honey. It’s stronger, sweeter, almost sickly, like spun sugar caramelizing and burning on a stove. And underneath it, something else. Something wild and musky and terrifyingly recognizable.
The scent of my heat.
But it’s not time. It’s not supposed to be for another two weeks. It can’t be time. Panic, cold and sharp, begins to prickle at the edges of the fever.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound is loud, cutting through the fog in my head with surgical precision. It’s coming from the front of the shop.
“We’re closed!” I shout. I don’t move from the window. I can’t. The room is tilting on its axis, the floor feeling like it’s dropping away beneath my feet.
“I know,” someone calls back. It’s a man’s voice, with a clipped, precise accent I can’t quite place. This must be a stranger. “I need to speak with June Finch.”
“She’s not here,” I yell back, my heart starting to pound a frantic, terrified rhythm against my ribs. “Come back tomorrow. We open at nine.”
“I’m afraid my business is time-sensitive.” He sounds calm and unperturbed, as if I haven’t just shouted at him. “It’s regarding her rather clever wards.”
My blood runs cold. Every instinct, every rational thought, screams at me to stay hidden, to be quiet. But a morbid curiosity, a need to see the face behind the voice that knows about the wards, drives me forward.
I push away from the window, my body moving on instinct, my hand trailing along the wall for balance. I make my way back through the darkened shop, my feet silent on the cool floorboards. I peer through the glass panel of the front door, my breath fogging the small pane.
He’s standing there, a figure cut from shadow and the ambient light of the street lamp. A man in a perfectly tailored black suit, even at this hour. The fabric looks expensive, drinking the light. His hair is black, tied back in a severe, neat knot at his nape.
He’s tall and lean, and even from a distance, there’s an aura of absolute command about him, a stillness that’s more menacing than any overt threat. He’s wearing sunglasses, reflecting the dim light of the street lamp back at me. It’s absurd. It’s the middle of the damn night.