24. Silas
Circle of Shelter:
Ashes and salt traced on the floor keep harm away.
The last rune settles into the granite of the town square’s central fountain with a faint, satisfying click. The air, thick with the scent of ozone and damp stone, hums with a residual energy that makes the teeth ache.
Noah Kemp wipes a hand across his brow, his face etched with a fatigue that mirrors my own. “You said that’s the last of them for the perimeter, right?”
“Yes,” I tell him.
“It’ll have to hold.”
Damon nods, his gaze sweeping across the deserted square. The streetlights cast a sickly yellow glow on the wet pavement, illuminating a scene of minor devastation. A toppled bench, a shattered storefront window from the bookstore, trash cans scattered like bowling pins.
The town is holding its breath.
“It’ll hold,” Damon confirms, his tone certain. He turns to me. “You heading out?”
Every muscle in my body screams in protest. I have been on my feet since before dawn, channeling energy into the warding stones, a task that’s as mentally draining as it is physically. A deep, hollow hunger gnaws at my stomach. I need food. I need silence. I need a bed.
“I am,” I say, giving a curt nod to the chief. “If there’s nothing else.”
“Go,” Kemp says, waving a dismissive hand. “We’ll handle the cleanup. Get some rest. All of you.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I turn and walk away from the fountain, my shoes crunching on broken glass.
The wind picks up, whipping my coat around me, carrying with it the scent of pine and wet earth from the surrounding forest. My mind is already turning, working through the problem of the Rift.
The prevailing theory is that the flares are tied to the emotional surges of unbonded Omegas.
It makes a certain kind of logical sense.
Omega magic is potent, life-giving, and when untethered by a bond, it can become volatile.
A powerful emotional event—a panic attack, a moment of terror—could theoretically act as a catalyst, a match thrown near a can of gasoline.
The Rift, a volatile source of raw magic, would simply be the accelerant.
But the theory is flawed. I see that now.
The key is the timing. The suddenness. Why now?
Willowbrook has had unbonded Omegas for generations.
Why would the Rift suddenly start reacting to them now with such violent, unpredictable force?
It feels… orchestrated. As if someone or something is turning a key, amplifying the town’s inherent instability.
Perhaps the Omega surges are not the cause, but merely a symptom. A convenient, distracting symptom. It’s a troubling thought, one that implies a level of planning and malice far beyond a simple magical imbalance.
I pull my phone from my pocket as I walk toward the station where I left my car. I don't miss the driver. I no longer need someone waiting outside every door I walk through, and blending into Willowbrook is easier this way.
The screen is dark. No messages. I sent one to Helena this morning, a brief, coded update.
The subject is more complex than anticipated. Require further guidance.
Nothing.
Her silence is more damning than a sharp reply. It means she’s either busy with far more important things or she’s deliberately ignoring me. I suspect the latter.
I glance at my watch. Nearly nine o’clock. Still, I need to try. I need to report something, anything, to justify my presence here. I find her contact and press the call button, holding the phone to my ear as I continue to walk. The line rings once, twice, before she picks up. There’s no greeting.
“You have one job, Silas,” she says. Her words are not loud, but they carry a chilling weight, a blade honed sharp by years of practice.
“Helena—”
“The Council spent the entire day in session. An emergency session, I might add, debating the merits of sending a full task force to that quaint little town. All because you sent a message suggesting the situation was ‘complex.’” Her tone is laced with a contempt that stings more than any shout could.
“And what do I have to tell them? That my brother, the Council’s appointed envoy, can’t even manage to complete a simple census. ”
“It wasn’t a simple day,” I say, forcing my own tone to remain neutral. I stop walking, leaning against the cold brick wall of a closed-down shop. “The Rift flared again. Violently. We were containing the damage.”
“A flare-up,” she scoffs, the sound sharp and dismissive. “That’s what this town does. It is why you’re there. To observe, to report, to get a precise count of the unbonded Omegas in the immediate vicinity. That’s the mission. It’s not complicated.”
I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. A headache is forming, a tight band of pressure around my skull. “There was an explosion at the Brass Lantern. Familiars attacking their owners. The wind nearly took the roof off the library. It was not a normal day.”
“Father is equally disappointed,” she continues, ignoring my explanation completely. “He expected more. He believed you had the fortitude for this.”
The mention of our father is a low blow. It always is. I can picture him now, in his study, surrounded by leather-bound books and the ghosts of our ancestors, his face a mask of stern disapproval.
“Helena, listen to me—”
“And to make matters worse,” she talks over me, “all flights into your regional airport have been grounded. Some absurd story about a localized hurricane. So you’re now, by default, the only representative of the Council we have on the ground.
The only one. Try not to cause an international incident before morning. ”
The line goes dead.
I lower my phone from my ear, my hand hanging limply at my side. The conversation has drained the last of my reserves. The anger, the frustration, the weight of my family’s expectations—it all coalesces into a profound, bone-deep weariness.
I rub my temples, the pressure in my head intensifying. I want to go back to my room at the hotel. I want to strip off these damp, cold clothes and fall into a dreamless sleep. I want to forget about Willowbrook, the Rift, the Council, and my own failure.
I push myself off the wall and start walking again, my steps heavy. The station is just a few blocks away. Then food. Then sleep. That’s the new, simplified plan.
That’s when I smell it.
It cuts through the scent of rain and ozone, a fragrance that’s both out of place and utterly captivating. Sage and roses. The clean, earthy scent of a purification spell mixed with the sweet, intoxicating perfume of blooming roses.
It’s an Omega scent, but unlike any I have ever encountered. It’s complex, layered, and it pulls me up short.
I lift my head, my gaze scanning the street. And then I see her.
She’s standing in the middle of the road, directly under a sputtering streetlight. She’s tall, with a willowy frame that seems almost fragile. Her hair is a stark, raven-black curtain that falls down her back. She’s almost glowing, with what looks like luminous skin.
She’s dressed all in black—jeans, a leather jacket, heavy silver jewelry glinting at her wrists and throat.
She’s staring up at the bruised, swirling sky, her lips moving, forming silent words. She’s mumbling to herself, a low, constant stream of sound.
This isn’t a good place for her to be.
“Hey,” I call out. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s not safe.”
I start toward her, my hand raised in a gesture of peace. She doesn’t seem to hear me. She just keeps mumbling, her eyes fixed on the sky. I get closer, close enough to hear the fragmented words.
“…threads unwinding… the scythe is sharpened…”
“Miss,” I say, reaching out, intending to gently touch her arm, to get her attention.
The moment my fingers make contact with the cool leather of her jacket, she reacts.
A scream tears from her throat, a sound so high and piercing it feels physical, like a shard of glass in the ear. It’s a sound of pure, unadulterated terror. She wrenches away from me as if I have burned her, stumbling backward, her arms flailing.
She spins around, her wide, wild eyes locking onto mine. The green of them is startling, almost luminous in the dim light.
“Death is coming,” she shrieks, her words a ragged, panicked gasp. “He is coming for all of you!” She points a trembling finger at me, then at the empty street behind me. “I saw it! The veil is tearing! He is coming!”
What the fuck?
Footsteps pound on the pavement behind me. I turn my head to see Damon and Noah sprinting toward us, their hands on their weapons.
“What’s going on?” Damon demands, his gaze moving from the screaming woman to me.
“I don’t know,” I say, holding my hands up. “I touched her arm, and she started screaming.”
The woman is still screaming, a wordless, horrified sound that echoes off the buildings. She backs away from us, her eyes darting around as if she sees threats lurking in every shadow.
“Dahlia,” Noah says, his tone one of dawning recognition. “That’s Dahlia Cross.”
“Shit,” Damon mutters. He lowers his hand from his weapon, his entire demeanor shifting. Concern. “Maggie got a call about twenty minutes ago. Her mother said she was missing. She took off from the house.”
Damon takes a slow, careful step toward the woman, his hands held out in a non-threatening way. “Dahlia,” he says, his tone soft, placating. “It’s okay. It’s Damon. You’re safe now.”
Dahlia stops screaming, her chest heaving with ragged breaths. She stares at Damon, her eyes still wide with fear, but a flicker of recognition cuts through the panic. “Damon?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” he says, closing the distance between them. He doesn’t touch her, just stands there. “You’re okay. We’re going to take you home.”
She looks down at her hands, then back at the street. “I saw… I saw the horseman.”
“I know,” Damon says gently. “But you’re safe now. Come on.”
He reaches out, and she doesn’t flinch. She allows him to put a hand on her shoulder, to guide her. She stumbles, and he catches her, his arm wrapping around her waist to support her.