32. Damon
Rune of Restraint:
Inscribed on silver, it cools the blood when fire rises.
Amara waits until the sound of running water comes from down the hall. Then she turns to face the room, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
“Okay. I’m going to say something, and I need you all to listen without getting defensive.”
Griffin shifts on the couch. Silas leans against the kitchen doorframe. I stay where I am by the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantel.
“I didn't know a Rift flare could trigger a heat,” she says. “I always thought heats were cyclical. Tied to biology, hormones, the individual Omega's cycle. I knew stress, illness, or extreme emotional distress could bring one on early, but magical surges?”
The room goes quiet.
“I think that's because the quarry hasn't been studied properly,” Damon says.
“And it doesn't happen to every Omega. If it did, half the town would be in heat after every surge. There has to be something else at play—proximity to the Rift, the intensity of the flare, individual susceptibility... maybe all of it together.”
Amara looks at me, surprised. “You have a point. That first time Caroline went into heat, but I didn’t.”
“I talked to June yesterday. And August. The apothecary has been flooded this week—Omegas coming in for aftercare supplies, heat suppressants, everything. More than usual. Way more. June said she’s never seen anything like it.”
“How many more?” Silas asks.
“Twice the normal volume. Maybe three times. And it’s not just unbonded Omegas. Bonded ones, too. Women who’ve been on suppressants for years, suddenly needing emergency doses because their cycles are going haywire.”
Amara nods slowly, like I’m confirming something she already suspected. “Okay. So it’s not just Caroline. It’s systemic.”
“It seems that way.”
“Which brings me to something.” She pulls her phone from her jacket pocket, scrolls for a moment, then sets it on the coffee table.
“I’ve been studying this case for work. Charm law, specifically—my area.
An Alpha and an Omega in Chicago were going through a separation.
Nasty one. She wanted out, and he didn’t want to let her go.
During the proceedings, the jury discovered that he’d been messing with her suppressants for months.
Replacing them with placebos. Altering the dosage. Making her vulnerable.”
Griffin sits up straighter. “What happened?”
“He was convicted. Sentenced to five years. The judge called it coercive control through biological manipulation.” Amara picks the phone back up and taps the screen.
“But here’s the part that stuck with me.
During the trial, an expert witness testified that sustained manipulation of an Omega’s cycle doesn’t just affect the Omega.
It affects the ambient magic around them.
The ley lines, the local wards, the energetic balance of the area.
She said—and I’m paraphrasing—that if you wanted to destabilize a magically sensitive location, targeting the Omegas in that location would be the most effective way to do it. ”
The silence that follows is heavy.
“You’re suggesting someone is doing this on purpose,” Silas says.
“I’m suggesting it’s a possibility. A wild one, I know, but think about it.
The Rift flares, and Omegas go into heat.
The Omegas’ unstable magic feeds the flare, which makes more Omegas unstable, which feeds the flare more.
It’s a cycle. And if someone figured out how to start that cycle intentionally—”
“They could use the Rift as a weapon,” I finish.
“Or a cover,” Amara says. “Or both.”
Silas pushes off the doorframe. His expression has shifted—the detached Council envoy is gone, replaced by something more alert. “I think we need to talk to Dahlia.”
“Dahlia?” Griffin frowns.
“She’s an Omega shadow witch. If anyone in this town has insight into what’s happening with the Rift and the Omega population, it’s her.”
I shake my head. “Dahlia doesn’t remember her visions after they happen. It’s like a dream—she wakes up, and the details are gone. All she retains is the feeling. And the last time she had one, she said one thing that stuck.”
“What? She had a vision? When?” Amara asks.
“Just before we came here. Silas saw her by the rift. She was looking terrified, her eyes glazed over. She said death was coming.”
Griffin pales. Amara’s jaw tightens.
Silas is quiet for a moment, processing. Then: “How did she even end up as an Omega shadow witch? Those two things don’t naturally coexist. Shadow magic is hereditary, passed through bloodlines. Omega designation is biological. The odds of both occurring in a single person are—”
“Almost nonexistent,” I say. “Which is why it’s never happened before. At least not in any recorded history I can find.”
“So how do you explain Dahlia?”
I look at each of them in turn. Amara. Griffin. Silas. Three people who, an hour ago, I would have kept this from without hesitation. But things have changed. The rules have changed.
“Dahlia is adopted,” I say.
The word drops like a stone.
“No one knows this,” I continue. “Not the town, not the other kids, not even Dahlia herself. Her parents brought her to Willowbrook when she was an infant. They never filed the adoption through Council channels—they went through a private intermediary, someone who handled it quietly. I only know because my father was the one who helped them. He did a favor for a friend, and that favor was making the paperwork disappear.”
“Why?” Silas asks. “Why go to such lengths to hide the adoption?”
“I don’t know. But whatever the reason, it means Dahlia’s biological lineage is a mystery.
We don’t know where she came from, who her birth parents are, or what’s in her blood.
She could have shadow witch ancestry from any number of lineages.
She could have Omega markers from a bloodline nobody’s tracked.
We don’t know why she’s an anomaly. We don’t know what she has to do with the Rift, if anything. ”
“But there’s something we’re missing,” Amara says quietly.
“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck. “There’s something we’re missing.”
Silas is staring at the floor, his brow furrowed. I can practically see the gears turning—every piece of information he’s gathered since he arrived in Willowbrook, every report he’s supposed to file, every assumption he’s been told to make. Reassessing. Recalculating.
“If the Rift is being manipulated,” he says slowly, “and the mechanism is the Omega population, then whoever is doing this understands the connection between Omega magic and ley lines on a level that goes beyond standard Council research. That’s not common knowledge. That’s specialized.”
“Specialized how?”
“I don’t know yet. But I intend to find out.”
The sound of footsteps down the hall makes us all turn. Caroline appears in the doorway, dressed in cozy pajamas—fleece pants with little stars on them and an oversized T-shirt that slips off one shoulder. Her hair is damp, combed back from her face. She looks softer than I’ve ever seen her.
“What are you talking about?” she asks.
“Nothing,” Amara says, a little too quickly. “Just town stuff. How are you feeling?”
“Better. Tired.” She pads into the room, Thistle weaving between her feet. “I’m craving something salty. I would kill for some potato chips.”
Amara glances at me, then at Griffin. “How about we order a pizza and watch a movie? You can put all the salty toppings you want on it.”
Caroline’s face lights up. “That sounds amazing.”
“Actually,” I push off from the mantel, “Silas and I have something we need to check out. We’ll be back in a few hours.”
Caroline’s expression falters, just slightly. “You’re leaving?”
“Just for a bit. There’s something we need to look into. Town business.”
She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she doesn’t push. I know she’s still in that post-heat fog, still processing, still trying to find her footing. I don’t want to add to her load by dumping conspiracy theories on her lap.
“I’ll order the pizza,” Griffin says. “Your usual?”
“Extra olives. And pepperoni. And whatever else is salty.”
“Got it.”
I walk over to Caroline. I meant to just hug her goodbye—quick, simple, appropriate—but when I get close, when I catch that trace of honey and cinnamon still clinging to her skin, something takes over. I cup her face in my hands, tilt her chin up, and kiss her.
It’s not brief. It’s not simple. It’s the kind of kiss that says everything I’m not allowed to say out loud yet. I feel her hands flatten against my chest, feel her lean into me on her toes, and for a moment, the rest of the room ceases to exist.
Amara clears her throat.
I pull back, my face warm. Caroline’s cheeks are flushed, her lips slightly parted.
“Behave,” Amara says, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth.
Silas steps forward. He presses a kiss to Caroline’s cheek—softer, more restrained than mine, but no less deliberate. His hand lingers on her shoulder for a moment.
“Let’s go,” he says to me.
We grab our jackets from the pile by the door and step out into the late afternoon air. The storm has passed completely, leaving behind a sky that’s washed clean and bright, the kind of blue that only comes after everything’s been stripped away.
I don’t look back. If I look back, I won’t leave.
The door closes behind us, and we walk toward the car in silence.
I pull up to Silas’s hotel and kill the engine. He’s been inside for ten minutes. I check my phone—a text from Gallagher about the east side flooding, mostly cleared, minor structural damage on Elm. I respond with a thumbs up and toss the phone on the dash.
The front door opens, and Silas steps out. He’s changed into dark jeans and a gray Henley, his hair damp from a quick shower. He slides into the passenger seat and tosses a small leather bag on the floorboard.
“What’s the plan?” I ask.
“We need to do a little more research. Specific texts that won’t be available at the town library or the apothecary. Can we head to the manor?”