32. Damon #2
I don’t even have to think about it. I put the car in drive. “Aunt Etta’s going to love that you’re back.”
“Is that a problem?”
“She made you a pie last time. From scratch. After knowing you for two hours.”
I catch the corner of his mouth twitch. “Is that unusual?”
“Aunt Etta really loves anything to do with the Council, especially since she thinks you’ll nominate her to join them.”
The drive to the manor takes fifteen minutes.
The roads are still damp, puddles reflecting the late afternoon sun, a public works crew clearing debris from a storm drain up ahead.
I turn onto the gravel drive and the wards recognize me immediately—that old hum I’ve felt since I was a kid running through these woods with Amara.
I park in the circular drive, and the front door swings open before I cut the engine.
Aunt Etta stands on the porch, arms crossed, a smile already breaking across her face. Her white hair is pinned up in a loose bun. She’s wearing one of her signature kaftans, this one deep purple with gold embroidery.
“Don’t just sit there,” she calls. “I can see you both.”
I climb out and round the hood. Silas follows.
“Damon. You look terrible.”
“Thanks, Aunt Etta.”
“Hollow cheeks. Bloodshot eyes. When did you last sleep?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy.” She clicks her tongue. Then her gaze shifts to Silas, and her whole demeanor changes. Her face softens. “And you. Come here.”
Silas steps forward, and Aunt Etta reaches up and cups his face in both hands, studying him the way she studies her garden—thorough, appreciative, noting every detail.
“You’ve lost weight,” she says. She drops her hands and waves us both toward the door. “Inside. Both of you. Tea in ten minutes. Damon, your room is made up. I changed the sheets.”
“Thanks, Aunt Etta.”
She disappears into the house. We follow her inside.
Aunt Etta herds us to the sitting room and points at the couch. “Sit. I’ll bring tea.”
“We can help—” I start.
“Sit.”
We sit.
Silas takes in the room—the overstuffed furniture, the fireplace, the shelf of family memorabilia. His gaze lands on a photo of Amara and me as teenagers, dressed up for some town event, both of us glaring at the camera.
“You and Amara looked alike as kids.”
“People always said that. We’re cousins, but we could pass for siblings.”
Aunt Etta returns with a tray—teapot, cups, a plate of shortbread cookies that I know she baked this morning because the woman never buys anything store-made. She pours for each of us, then settles into her armchair and pulls a crochet project from the basket beside it.
“Now,” she says, needles already moving, “where have you been off to?”
“I told you I got caught up cleaning up the aftermath of the flare,” I lie.
“Your mother was very worried,” she says. “I almost came down to the station looking for you.”
Her worry touches me. “I’m okay, I promise. I just needed to handle this before I came home.”
“You work too hard, just like your daddy.”
I can feel Silas’s eyes on me but I look away. I hate feeling vulnerable.
Luckily Silas decides to change the subject. “We were actually hoping we could access the library.”
“Looking for anything in particular?” She looks between us.
I clear my throat then tell her the truth. “Ley line theory. Rift mechanics. Omega biology as it relates to ambient magical fields.”
Aunt Etta’s needles pause for half a second, then resume. “That’s a specific combination.”
“It’s a specific problem.”
She looks at him over the rims of her glasses. “The kind of problem that gets a Council envoy sent to investigate?”
“The kind of problem that makes a Council envoy wonder if he should stop investigating and start listening.”
The needles stop. Aunt Etta sets the crochet in her lap and fixes Silas with a look I recognize—the same look she gave me when I told her I was joining the sheriff’s department instead of pursuing ward work full time.
Assessing. Measuring. Deciding whether the person in front of her is worth trusting.
“Library’s through there,” she says finally, pointing to the door that leads to the west wing. “Same wards as before. You know the rules.”
“No bending spines.”
“Don’t turn pages with wet hands. Don’t stack books on the floor. And don’t take anything out of this house without asking me first.”
“Understood.”
He stands, takes his tea, and heads down the hall. I watch him go, then turn back to Aunt Etta.
“He’s different from the last one,” she says.
“What last one?”
“The Council sent an envoy here twelve years ago. It was right after a flare. Man named Berrick. Cold, clinical, treated this town like a specimen under glass.” She goes on, recounting everything she remembers about his investigation before picking up her crochet again.
“Silas has stuck around longer than I expected. I think he’s beginning to care about this town. ”
“Yeah. He does.”
“You care about him.”
It’s not a question. I don’t treat it like one. “Yeah.”
“And the girl? Caroline?”
“Aunt Etta.”
“I’m old, not blind, Damon. I can smell her on you. On both of you, probably, from the way Silas was walking when he got out of the car.” She tilts her head. “Is she the reason you look like you haven’t slept in four days?”
“Partly.”
“Hmm.” Her needles click softly. “Well. I hope you’re being careful. With her. With all of it.”
I stand, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “I’m going to make a call. Dahlia’s mom. I need to check on her.”
“Meredith Cross?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell her I said hello. And that if she needs anything, she’s to call me directly. Not the apothecary, not the sheriff’s line. Me.”
I nod and head to my room down the east hall. I close the door and sit on the edge of the mattress, then pull out my phone.
Meredith picks up on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Meredith. It’s Damon Wilder.”
“Oh, Damon. Hi.” Her voice is tired, thin at the edges. “If this is about the town meeting next week, I really can’t—”
“It’s not about the meeting. I’m calling about Dahlia. How is she?”
A pause. When Meredith speaks again, her voice has dropped. “Not good. She went into a really bad heat yesterday. Out of nowhere. She’s been on suppressants for years, and her cycle has always been regular. I don’t understand what happened.”
My stomach tightens. “Where is she now?”
“In bed. Sleeping, mostly. When she’s awake, she’s got a really bad headache.
She says it feels like someone’s pressing on her skull from the inside.
” A shaky breath. “I’ve got June coming by later to bring some things from the apothecary.
But I hate this, Damon. I hate watching her hurt and not knowing why. ”
“I know. I’m sorry, Meredith.”
“Is it the Rift? Everyone’s saying the Rift is causing problems, but this seems… different.”
“I’m looking into it. That’s actually why I’m calling. I want you to keep Dahlia home for the next few days. Don’t let her go out, don’t let anyone near her who isn’t family or someone you trust absolutely. Can you do that?”
“Of course. But Damon, what’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”
I wish I had an answer. I wish I could give her something concrete—a reason, a culprit, a solution. All I have is a feeling in my gut and a theory I can’t prove yet.
“We’re working on it,” I say. “I’ll keep you updated. And Meredith—call Aunt Etta if you need anything. She specifically asked me to tell you that.”
“Your aunt?”
“Yeah. She means it.”
I hang up and sit there for a long moment, staring at my boots by the closet. The same boots I wore to Caroline’s shop last week. Before the storm. Before any of this.
Dahlia Cross is a grown woman, and she’s hurting.
Meredith is scared, and I don’t have answers for her.
June is running herself ragged trying to keep up with the flood of Omegas coming through the apothecary door.
And somewhere behind me, in my aunt’s library, a Council envoy is digging through texts that might hold the key to all of it.
I can’t explain what’s wrong. Not yet. But I know what I feel—a pressure in my chest that’s been building since the night of the storm, a certainty that something is very, very broken in this town, and I’m the one who’s supposed to keep it together.
I need to fix this. As soon as possible. Before anyone else gets caught in whatever’s coming.
I push off the bed, tuck my phone in my pocket, and head down the hall toward the library.