Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
SOMETHING HAD TO GIVE
The warmth that usually drapes over Main Street like a comfortable blanket is swallowed up by a heavy gray that rolls in without warning.
When I finally glance toward the windows of Thorne Curiosities, tearing my attention away from the ancient grimoire spread across the counter, the glass is already catching it, small white flakes clinging where they shouldn’t, delicate as lace but wrong in every way that matters.
Snow. Inside the wards. Where it has no business being in a town that hasn’t seen winter weather in over two centuries. The longer I stare at it, watching the flakes gather and stick against the warm glass, the heavier that realization sits in my chest.
Outside, the town reacts with the kind of swift efficiency that only comes from generations of supernatural instinct.
Shop owners don’t linger or marvel at the wonder of the drastic change in climate.
There’s no pause for wonder, no excitement at seeing something that should be impossible within Ruby Springs’ protected borders.
Doors open and close in quick succession as people gather their things and move with quiet urgency, coats pulled tighter against skin that hasn’t felt real cold in decades, heads lowered against a chill.
The Cackling Hen shuts its doors early, Lin and Toni rush down the cobblestone road as they hurry to escape the heavily falling snow.
Across the street, Bea shuts the Pot & Kettle with a worried wave at me from behind the glass.
One by one, the lights along Main Street go out until the stretch of storefronts that was alive and bustling minutes ago begins to empty, leaving only the soft glow of streetlamps to illuminate the impossible snowfall.
At least no one is panicking. Everyone is reacting with the kind of practiced calm that comes from living in a magical town, unusual, yes, but not cause for hysteria. Still, the speed of their retreat tells me everything I need to know about how wrong this really is.
I was raised in New York, where snow is as common as overpriced coffee and aggressive taxi drivers—I refuse to budge.
The idea of trekking through a few inches of the white stuff is no real hardship for me.
I’ve walked through far worse during Manhattan winters.
Of course, Maceo, Lucien, and Ezra hang in there with me as I continue to flip through the pile of ancient books spread across the counter, their presence comforting in the growing strangeness of the afternoon.
The snow thickens outside the windows, falling harder now, fast enough that it softens the sharp edges of everything it touches.
The cobblestones blur beneath the white blanket.
The rooftops of the quaint shops begin to disappear under gathering drifts.
Even the familiar sounds of Main Street, the distant hum of conversations, dull beneath the muffling weight of accumulating snow.
Underneath all of that visible strangeness, something feels fundamentally off in a way I can’t name yet, something that tugs at the center of my chest like a warning beacon pulsing in the dark.
It’s the same feeling I get when my magic tries to surface, but deeper, more urgent, as if the very foundations of Ruby Springs are shifting beneath our feet.
Maceo steps up beside me, close enough that his arm brushes mine.
His attention is fixed on the storm outside, eyes tracking the movement of the flakes with the kind of focus that tells me his shifter instincts are on high alert.
“We’re closing,” he says, and it’s not a question or a suggestion, it’s a statement of fact delivered with the quiet authority of someone who’s spent years keeping people safe.
“I know,” I answer quietly, my voice barely above a whisper as I sigh in resignation.
My eyes remain fixed on the street, on the way the snow keeps coming down like it has no intention of stopping, each flake adding to a problem that feels bigger than weather, bigger than anything we’ve faced so far.
Ezra moves in behind us with his usual quiet efficiency, his hands careful as he gathers the grimoires and places them in his worn leather satchel and mine.
“We should head to the manor,” he says, his voice calm despite the chaos building outside.
There’s something in his tone, a subtle urgency beneath the measured words, that tells me this is not just about escaping the weather.
I recall the night before and it feels like it happened weeks ago instead of mere hours, the memory of his strong arms wrapped around me protectively as my head rested against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding me when everything else felt uncertain.
Yeah, going home sounds perfect right about now.
Especially if I get to take the three of them with me, carrying their warmth and strength back to the safety of Thorne Manor.
Lucien stands near the doorway like a guardian, watching the snowfall with an intensity that makes my stomach tighten with nerves.
“This,” he says after a long moment, his voice quiet but deliberate, each word chosen with the precision of someone who’s lived long enough to measure the weight of what he’s seeing, “isn’t something I have ever witnessed within the wards. Not in nearly two centuries of calling Ruby Springs home.”
Snow is such a regular weather phenomenon in most of Massachusetts that the fact Ruby Springs has been without it for centuries seems both unbelievable and astonishing at the same time.
It’s like discovering a pocket of eternal spring in the middle of New England winter, beautiful, but fundamentally wrong.
“The instability is far worse than we thought, Ez,” Lucien continues, his Fae heritage showing without his signature hat to hide the pronounced points of his ears. He opens the door and waits for us to join him.
Maceo and Ezra each shoulder a satchel, their movements coordinated without discussion.
Sir doesn’t even protest as he’s scooped up in Lucien’s elegant arms, though he does let out a dignified huff before allowing the Fae to shield him from the elements as we all begin what I hope will be a manageable walk home.
The trek back to the manor turns out to be far worse than any of us expect.
The snow comes down in thick, relentless sheets, driven sideways by a wind that cuts through my heavy coat like it’s made of tissue paper, stealing the warmth from my lungs with every breath I manage to take.
The flakes cling to my lashes, forcing me to blink constantly to clear my vision.
They gather in my long black braids, weighing them down with an unnatural cold that seems to seep straight through to my scalp.
Each step crunches beneath our boots as we push forward against the storm, the familiar cobblestone streets of Ruby Springs transformed into something alien and treacherous.
Maceo stays close, his heavily built frame a warm, sure presence at my side, one strong arm linked with mine to keep me steady as the wind tries to push me off course.
His tribal tattoos peek out from beneath his coat sleeves, dark ink stark against his light brown skin, and there’s a controlled strength in his grip, protective without being possessive.
Ezra matches our pace on my other side, his attention splits between checking on me and tracking something in the environment that only his Wizard senses can detect.
Behind his black-rimmed glasses, his dark brown eyes are constantly moving, reading patterns in the magical chaos that I can’t even begin to see.
Lucien brings up the rear initially, but when Sir’s yowls of displeasure grow more frequent and pathetic, he quickens his pace to catch up with our small group, his usually perfect posture slightly hunched against the driving snow.
By the time we finally reach Thorne Manor, the storm has taken hold of Ruby Springs completely, transforming the town into something out of a winter fairy tale, if fairy tales included magical catastrophes and supernatural weather anomalies.
The house responds to our arrival the moment our boots hit the front porch.
Warmth rises to meet us like an embrace from an old friend, seeping through our chilled bones before we even cross the threshold.
The fire in the sitting room flares higher without anyone touching it, flames dancing with an enthusiasm that speaks of the manor’s relief at having us safely home.
Lamps bloom to life around the front room, casting golden pools of light that chase away the gray gloom we’ve brought in with us.
From the kitchen comes the rich, savory smell of something hearty and comforting, chicken and dumplings, if my nose is right, along with the yeasty warmth of fresh-baked biscuits.
The heavy front doors close behind us with a quiet finality that feels less like simple wood and metal and more like something protective locking into place, sealing us away from whatever chaos is building outside.
I exhale slowly, the breath coming out in a visible puff that quickly dissipates in the manor’s welcoming warmth.
My fingers fumble with the buttons of my coat, still stiff from the cold, as I try to shake the bone-deep chill from my body.
The guys follow suit, Maceo helping me out of the heavy garment with gentle efficiency, while Ezra stamps snow from his boots with methodical precision.
Sir jumps from Lucien’s arms the moment we’re inside, landing on the polished hardwood floor, before disappearing with an indignant flick of his tail, no doubt heading straight for the warmest spot in the house.
“Okay,” I murmur, glancing toward the windows where snow continues to press against the glass like grasping fingers, accumulating at an impossible rate. “That’s definitely not normal weather.”