Page 6

LYRA

T he emergency town council meeting was called for seven o'clock sharp the next morning, which Lyra discovered was apparently the supernatural equivalent of being summoned to the principal's office.

She'd spent a restless night at The Moonbeam Lodge, her dreams filled with visions of ancient bindings and hungry things stirring beneath stone floors.

The silvery marks on her palm had pulsed gently all night, like a heartbeat she couldn't ignore.

Every time she'd started to drift off, she'd felt something vast and patient testing the edges of its prison, and she'd jerked awake with her magic coiled through her hands.

Now, standing outside Mistwhisper Falls Town Hall at six fifty-eight in the morning, Lyra wondered if it was too late to get back in her car and pretend none of this had ever happened.

The building itself was a study in supernatural bureaucracy—a Victorian structure that had been lovingly maintained but clearly adapted for non-human needs.

The windows were tinted just dark enough to accommodate light-sensitive species, and she could see what looked like reinforced doorframes designed to handle above-average strength.

A discrete sign by the entrance read "Supernatural Community Services - All Species Welcome. "

"At least they're upfront about it," Lyra muttered, checking her phone for the third time. Seven o'clock exactly. Time to face whatever passed for justice in a town where werewolves had official paperwork.

The reception area was surprisingly normal—comfortable seating, generic office plants, and a water cooler that hummed quietly in the corner.

The only hint that this wasn't a typical municipal building was the receptionist, a woman who appeared to be in her forties with silver-streaked hair and eyes that reflected light like a cat's.

"Lyra Whitaker?" the woman asked, her voice carrying the faint accent of someone who'd learned English as a second language. "I'm Diana Moonwhisper. The council is ready for you."

"Great," Lyra said, trying to project more confidence than she felt. "I don't suppose you could give me a hint about what I'm walking into?"

Diana's smile was sympathetic but not particularly reassuring. "Elder Ruth has been awake since four AM researching founder protocols. I'd suggest being very respectful and very honest."

"Noted." Lyra followed Diana down a hallway lined with what she assumed to be official portraits of previous council members. Some looked human. Others definitely didn't. "Quick question—is there any chance this is going to end with torches and pitchforks?"

"Oh, no," Diana said cheerfully. "We haven't used torches in decades. Much too dangerous with all the supernatural fire hazards."

Lyra wasn't sure if that was meant to be reassuring.

The council chamber was smaller than she'd expected, with a semicircular arrangement of chairs facing a single seat that was clearly meant for whoever was being questioned.

Five people were already seated when Diana ushered her in, and Lyra immediately understood why Cade had warned her this wasn't going to be a friendly chat.

Elder Ruth Blackthorne sat in the center chair like a queen holding court.

She was exactly what Lyra would have pictured if someone had said "hereditary witch"—silver hair braided with ribbons that seemed to shimmer with their own light, sharp dark eyes that missed nothing, and an air of authority that probably intimidated supernatural creatures twice her size.

She was knitting what appeared to be a scarf, but the needles moved faster than should have been humanly possible.

To her right sat Sheriff Maya Torres, a woman in her mid-thirties with observant brown eyes and the kind of posture that suggested she could handle any trouble that walked through the door.

Her badge gleamed silver against her dark uniform, and Lyra caught a glimpse of what looked like protective charms worked into the metal.

On Ruth's left was a man who introduced himself as Councilman Bradford, though he looked young enough to be in college. His handshake was cold enough to make Lyra's teeth ache, and when he smiled, she caught a glimpse of fangs.

The remaining two council members were less immediately identifiable—a middle-aged woman with prematurely gray hair who radiated the kind of calm that suggested powerful magic, and an elderly man whose presence made Lyra's chaos magic stir restlessly in her chest.

At the side, a police officer, was staring her down. Leo Maddox per the nametag on his chest. He clearly didn’t like her. Another officer grabbed the man’s attention and they walked out of the room.

"Miss Whitaker," Elder Ruth said without looking up from her knitting, breaking through her thoughts. "Please, sit down. We have a great deal to discuss."

Lyra settled into the lone chair facing the council, acutely aware that she was outnumbered five to one by people who'd probably been dealing with supernatural politics since before she was born. "I'm guessing this isn't a welcome-to-the-neighborhood meeting."

"Not exactly." Ruth's needles clicked steadily as she worked. "It's come to our attention that you've had some... difficulties... adjusting to life in Mistwhisper Falls."

"By difficulties, you mean accidentally activating an ancient magical artifact and possibly weakening a centuries-old binding?" Lyra asked. "Because if so, then yes, I've had some difficulties."

Sheriff Torres leaned forward slightly. "We appreciate your honesty, Miss Whitaker. It makes this conversation much easier."

"What exactly is this conversation?" Lyra asked. "Am I being charged with something? Magical vandalism? Supernatural reckless endangerment?"

"Nothing quite so formal," Ruth said, finally looking up from her knitting.

"But your actions have consequences that extend beyond your personal situation.

Mistwhisper Falls exists in a delicate balance, Miss Whitaker.

That balance has been maintained for over two centuries through careful management of our magical resources and strict adherence to certain. .. protocols."

"Protocols I wasn't aware of because no one bothered to mention them before I inherited the inn."

"Your grandmother was supposed to prepare you," the gray-haired woman said, speaking for the first time. "Vera's failure to educate you about your heritage doesn't absolve you of responsibility for its consequences."

Lyra felt her temper start to rise. "My grandmother cut me off eight years ago. I found out about the inn through a lawyer's letter. If you want to blame someone for my ignorance, maybe start with the people who've been keeping secrets instead of the person who was deliberately kept in the dark."

"Careful, Miss Whitaker," Ruth said, her voice carrying a warning. "You're speaking to the council about matters you don't fully understand."

"Then explain them to me," Lyra shot back. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like I've inherited a magical responsibility no one thought to tell me about, and now you're all upset that I didn't magically know how to handle it."

Before anyone could respond, the chamber door opened and Cade walked in carrying a manila folder thick with paperwork. He was wearing what Lyra was beginning to recognize as his official alpha face—controlled, professional, and about as welcoming as a brick wall.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, settling into a chair that appeared to have been saved for him. "I was finishing the incident report."

"Incident report?" Lyra asked.

Cade opened the folder and pulled out a form that looked like it had been designed by someone with a very serious attitude toward supernatural bureaucracy.

"Standard procedure for any magical disturbance that registers above a Category Three on the Thorne Scale.

Your little light show yesterday clocked in at a Category Seven. "

"Is that bad?"

"For context," Sheriff Torres said dryly, "a Category Three is what happens when someone accidentally sets their kitchen on fire with magic. A Category Seven is what happens when someone accidentally awakens ancient protective wards across half the county."

"Oh." Lyra slumped in her chair. "That does sound bad."

"It gets worse," Cade continued, pulling out more paperwork. "I've got reports of magical disturbances from as far away as the state line. Every supernatural in a fifty-mile radius felt what you did. Some of them are asking questions."

"What kind of questions?" Elder Ruth's knitting needles had stopped moving, which somehow seemed more ominous than when they'd been clicking.

"The kind that come from people who'd like to know why one of the most magically stable towns in the region suddenly had a power surge visible from the next county," Cade said.

"I've fielded calls from three different pack alphas, a coven of witches from Asheville, and someone claiming to represent the Regional Supernatural Authority. "

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "The RSA?" Councilman Bradford asked, his fangs more visible now. "They haven't shown interest in Mistwhisper Falls since the founding."

"They're showing interest now," Cade said grimly. "Which means we need to get this situation under control before they decide to investigate personally."

Lyra looked around the room, noting the way everyone seemed to tense at the mention of the RSA. "I'm guessing that would be bad?"

"The Regional Supernatural Authority exists to maintain the masquerade," Ruth explained. "They ensure that supernatural communities remain hidden from human awareness. When a town like ours attracts their attention, it's usually because someone has been careless with their magic."