Page 17 of Magical Mayhem (Stonewick Magical Midlife Witch Academy #7)

A muffled clatter rose from the cellar beneath us. Not the scuttle of mice or a broom dropping below. This was a deliberate sound.

My gaze snapped to the cellar opening, just in time to see it swing open.

Miora emerged, brushing imaginary cobwebs from her sleeves, her expression as sharp as the iron poker she leaned on. Her eyes landed first on me, then slid to my mother with all the warmth of a cold slug in January.

“Ah,” Miora said, arching one pale brow. “So the prodigal has returned.”

My stomach sank. Miora wasn’t exactly the welcoming committee when it came to my mom, and my mother had a talent for rubbing people the wrong way just by being in the same room.

The two of them, facing each other in the cottage, felt like a duel about to break out over the teapot. There was a lot of history there, and most of it, I didn’t understand.

My mom set her cup down with a soft clink.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” my mom said sarcastically.

“Very funny,” Miora replied.

That did it.

I winced, already anticipating the sparks. My mom leaned back in her chair, one leg crossing over the other, eyes narrowing in a way I knew too well.

This was her battle stance—smile faintly, dismiss everyone else’s opinions, win the room by sheer stubbornness.

“I see your memory’s as sharp as ever,” Miora said lightly.

“And I see your people skills haven’t improved,” my mom countered, folding her arms.

I cleared my throat loudly, stepping between them, as though I could physically wedge myself into the growing gap.

“Ladies. Please. If you’re going to argue, at least do it when I’m not around.”

Neither of them looked pleased. My mom’s lips pressed into a thin smile. Miora’s nostrils flared like a cat sensing competition.

A rivalry.

Great.

Just what I needed on top of everything.

I sank into my chair, trying not to let my exasperation show too plainly.

My mom had always been difficult—sharp-edged, strong-willed, the kind of person who could turn a parent-teacher conference into a political debate.

I loved her, but I’d spent most of my adult life keeping her at arm’s length. Now she was back, planted in my cottage, staring down a woman I relied on for advice, protection, and the occasional scolding that kept me upright.

“What exactly brought you back to Stonewick?” I asked, trying to redirect. “Because if this is just another one of your dramatic midlife pivots, I need to know now. I have enough on my plate without refereeing your grudges.”

Her gaze slid back to me, calm and unreadable. “I told you. Your stepfather lost his marbles.”

“You said that last time. That’s not enough reason to come here,” I pressed.

Her mouth curved, just slightly. “Maybe not. But family is.”

Before I could respond, she turned in her chair, her eyes locking on my dad. She tilted her head, studying him in silence, the weight of decades hovering in that simple look.

Dad met her gaze without flinching. Then he set his cup down, the porcelain clicking against the table with finality.

“Actually, I asked her to come back,” he said.

The words hit like a slap.

“You—what?” I blurted. My chair scraped across the rug as I sat up straighter. “You invited her back? After years, after everything, you thought now was the perfect time for a reunion?”

Neither of them answered right away. My mom’s lips pressed into something halfway between triumph and regret. My dad just looked at me with that bulldog steadiness that made my chest ache.

The air went too tight in the room, the hearth’s crackle suddenly too loud. I didn’t know where to put my hands or what to do with my face.

Because I didn’t have time for this. Not now.

I had two rivals on their deathbeds, each slipping deeper into shadow with every hour.

I had skies that crackled with omens, and shadows pressing like thunderclouds waiting to split.

There were mirages unraveling across Stonewick with illusions one moment and dangers the next.

The Academy and Wards teetered under the strain, the students depended on me to keep them safe, and the town looked to me for answers I barely had.

And now my parents were sipping tea in my cottage, as if this were a family counseling session.

It should have been too much. For anyone else, it probably would have been.

But me? A midlife meltdown? Absolutely not.

I’d already survived divorce, empty nesting, curses, goblins, shadows, dragons, and more scones than I cared to count.

I wasn’t about to unravel because my parents decided to stir the pot.

Dad cleared his throat, a sound like gravel turning over in a tumbler. He leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees, and his teacup balanced between scarred fingers.

“If you’re staying, you need to know what’s happening,” he explained to my mom.

She tilted her head, lips pursed, clearly unsure she wanted to be told anything at all. Still, she gave the tiniest nod, sipping her tea as if bracing herself.

I stiffened, my breath catching in my throat. I wasn’t ready to hear it again.

“Keegan’s sick,” Dad began, voice low. “Or rather, cursed. It’s not an illness that can be cured with broth or poultices. The shadows have their claws in him, and each day they dig deeper.”

Mom’s hand froze halfway to her lips. “Cursed? Beyond the shifting…”

“Yes.” His eyes softened, but his jaw stayed tight. “It started subtly. Small changes, temper fraying at the edges, his eyes darker than they should be. Now it’s plain. The curse is in his blood. It’s twisting him.”

The words hit me like stones. I pressed my palms against my thighs, as if grounding myself in the wood of the chair would keep me steady. I already knew all of this. I had lived it, breath by breath, watching Keegan unravel. But hearing it spoken aloud—it seared.

Mom shook her head. “That boy… he was always strong, too strong for his own good. How could this happen?”

“Malore,” Dad said simply, and the name fell like an ax into the room.

The air shifted. Even the kettle seemed to falter mid-sigh.

Mom’s lips thinned. “He’s returned?”

“He never left,” Dad corrected grimly. “He’s been waiting in the dark, weaving himself into cracks we didn’t know were there. And now he’s walking Stonewick again, trying to scatter the Hunger Path and destroy the ancient rites. He’s made his own rules.”

I flinched. My breath came fast, sharp. I’d seen him. I’d fought him. His presence still hung on me like ash.

Mom’s eyes darted to me, then back to Dad. “And you let Maeve be near him?”

“I didn’t let her anything,” Dad said evenly. “She held her ground better than most ever could when my father showed up.”

Their gazes clashed like steel. I wanted to shout, to tell them both to stop talking about me as though I wasn’t sitting right here. But my throat was too tight.

Dad pressed on. “The Silver Wolf has returned as well.”

The room went still again.

Mom blinked. “Her? Keegan’s mom? She left when I did. They both did.”

He nodded once. “Keegan’s mother. Stonewick called her back. No one knows why.”

Mom set her cup down with a click. “After all these years.”

“Yes,” Dad said softly. “After all these years.”

The silence stretched, heavy with a memory I couldn’t touch. I looked between them, my pulse pounding, my mind spinning.

Hearing it all rehashed, the curse, the shadows, Malore, the Silver Wolf, it was too much.

My whole body felt like it had been set alight.

Heat rolled through me, not just anger but something sharper, wilder.

Fire rose in my veins, prickling across my skin, pooling in my chest until I thought it might burn right out of me.

“Stop,” I whispered, though neither of them did.

Mom’s voice sharpened. “You mean to tell me the boy is dying, shadows are loose, Malore is back, and that woman has returned to the village? And you thought I wouldn’t need to know? No wonder you asked me to return. Things are shifting.”

Dad’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer immediately. His silence said enough.

“Stop,” I repeated, louder this time. My hands trembled where they gripped the arms of the chair. The heat inside me flared so hot I thought the teacups might crack.

But they kept going.

“Do you even realize what that means?” Mom demanded. “If the Silver Wolf is here, Stonewick is bracing for a war. The old curse crumbled, but the new one is even worse and—”

“Don’t,” I snapped. The word tore from me like a spark.

Both of them froze.

The heat roared inside me, a wave of fire that seared every nerve.

My heart hammered, my breath came in ragged gasps, and my vision blurred at the edges with an orange-red light.

It was more than anger, more than fear. It was the memory of every night spent by Keegan’s side, watching his strength falter.

It was the way Gideon’s shadow had crawled into my dreams more times than I could count.

It was the sight of the Silver Wolf standing in the lane, and the terrible ache of knowing she was his mother and not enough to mend what had been broken.

I couldn’t bear to hear it again. Not in this quiet cottage that was my sanctuary, not with my mother sipping tea like it was just another family squabble.

“Every time you say it, it makes it real all over again,” I said hoarsely.

My voice shook, but the fire behind it didn’t.

“I know he’s cursed. I know Malore is back.

I know the Silver Wolf is here, and I know Stonewick is cracking under the weight of it all.

I don’t need you to list it out like ingredients in a recipe. I live it. Every single day.”

The room was silent, save for the pop of the fire in the hearth.

My mom stared at me, lips parted, as if she hadn’t expected the outburst. My dad’s expression softened, but he didn’t speak, maybe knowing that if he did, I’d unravel completely.

I pressed a hand to my chest, willing the fire to recede, to settle into embers. Slowly, my breath steadied. Slowly, the heat ebbed back to something I could hold.

Mom finally spoke, her voice quieter. “Maeve, I need to tell you that—”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Don’t. Not right now.”

She closed her mouth, but her eyes didn’t leave me.

I pushed myself to my feet, the chair scraping against the rug. I couldn’t sit there while my insides burned. I crossed to the window instead, staring out at the driveway, the glow of lanterns swaying in the gloom.

Behind me, my dad exhaled slowly. The sound was heavy, weary, but resolute.

“That’s the truth of it,” he said to my mom. “You wanted to know why you were called back. Now you do.”

“And that’s the short version.” I rubbed my temple, exhaling slowly.

My mom leaned forward, her eyes on me. For the first time since she’d arrived, her expression softened. She was no longer sharp, nor combative, but something dangerously close to maternal concern.

“Maeve,” she said, her voice low and serious.

I met her gaze.

“You look stressed.”