Page 21 of Magical Mirage (Stonewick Magical Midlife Witch Academy #6)

Even though the coziness of my bed called to me in the cottage, the thought of Keegan alone called to me more. I felt like I’d learned so much between Stella’s insight and the unexpected conversation with Karvey, Twobble, and Skonk tonight that I had to see him, really see him, and talk to him.

It wasn’t just affection driving me. It was the way the darkness had been coiling tighter around Stonewick, curling in invisible layers like the spiral I’d seen etched on that scroll, wrapping itself around the town and its people. Keegan, most of all.

I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck and stepped into the night.

The moon was low but full, a golden coin caught on the teeth of the clouds.

Shadows rippled against the cobbled streets as I made my way into town.

I slipped through the sleepy village, the summer night air brushing against my cheeks.

Lamps in windows flickered like fireflies behind fogged glass, and the clouds had thickened above, pressing low over Stonewick like a quilt too heavy for comfort.

The further I walked, the more aware I became of how quiet it was.

Not peaceful and quiet. Hollow quiet.

When I finally reached the front doors of Keegan’s hotel, the gargoyles overhead blinked slowly as I passed beneath them. They were recovering, Karvey had said so, but their eyes still tracked movement like something was always waiting.

Inside, I found Ember at the reception desk, sipping what looked like licorice root tea and flipping through an old guest ledger. She looked up with a little smile.

“Late-night visit?” she asked softly, nodding toward the lounge.

“He’s not back at his house yet, is he?”

“Hasn’t moved from that spot for the last hour. Just staring at the fireplace like it insulted his ancestors.”

That sounded about right.

“Thanks,” I said, stepping past the velvet ropes and plush carpet toward the lounge, where the fire danced across the walls.

Keegan sat in one of the high-backed chairs, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He didn’t turn when I entered, but I saw his shoulders shift, just slightly, like he sensed me.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low, as I approached.

I slid into the chair beside him. “Bed was calling. But so were you.”

That earned me a small smile. Tired, but real.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, finally glancing at me. His eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, but the firelight still caught the edges of their amber-gold.

“I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway,” I admitted. “I’ve been thinking… about the curse. About you.”

He let out a slow breath and leaned back in the chair. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

We sat in silence for a beat. The logs popped and cracked in the fireplace, and a draft whispered through the room despite the thick curtains.

“There’s a name for it,” I said eventually. “Your type of curse.”

Keegan’s brow furrowed slightly. “I figured.”

“It’s called the Hollowing.”

He didn’t react, not the way I expected. No sharp inhale, no bristling. Just stillness. His gaze drifted to the flames again.

“That’s fitting,” he murmured. “Feels like something’s been scooping me out one layer at a time.”

I nodded. “You said before that the curse comes in waves. That every few years, it pulls more from you. Nova called it cyclical. Stella thinks it’s tied to you not embracing your full self, your wolf nature. That resisting it, containing it, might be what’s making you vulnerable.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “That sounds like something Stella would say.”

“She also said you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”

He huffed a faint laugh, but it lacked humor. “Guilty.”

“I talked to Twobble and Skonk. And Karvey. They think this curse is different from the others, older. More parasitic than magical. One of those ancient mistakes kind of curses.” I paused, studying his face.

“They didn’t say it like that, of course.

Skonk used a metaphor involving moldy cheese and heartworms.”

His lips quirked. “Sounds like him.”

“But Twobble found something,” I pressed. “A book that spoke about curses passed down bloodlines through suppressed magic, especially in shifters who refuse their call or through ancient awakenings.”

Now I had his attention. His head turned, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You think I’ve refused something?” he asked.

“I think maybe you’ve been protecting yourself. And others. But maybe it’s come at a cost.”

He looked away again. The fire painted gold across his profile. “My father feared what I would become. He always said if I didn’t chain the wolf, it would take everything from me.”

“And your mother?”

“She disagreed. Quietly. But when they turned away, she didn’t stop him.”

Something heavy settled in my chest at the truth in his voice. “What if chaining it… is what’s hurting you?”

He didn’t answer for a long time. Just stared into the flames, like they might whisper back some kind of solution.

“It feels like there’s a weight on my chest every day. Like I’m carrying someone else’s bones inside mine.”

I reached out, letting my fingers brush his. “That’s why I came. Because I think there’s a way. That book Twobble found talks about rituals. Shifter rites. Ways to reclaim the parts you’ve hidden too long.”

He finally turned back to me. “And you believe it?”

I nodded. “I have to. Because if I don’t, we’re going to lose you piece by piece.”

He stared at me, and I could see the war inside him. Pride. Fear. Maybe even a little hope.

“I’m scared,” he said softly. “Not of the wolf. Of what I might remember if I let go.”

I squeezed his hand. “Then I’ll remember it with you.”

Another silence.

“You know,” he said after a moment, voice lighter, “if you keep saying things like that, I might start thinking you actually like me.”

I arched a brow. “Don’t get cocky.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

Now he looked over, slow and deliberate. Shadows curled beneath his eyes, but his gaze still caught mine like it always did, direct, unyielding, tender in that wild way of his.

“I was hoping you’d come.”

That disarmed me more than it should’ve.

“I brought tea,” I said lamely, lifting the tin flask from under my arm.

His lips tugged into something that might’ve been a smile. “You always bring tea.”

“The gargoyles are doing well. The goblins too.” I smiled. “Twobble ransacked the pantry.”

“That goblin should be outlawed from late-night snacks.”

“He said the cottage was too quiet. Claimed the sugar helped him hear better.”

Keegan’s chuckle came low. “That sounds about right.”

We sat in the hush of the room. The only sound was the wind pushing softly against the windows.

“It could be a generational tether or you took the curse meant for someone else.”

“Keegan,” I said gently. “Does any of that sound familiar?”

A long pause.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” I tilted toward him, searching his expression.

“There are… stories,” he said. “Old ones. About binding magic getting caught in the wrong place. Like catching a hook meant for someone else.”

My stomach tightened. “But you never said anything.”

“Because saying it out loud would make it real.”

I exhaled softly. “It is real. And it’s getting worse. You’re weaker than you were, even after healing. You didn’t even react when I told you half the town was shadowed.”

He turned to me, slowly. “I’m trying to stay upright, Maeve. That’s about all I’ve got left right now.”

The honesty in that undid me. I reached out and touched his hand. His fingers closed around mine like a reflex, like the act of holding on was instinctual.

“I’m scared for you,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know.”

“I found something else,” I added. “With my dad. When we were in the Academy, we walked through the halls together. We went to a place with answers.”

He nodded once, eyes on the floor.

“But there was something more. I found scrolls with Malore’s name. And a hidden record. It suggested that someone stepped between him and the curse long ago. Took something meant for him.”

Keegan froze.

It was subtle, a stillness in his breath, a flare in his eyes, but it was there. Recognition. Like a thread pulling tight.

“You know what that was, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer.

I leaned in closer. “You’ve always known.”

He stood up abruptly, paced toward the window, his broad back tense with silence.

“I need to know,” I said, rising. “You’ve never told me who saved us that night. The night the Wards started to fall. The silver wolf. The one who drove off Gideon.”

He kept his back to me.

I pressed forward. “You keep avoiding it. But I need to know who that was. Please.”

Still, no answer. The silence roared louder than any storm.

And that’s when I knew.

Whatever it was… whoever it was… he wasn’t ready to say it. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe it hurt too much, or it wasn’t his secret to share.

But that recognition? That flash of grief in his eyes?

That told me enough for tonight.

I stepped behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. He didn’t move for a beat. Then his hands came down over mine, grounding me in the space between us.

The sky outside cracked with a low rumble, not thunder exactly, but something close.

“I don’t need the answer tonight,” I whispered. “But I’ll keep asking. Because whatever this is, we’re in it together.”

He turned in my arms, gaze unreadable, but not closed off.

Then he leaned down, pressed his forehead to mine, and stayed there.

No magic. No declarations.

Just breath and heartbeats.

And the quiet knowing that some truths can’t be forced. They bloom when they’re ready. And this one, I could wait for.

As long as it took.