Page 22 of Magical Mirage (Stonewick Magical Midlife Witch Academy #6)

Morning in Keegan’s bedroom was different from anywhere else in Stonewick. It was quieter, somehow, and full of peace.

Keegan was still stretched out beside me, shirt half-buttoned, one arm draped over his middle. His breathing was even, but I could tell he wasn’t really asleep. The little crease at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

“You’re thinking too loud,” I murmured, rolling onto my side to face him.

His hazel eyes cracked open, gold catching the first thin strands of daylight coming through the curtains. “Am I?”

“Mm-hmm.” I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “And since you’re awake, I might as well ask, do you have any family history books? Records? Anything that might help me understand what we’re dealing with?”

“No good morning?” He laughed.

“Sorry. Good morning.” I beamed, moving closer to him.

“Hmm. Family history?” he echoed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You mean the tragic ballad of the Oath-Renounced shifter?”

I nudged his shoulder with mine. “I mean, if there’s a page or two in your possession that might point to why a certain someone has a curse trying to eat him alive, that’d be nice to see.”

“And I’m that certain someone?” He gave me a lazy smile, the kind that had no right to work this early in the morning.

“Last I checked.”

“Beats me, Maeve. But if you want to rummage through my things, you’re welcome to.”

I arched a brow, pretending to be scandalized. “So you have nothing to hide?”

He chuckled, voice low.

“Not from you.” Then, with a smirk that made my pulse trip, “But if you find my old journals from when I was eighteen, we’ll both pretend you didn’t.”

I grinned and pushed the blankets back. “Now I have to find them.”

“All hormones, no sense,” he grumbled, and I couldn’t hide my laughter.

A part of me wondered if there would ever be a time when a morning like this was an everyday occurrence, but without us trying to break a curse or hunt down its origins. I glanced at Keegan, and my chest tightened. The exhaustion was hard for him to hide.

The floor was cool under my bare feet as I padded out of his bedroom.

His family room was down the hall, and the moment I walked into the room, the air smelled of cedar and old paper.

Books lined every wall, interspersed with framed photographs of people I didn’t recognize.

A few were obviously old, black-and-white images of gatherings that could have been town events or clan meetings.

Others were newer and in some, I imagined Gideon or Malore lurking at the edge, though none of the faces had that exact sharpness I’d spot in a heartbeat.

I pulled one of the books from the shelf nearest the window.

Shifting Through the Ages: A Clan’s Journey.

The leather binding creaked as I opened it, the pages filled with neat script and the occasional ink illustration of wolves in various stances.

It was interesting, but most of it was general history, with no mention of curses or family members vanishing into shadows.

The next book was thinner, bound in deep blue cloth: Bloodlines of the Northern Packs.

I skimmed through names and dates, tracing my finger over family trees that branched and tangled like wild vines.

Keegan’s name appeared only once, in a faint pencil note next to “Oath-Renounced.” The line stopped there, as though whoever had compiled it decided his story wasn’t worth continuing, and then I realized it was Keegan’s own handwriting.

My heart pulled as I set it aside and reached for another.

Moon Phases and the Shifter’s Heart. This one was less formal, more like a journal.

Notes about shifting cycles, hunting patterns, and rituals filled the pages.

The handwriting was hurried, the ink smudged in places, but one line caught my attention: A wolf who resists the call feeds a hunger not his own.

The words made something cold slide through me.

I tucked the book under my arm to bring back to Keegan.

In the corner of the room, a small writing desk sat beneath the window. Its drawers were partly open, papers and letters spilling out as though someone had been interrupted mid-search. I was reaching for one when a muffled thump echoed from down the hall.

I straightened, heart ticking up a notch. A softer sound followed like someone knocking, but not at the front door.

“Expecting someone?” I asked as he walked down the hall.

“No.”

He opened the door, and there stood Twobble.

He was bent over with his hands on his knees, panting like he’d sprinted all the way from the cottage. His cheeks were flushed a shade that matched his vest, and crumbs clung to the corner of his mouth.

“You,” he wheezed, pointing at Keegan, then me. “You need…” He stopped to suck in air, then straightened. “You need to come with me right now.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, already bracing myself. I set the book down.

Twobble’s eyes were wide, brighter than usual. “No time to explain. You’ll see soon enough. But we have to move. Now.”

The front door swung open to the mild chill of early morning. Even in the summer, Stonewick had a way of making mornings crisp and evenings cool.

Twobble set off at a brisk pace, his short legs moving surprisingly fast.

“Keep up,” he called over his shoulder, voice still a little breathless but laced with that giddy urgency he got whenever something was about to happen.

Keegan was matching him stride for stride, and though his expression was unreadable, I couldn’t help but notice the tension in his shoulders and the faint pull in his breath. It was subtle, but it was there.

We cut through the narrow lane in front of Luna’s knitting shop, where skeins of yarn still hung in the windows like frozen rainbows. The door was shut, but the smell of lanolin and lavender drifted faintly into the cool air from a basket left out front.

Lantern light spilled from the windows of the tea shop, and I caught a glimpse of Stella moving behind the counter, her silhouette unmistakable. She glanced toward us as we passed, but Twobble was already waving her off without slowing.

“What is this about?” I asked, stepping over a puddle as we crossed into the cobbled square.

“You’ll see,” Twobble said again, which was both infuriating and oddly reassuring. Twobble only repeated himself like that when he was either very sure or very wrong, and his posture told me this was the first one.

We wound past the bakery, the scent of rising bread almost strong enough to make me forget the chill in my bones. A cat darted across our path, vanishing into an alley like it had never been there.

Keegan’s pace hadn’t slowed, but I found myself watching him more than the path ahead.

His face was calm, but there was a paleness at his jawline that hadn’t been there earlier.

Every few steps, his hand brushed mine, not by accident, I thought, but because he wanted the contact.

That silent reassurance that I was beside him.

“You all right?” I murmured.

“Fine,” he said, but didn’t meet my eyes.

The village shifted as we left the square, the buildings giving way to the older part of town, where the cobbles gave way to packed earth and moss-covered stone fences. Here, the morning dew was thicker still.

Twobble slowed just enough to glance back at us, his grin sharp with anticipation. “Almost there.”

I caught Keegan’s eye, arching a brow, but he just gave a small shrug that said he was as in the dark as I was.

The path narrowed, hemmed in by old stone walls on either side. Above, the trees leaned in close, and their branches rattled softly in the breeze. The sound was faint, but it carried through the stillness like the whisper of something waiting.

If I didn’t know better, we were headed in the direction of the cottage.

We came to a bend in the path where the old wall dipped, and Twobble stopped abruptly. His head tilted, listening, before he turned to face us.

“From here on,” he said, “quiet steps.”

Keegan’s gaze sharpened. “Why?”

Twobble’s grin faded just slightly. “Because I’m not entirely sure they can’t hear us.”

They.

The word hung between us like a dropped stone. I felt Keegan’s arm brush mine again, heavier this time, deliberate.

We moved forward, the world narrowing to the sound of our footsteps on the damp earth and the occasional drip of water from the branches overhead. Dew drops caught the light in strange ways, flickering with hints of pale green and silver that vanished if you looked at them directly.

Somewhere ahead, I thought I saw movement, just a flicker.

Twobble stopped again, one hand raised. He leaned toward us, his voice low. “There.”

Keegan and I stepped up beside him, and for a moment I saw nothing but limbs and leaves, and the faint shape of the old Flame Ward marker stone, its surface slick with moss. Then, in the space between one breath and the next, the mist shifted, and something was there .

It was tall, dark, its outline barely distinct from the fog. Not a solid figure, but not entirely formless either, like it hadn’t decided what shape it wanted to take. And though it didn’t move toward us, I felt the weight of its attention settle over the path like a heavy cloak.

I didn’t realize I’d reached for Keegan until his hand closed around mine, strong and warm despite the damp chill.

Twobble leaned closer to me, his voice barely more than a breath. “That’s not what I came to get you for.”

The thing in the mist shifted again, as though the fog itself was breathing.

“Wait. What?” I glanced at Twobble.

“Nope. That’s new.” He shook his head. “Always something to keep me on my toes.”

“Let’s not get too close,” Keegan murmured, his voice steady.

“No argument here,” I said, though my eyes stayed fixed on that strange shape, my mind turning over every scrap of what I’d read, what I’d heard from Stella, from my dad, from the Wards themselves.

It didn’t feel like the shadow creepers or anything like what I’d felt in the Veil.

The fog thickened for a moment, swallowing the figure entirely, and thinned again, revealing nothing but the empty path.

Twobble’s shoulders slumped, the tension easing from his frame. “Well. That’s new.”

I glanced at him. “New as in good, or new as in we’re about to regret coming here without backup?”

He grinned faintly. “Guess we’ll find out.”