Page 5 of Magical Mirage (Stonewick Magical Midlife Witch Academy #6)

I could sit on the kitchen floor all night listening for another rumble from the roof, but dread without action curdled into useless terror.

And I would not give him that satisfaction. It was kind of like my ex. I refused to sit curled up in a corner, wondering who else he was sleeping with once I realized it certainly wasn’t me.

So I rose, wrapped the cooling mug in both hands, and carried it to the sitting room. Books lined every wall, with the shelves sagging from decades of collecting far before me.

Some volumes still smelled of Nova’s store, ink, incense, and rosemary, while others hummed faintly, unwilling to sleep even closed as if they’d been borrowed from the Academy itself.

I set the mug down, drew a breath, and braced myself for the avalanche.

“All right, you lot,” I muttered. “One of you is going to tell me why shifters would devour, destroy, and cast aside their own because I just don’t get it.”

I started with the top shelf that appeared to be books on clan treaties, moon cycles, and metamorphosis ethics. Leather bindings slid against each other as I tugged out a brittle copy of Lunaris and the Law of Iron Blood .

I scanned the pages quickly and saw nothing about exile except cryptic footnotes. Onto the heap it went. Pack Psalms of the Seventh Century followed, then Moon-Bent Maladies .

Each text thudded to the carpet in a growing tower, my frustration mounting with the pile. Sure, there were ordinary tidbits about clan etiquette, but nothing that covered the dark side of shifting.

Between volumes, the cottage creaked normally, yet every noise pricked my nerves. Karvey’s wings rasped once in a short arc, then stilled. No alarm, only vigilance. Good.

Miora went back to tending the cottage in the way only she knew how while I kept digging.

My father had been cast out young, that much Grandma Elira had revealed.

Keegan also bore the weight of a curse based in shadows.

Gideon, a mage born from shadows, bent darkness as easily as breath.

And Malore himself… a hammer searching for a nail, crushing anything that hinted of disobedience or rebellion.

Four players, four broken paths, but there had to be a single root.

A thin green booklet wedged between atlases snagged my sleeve. Pack Governance and Discipline: Revised Edition. The spine cracked, revealing delicate script. I scanned headings until one phrase halted my racing thoughts.

Shifter Maelstrom Rite: The Devouring of the Weak. My stomach flipped.

The rite in front of me demanded expulsion, sometimes lethal, of any wolf who disrupted a blood-bonded hierarchy. Violations included refusal to shift, weakness, forbidden alliances… or carrying magic that threatened an alpha’s control. My stomach knotted in disgust.

Keegan hated shifting the moment he saw his clan turn their backs on this village. That was more alpha than anything I could imagine.

My dad would never bow down to Malore’s hierarchy, and he was viewed as being weak for his differences.

My pulse hammered. But was that why Malore hunted? Because my dad and Keegan carried a spark that resisted submission, while Gideon wanted every power for himself and was easily manipulated by merely dangling whatever it was he wanted in front of him?

My dad and Keegan couldn’t be manipulated.

But I was a Hedge witch still learning my magic. I hadn’t resisted anything. I was just…me.

I turned pages until a marginal note stopped me cold, half-erased and cramped in unfamiliar handwriting.

Bane to the Maelstrom lies in the one who walks both hearth and hedge. Blood from the wolf, heart of the tree, and fire from the then and now. When that witch rises, the devouring breaks.

Blood from the wolf, heart of the tree. My gaze darted to the window, to the line of pines hemming the cottage.

My father’s blood ran in my veins, as did Malore’s. Yet, I was not a shifter.

I swayed and attempted to steady myself. But I also carried my mother’s blood. What part did she play? If the note was prophecy, then Malore’s fear wasn’t misdirected rage. He believed I could unravel his entire rule.

But prophecy or not, I still lacked the how.

And I didn’t even understand what he was ruling. Was he part of Shadowick or something bigger, darker?

I dropped the booklet on the heap and reached for the shelf above eye level, fingers brushing a book that thrummed like a suppressed drumbeat.

The cover was deep black, etched with a silver knot no artist of this age would replicate.

Oaths We Carve in Bone.

I lifted it carefully.

The pages were tissue-thin and smelled of cedar and iron. The text changed under my gaze with old magic glimmering through false letters until runes rearranged into comprehension.

Chapter Seven read The Sundering of Kin . Ink bled into a diagram of four intertwined names.

· Malore —Alpha, Devourer

· Alaric —Unruly, Broken Fang

· Keegan —Cursed Heir, Unbound Oath

· Gideon —Shadow Claimed, Truth Seeker

And beneath, a blank line pulsed twice before letters unfurled in shimmering gold.

· Maeve— Hearth-Bound & Hedge-Bearer

I choked on a breath.

The book knew me, knew all of us.

Or the magic within it did. Goosebumps rippled over my arms as the diagram splintered, branches snapping outward to show each relationship.

Malore’s line struck through my father, marking him Broken Fang. From there, two threads bound Keegan and Gideon, separate yet identical curses tangled around their names like thorns.

I froze…what did this book know?

Why were these two so intertwined?

My name formed a fifth branch from my dad, but it was woven differently and wrapped in leaves, not barbs. The script below read,

When wolf devours wolf, the Hedge will choose a hand to mend the wound or burn the root. Balance demands it.

Mend or burn. Two paths. No instructions.

I wanted to pretend I knew what it meant, but I didn’t. From the moment I arrived in Stonewick, I’d struggled with the riddles and half-stories, and this was no different.

I skimmed farther, flipping pages in quickening panic. Most chapters were histories of other families, other blood rites. But deep near the back, penned in fresh ink a decade or two old, an annotation in clear handwriting caught my eye.

If Malore rises again, gather the four under Hedge and flame. Only then will the devouring end. —E.

Could it be Elira? My grandmother had known this moment would come, and she had left me breadcrumbs in a book few would touch. But how did the book get here? She’d been trapped in the Academy walls for decades.

Gather the four. Under Hedge and flame…Hedge magic and maybe the Flame Ward, the one still weakest around Stonewick.

Keegan. My dad. Me…and Gideon?

But why Gideon?

Something hot and alive fluttered in my chest.

Purpose.

Whenever it fluttered to life, it felt like we better buckle in, and this was no different.

A crash rattled the roof. I startled, clutching the book. Gargoyle talons raked slate in a frenzy. A shriek cut through the night.

I raced to the fireplace with the book pressed to my heart. Shadows danced madly as embers burst. Sparks twisted up the flue like distress beacons.

This wasn’t good.

Outside, a roar shook glass. The front window shook in its frame. I darted to peer through the wavering reflection.

Malore again but closer.

No longer concealed, golden eyes blazed directly at me from the woods down the path. Malore’s enormous form crouched at the border stones, with his muscles coiled, and saliva gleaming on ivory fangs.

Behind him, the pines writhed, though no wind blew.

His gaze fell to the book and then back to mine.

Stone wings thundered overhead as Karvey dove. But Malore didn’t flinch. He stared straight into my soul and snarled, a sound like fissures opening in bedrock. The glass bowed inward with the force, a spiderweb of cracks lancing across the pane.

He didn’t look at me like his granddaughter. He looked at me like another obstacle in his way…but to where?

Had the curse been merely a distraction? I highly doubted Gideon knew that.

I backed away, breath shuddering, clutching Oaths We Carve in Bone . My fingers found the wand in my back pocket, and I realized with calm terror that tonight would not end with research.

To mend the wound or burn the root, I had to draw the others together…and survive long enough to do so. It wouldn’t be tonight.

Tonight, I just needed to survive.

Malore lunged, splinters flew, gargoyles screamed, and the window exploded inward in a storm of shattered moonlight and glass.

Malore burst through the frame like a midnight avalanche, black pelt slick with rain that hadn’t yet reached the ground.

His bulk filled the room. The scent of wet earth and iron flooded my lungs.

I threw myself sideways, knees slamming the floorboards, while Karvey arrowed from the rafters and met the wolf mid-air.

Stone claws raked fur. Fur yielded but did not bleed, as though night itself armored Malore’s hide.

The crash jolted the cottage on its foundation. Books cascaded from the shelves in a ragged waterfall, atlases, herbals, and grimoires, spines cracking, pages scattering like frightened doves.

I scrambled through the paper storm, shielding Oaths We Carve in Bone under my tunic. The diagram page remained, glowing faintly as if it understood its importance.

Karvey’s comrades, Flanky, Squatty, and Horny, followed with their talons slamming into Malore’s flanks. Granite screeched against invisible spells that flickered around the wolf like haze.

Malore only snarled and twisted, jaws snapping, with fangs long as carving knives.

One gargoyle caught a bite to the wing. His stone fractured with a sound like distant cannon fire, and billowing dust wrapped around him.

The wounded guardian dropped, shattering the edge of the hearth. Sparks leapt to the curtains.

Miora appeared behind me without a sound. “I will not have this again.”