Page 21 of Strings Attached
I should say no to Rachel. Should head home and lose myself to the complex harmonies we’ve been building together for months. Should be the responsible artist he needs.
Dean looks up from where he’s still speaking with Emma as she packs up her violin. Something in his gaze makes my breath catch—like he sees past all my carefully constructed walls to the messy truth beneath. To the part that’s tired of being perfect, that wants to choose joy over obligation just once.
I smile at Rachel and shrug, as if my heart isn’t racing, as if this isn’t another minor act of rebellion against the life I’m supposed to want. “Sure, that sounds great.”
The compositions can wait another day. After all, some of the best music comes from the space between the notes—the moments that allow for a breath.
Jules would hate that kind of thinking. But watching Dean help Emma to her feet, seeing the way his stern expression softens when she hugs him impulsively, I’m starting to wonder if that’s exactly why I need to think it.
Dean
Weather, like magic, can shift without warning.
A few hours ago, the sun warmed pumpkins on hay bales and kids licked cider popsicles in the park. Now lightning splits the sky, illuminating the chaos below. Palm fronds and Spanish moss whip through the air, while thunder growls warnings across Magnolia Cove’s darkened streets. I raise my voice above the storm’s fury.
“Reinforce the residential wards first. Standard emergency protocols.”
Gerald nods, rainwater streaming from his hood. “There’s rotation in those clouds. We could be looking at a tornado.”
“Then we need the wards stronger than ever.” I scan the gathering darkness, marking each council member’s position. “Take your usual sections. I’ll handle the nexus points.”
“Grammie Rae was out earlier,” Sarah calls over a rising gust. “Trying to save the Hoopla decorations.”
Of course she was. I press fingers to my temples, fighting the urge to grind my teeth. Keeping magical beings alive is like trying to wrangle toddlers with boundless curiosity but no sense of self-preservation. “Get everyone secured in their homes.We’ll need to channel most of the wards’ magic into protecting residential areas tonight. We’ll deal with cleanup tomorrow.”
“But the Hoopla?—”
“Has survived sixty-three years of storms.” I cut off Cordelia’s protest. “And we still have three weeks until it’s time. The wards are secure there. Even if we need to replace a few pumpkins, it’ll survive. This won’t be the year we miss.”
The group scatters into the tempest, leaving me to tackle the most complex ward lines. They pulse beneath the island’s surface like arteries of pure magic. And lately, they seem to resonate with a certain cellist’s music.
I shove that thought aside and push through the whipping winds. Mom’s protection sweater helps, the magic she knitted into each stitch humming against my skin. But something feels… off. The wards aren’t just straining against the storm. They’re fluctuating, rippling in a pattern I’ve never felt before.
Following the disturbance takes me down debris-littered paths toward the music performance hall. Tree branches scrape against my jacket, leaving scratches despite the protective magic. But beneath the storm’s rage, I hear it—cello music, as rich and haunting as a midnight confession.
I wrench the door open against the wind. It pulls like it’s going to yank my shoulder out of its socket. Missy sits bathed in silver moonlight, hair braided over one shoulder, completely lost in whatever she’s playing. Her head snaps up at my entrance. “Dean?”
I haul the door closed behind me with a full-body yank. The lock clicks into place—and just like that, the storm's fury is muffled to a dull, distant roar. The sudden quiet is jarring.
“What are you doing out here in this storm?” The words come out harsher than intended, rough and crazed with a fear I’m not ready to examine.
She looks to the windows then color floods her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten. When I can’t sleep, I play and I didn’t want to wake Alex and Ethan. I didn’t realize…” She trails off, her elegant fingers sliding down Giuseppe’s strings.
“You could get hurt.” The raw honesty in my voice has me taking a step back. Missy raises her face at that and her expression softens into something unreadable. There’s a vulnerability in her gaze, a quiet understanding that hits me harder than I expect. The tension between us lingers, thick and charged, but she doesn’t say a word.
A violent gust rattles the windows. Magic crackles through the air like static and the wards vibrate as they strain against nature’s fury. I wince. “Power’s flickering. I should check it.”
That’s when she speaks, and her voice comes out haunted, echoing against the high ceilings. “There’s no power in here right now, Dean.”
I freeze, my hand caught on the doorknob. She’s right—the studio lies in darkness save for the storm-wracked moonlight spilling through the windows. A rookie mistake born of exhaustion and distraction.
Her eyes find mine, questions glistening across them. “That’s not what you really do here. Check power, babysit musical teens, fill out forms? That’s not your actual job, is it?”
Thunder punctuates the loaded silence between us. For once, I answer with truth instead of deflection. “No, it isn’t.” My voice roughens. “Let me check something. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Outside, I pour everything I have into reinforcing the wards, ones that stretch halfway across the island. Wind batters me as I brace against it. I can feel the pull of the magic, a deep, steady hum beneath the surface of everything. Each breath is a steady push as I layer the wards one by one, like building a wall brick bybrick. The magic resists at first, pulling back and falling into step with the storm’s erratic rhythm. But I force it, bending it to my will, snapping it into place and tightening the edges with brutal precision.
By the time I stagger back inside, the world spins at the edges of my vision.
