Page 4 of Strings Attached
Feel the weight of it in my hand.
A dozen magical crises happened just last month, and I didn’t hesitate a beat. Wielding enough magic that I cause most people—humans and magical types alike—to veer away from me? Standard Monday. Helping infuse the heavy wards required to keep the magic in a tourist destination like Magnolia Cove under wraps? Piece of cake. Dealing with shifters or warlocks who lose control of their magic? Nothing a massage won’t fix.
But one letter from my sister and I might as well be nineteen again. Breaking my sister’s heart. Making a choice that wouldsplit our family and cause me to leave home forever and move to Magnolia Cove.
Sitting here in this office, I’m ignoring a dozen magical inquiries, half a dozen wards that need inspection, a lunch meeting about the Harvest Hoopla, and—because the universe has a sense of humor—a request to approve another human for long-term residency. Another Sinclair sister. Perfect. Because what this town really needs is one more human who sees too much.
I reach for the medallion I’ve carried since graduating from Calthorne—one of the few magical universities that actually matters. The crest is worn smooth, but the weight is the same. It’s a reminder of everything it took to shoulder this kind of responsibility. Enough power to hold a town’s wards steady. Enough training to manage its magic safely. Enough control to do it without burning everything down. I’ve gone hand to… well, paw with werewolves and bear shifters and didn’t blink. But I can’t bring myself to open this damn envelope.
It’s now one of the two personal items in the room. The other is a picture I never look at. Otherwise I keep my office sparse. Nothing hangs on the marbled emerald and ebony walls. The recessed bookshelves hold all the standard magical law texts—The Codex Arcanum,The Charter of the Council, andBinding Principles of Magic. There’s a dusty set of various years’ copies of The Mage’s Code of Conduct. My ledger—heavily warded—and my Parker Duofold Centennial fountain pen sit on the desk’s polished wood.
And now the letter.
Which I can’t force myself to open.
A set of heavy knocks on the door pull me out of my stupor. “It’s open,” I say as I stand and shove the envelope into my leather jacket’s inside pocket.
Eleanor pokes her head inside, the wrinkles at her eyes more pronounced than normal. As head of the local council—and my second in command—she doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Dean, we have a problem.”
Of course we do.
We always have a problem.
I bob my head and follow her out.
The crowd outside Petal Pushers is dense. Eleanor and I make our way up Main Street and its perfectly maintained cobblestone road. Oaks draped in Spanish moss and Magnolia trees stretch overhead, casting the entire downtown in cool, dappled shade. The crowd parts before us—mostly tourists, phones raised high, capturing what they think is some quaint small-town attraction.
If only they knew.
Mums and marigolds pirouette in their ceramic pots, showering the air with sparkly golden pollen that catches the dappled sunlight filtering through leaves. The display would be almost beautiful if it weren’t so dangerous. Magic ripples through the air, making my teeth ache.
My fellow council members—all powerful witches and warlocks—already work the crowd. There are seven of us total, appointed by the National Council after the usual trials and tests. I’m Head Warlock here—part political figure, part magical janitor. Depends on the day. I catch Gerald’s eye and he nods, understanding my silent command. Start with the phones. Then the memories. Gentle touches only. Memory magic leaves scars if one isn’t careful.
“Can we book this for my daughter’s wedding?” A tourist has cornered Iris, the shop’s owner who stands against the wall likethe woman in her beach cover up is wielding a weapon instead of a question. “Is there a waiting list?”
I resist the urge to clench my fists as I step beside them. “It’s experimental technology. Not available for private events.”
I reach out with my magic. Gentle. Careful. Find the edges of the last ten minutes and blur them softly, like morning mist rolling over the sea. Her pupils dilate as the magic takes hold. The wonder in her eyes fades and she furrows her brow.
“I’m sorry.” She blinks then looks around. “What was I asking about?”
“The Harvest Hoopla,” I lie smoothly. “It’s our big fall festival in a few weeks. Plenty of local vendors will be there.”
She nods and drifts away, already forgetting our conversation. I watch her go, tasting mint and regret on my tongue—the lingering almost painfully spicy signature of memory magic that will grow until it burns my sinuses and causes my eyes to water. I’ve always hated memory magic, the physical discomfort of using it being the least reason.
Most magic has limits, but not consequences. Infusing comfort into baked goods or small protection wards all hum along harmlessly, like a current that knows its path.
But high-level magic like the kind I wield always comes with a cost. It wears you down—in your bones, in your thoughts, in the way you sleep at night. The greater the spell, the more it takes.
And very few people are built to handle it. Not just magically, but mentally. Emotionally. There’s a reason most burn out early or lose themselves along the way. To wield this kind of power and stay intact takes discipline. Distance.
“Dean,” Iris breathes. She’s shaking so much her ivory hair trembles and she clutches her arms around herself. “I didn’t know. The performance was supposed to be simple… just a few students and?—”
“Everything’s under control.” I keep my voice level despite the headache building behind my eyes. “Your shop’s reputation won’t suffer; we’ll make sure of it. Everything will be back to normal in a few hours.”
“But the tourists?—”
“Won’t remember anything unusual.” I soften my tone. A few years back when someone accidentally turned all her roses neon green she’d cried. “We’ll handle it.”
