Chapter 1: The Heat

The first thing you notice about Rankin Street is that the air doesn't just sit; it leans on you.

It is four in the afternoon on a Tuesday in July, and the humidity is a physical weight, a wet wool blanket draped over the neighborhood. The cicadas are screaming in the oak trees, a saw-blade drone that vibrates in your teeth. You are standing on your front porch, holding a cup of tea that is sweating faster than you are, trying very hard to look like someone who belongs here.

You don't.

You know this. The neighborhood knows this. The stray tabby cat currently licking its paw on your railing knows this—though that might be because you accidentally fed it a piece of salmon that had been enchanted to taste like ambrosia last week, and now it wants some every time you walk out the door.

"Stop it," you whisper to the cat.

The cat blinks, slowly, reverently.

You look across the street. The houses here are old, sturdy things—craftsman bungalows with peeling paint and simple porches, built back when lumber was plenty and insulation was a myth. They sit close together, shoulder to shoulder, sharing gossip and shade.

Directly opposite you, on the porch of number 412, sits Miss Etta.

She is the unofficial mayor, judge, and executioner of Rankin Street. She is currently shelling peas into a metal bowl, the rhythm steady as a metronome. She is watching you. She is always watching you.

You raise your glass in a weak salute. "Afternoon, Miss Etta."

She pauses. Her glasses catch the sun, turning her eyes into blank mirrors. "It's hot, baby," she calls out. Her voice is rich and carries easily over the sound of the cicadas.

"Yes, ma'am," you say. "It is."

"Your grass is looking mighty green," she says. “Before you — Old Al only got weeds to grow in that yard — and he lived there for thirty odd years.”

You freeze. You look down at your lawn. It is lush, emerald, and offensively healthy compared to the sun-scorched yellow patches of the neighbors' yards. You haven't watered it in a months. You just... prefer it green, and the soil obeys.

"Fertilizer," you lie. "Special blend."

"Mmm-hmm," she says. She goes back to shelling peas. She doesn't believe you. She thinks you're up to something—drugs, crypto scams, maybe, or illicit botany. If only it were that simple.

To your left, the sound of metal on metal clangs. Marcus is under the hood of his Dodge RAM again. Marcus is a contractor, of sorts, who believes in two things: percussion maintenance and the inherent suspiciousness of men who don't work with their hands.

He slides out from under the truck on a mechanic's creeper, wiping grease on a rag. He squints at you. You are wearing khaki shorts and a linen shirt that cost more than your first wand.

"You workin' tonight?" Marcus asks.

"Yes," you say. "Night shift."

"Security," he says, testing the word like a bad tire. He can't reconcile your soft hands with the job title. "You catch any bad guys at the nursing home yet?"

"Mostly just raccoons, occasional opossum" you say. "And Mrs. Gable, her gentle slide into dementia has been anything but."

Marcus chuckles, a dry sound. "Alright then. Keep 'em safe."

He slides back under the truck. You exhale. You have passed the inspection for another day.

You retreat inside your house, shutting the door against the oppressive heat. The silence of the interior washes over you. The air conditioning is broken—the compressor died three days ago—but your house is a cool, crisp sixty-eight degrees.

You walk to the thermostat and tap the plastic casing. A small rune, invisible to the naked eye, glows faint blue on the wall behind it. A Frost Ward. It’s a simple piece of work, something you learned in your first year as an apprentice, but holding it requires a constant, low-level drain on your focus. It’s like humming a tune in the back of your mind that never ends.

You walk to the kitchen. The linoleum is peeling, and the faucet drips with a rhythm that syncs with your heartbeat. You love this house. You love the way the floorboards creak in F-sharp. You love that it sits directly on top of a minor ley line, a vein of earth-power that runs deep beneath the asphalt of Rankin Street. It tastes like iron and old rain.

It’s why you moved here. That, and the anonymity.

In the Magical Community—a term you hate, because it implies potlucks and newsletters rather than cabals and blood-oaths—you are known as Alistair the Unbound, a prodigy who burned out, broke the Council's laws on interference, and vanished.

Here, you are just the pale guy in 409 who drives a Honda Civic and buys too much cat food.

You check your watch. 5:30 PM.

You have four hours before your shift at The Gilded Magnolias. Four hours to study the crumbling scroll you stole from the Archives in 1998. Four hours to reinforce the wards on the windows. Four hours to pretend that you are safe.

You open the fridge to get the ham for your sandwich. As you reach for the mustard, the hair on your arms stands up. A prickle of static electricity snaps against your fingertips.

You stop.

You close your eyes and extend your senses, pushing your awareness out through the wood and plaster of the house, out into the yard.

Nothing. Just the heat. Just the cicadas. Just the heavy, rolling energy of the storm brewing off the coast.

But for a second, you could have sworn the house shivered.

You shake it off. Paranoia is an occupational hazard. You make your sandwich. You pack your thermos. You put on your polyester uniform, the fabric scratching your neck.