Chapter 7

  The candle sat untouched. I exhaled slowly, centering myself.

  Outside, the first pale light of dawn crept through the edges of my curtains, casting long, faint shadows across my cluttered desk. The world beyond my window was silent, caught in that liminal space between late night and early morning—too late for the stragglers of Saturday night, too early for the stirrings of Sunday. The perfect time for this.

  Still. Quiet. A moment where the world felt thin, where things beneath the surface felt closer.

  My desk was a mess—books open, notes scattered, pages filled with half-scribbled incantations and corrections. I'd spent the last hour preparing, flipping between sources, cross-referencing old texts, making sure everything was right this time. No rush. No desperation. No wildfire burning under my skin.

  Just me. In control.

  The pentagram pendant rested cool against my chest, a stark contrast to the warmth that curled beneath my fingertips as I hovered my hand over the unlit candle. Beyond the window, the first birds stirred, their songs hesitant, like they weren't quite ready to break the quiet. The sky remained a muted slate gray, tinged with the faintest blush of morning.

  I breathed in, steady, then let the words flow.

  "Ignis, lux, voluntate mea, Ex tenebris lucem crea."

  Fire, light, by my will, from darkness, create illumination.

  The Latin rolled off my tongue smoothly, rhythmic, deliberate. At first, nothing happened. Then—

  A spark. A single ember caught at the wick, a flicker of heat curling into existence. It stretched, brightened—then bloomed into a steady, small flame.

  I let out the breath I'd been holding. It worked.

  But it felt... different.

  No rush. No wild, burning pulse racing through my veins. Just warmth. Steady, controlled, predictable. My fingers twitched, the pentagram pressing cold against my skin. My thoughts drifted back to the alley—the heat that had poured through me like liquid fire, the way the magic had answered without hesitation, without restraint.

  That magic had been alive.

  This?

  This was a candle.

  My jaw tightened. This was supposed to be better. Safer. The right way. But instead of satisfaction, something gnawed at the edges of my mind. I hadn't realized how much I'd felt it until it was gone—that pulse of energy, that raw connection, the way the magic had surged through me without hesitation, without limitation.

  And now? Now it was like trying to drink from a faucet after tasting a fresh spring.

  My hand trembled slightly. Was this what Giles had meant?

  Magic had always been treated like a drug in the show. Power had a price. Willow's descent, Rack's magic dens, the warnings about addiction. I had always assumed it was a metaphor—cautionary tales wrapped in supernatural drama.

  But what if it wasn't?

  What if they were right?

  And what if I already understood it in a way I shouldn't?

  The flame wavered.

  I exhaled sharply and snapped my fingers.

  The light snuffed out. Smoke curled in the air, tendrils drifting toward the ceiling, dissipating into nothing.

  I sat back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my face. This was fine. Controlled magic was good magic. What happened in the alley had been a fluke—born from adrenaline and necessity. A last resort, not a method.

  But the thought lingered, curling like that last wisp of smoke.

  A knock at the door shattered it.

  I barely had time to react before the handle turned. Too soon, too fast. Shit.

  Books, papers, loose notes—the aftermath of the morning's spellwork lay scattered across my desk like evidence of a crime. I moved faster than I thought possible. By the time the door creaked open, the mess was gone—shoved into a drawer, the necklace tucked beneath my shirt. Nothing to see here. Just a normal, well-adjusted teenager definitely not dabbling in things he shouldn't.

  "Rise and shine, champ."

  My father wasn't in his usual suit, but a crisp polo tucked into perfectly pressed slacks, a Sunnydale Country Club cap in hand.

  I straightened up in my chair, schooling my face into something pleasant and unbothered.

  "Morning, Dad," I said, voice light, casual. Like I hadn't been awake for hours, messing with forces I barely understood. Like I hadn't spent half the night thinking about how close I'd come to dying. Like I hadn't just shoved an entire crime scene of spellwork into my desk drawer.

  My father gave me an appraising look, the kind that always felt like he was looking past me, like he already knew whatever answer I was about to give. He smiled.

  "Glad to see you're up bright and early," he said, stepping into the room like he owned it. Which, technically, he did. "Always good to start the day with some productivity."

  I fought the urge to glance at my desk drawer. "Something like that."

  He chuckled, but there was something knowing in his eyes. It put me on edge.

  My father wasn't the type to ask questions he didn't already know the answers to.

  That's what made it worse.

  But if he had any suspicions, he didn't voice them. Instead, he clapped a hand on my shoulder—a gesture that was both affectionate and just firm enough to make a point. I didn't react; the painkillers had already dulled the worst of it.

  "Get dressed, kiddo," he said, his voice easy, pleasant. "We've got a golf game to get to."

  I blinked. "A what now?"

  He grinned. "Golf, son. Eighteen holes. A bit of fresh air. Good company." He gestured loosely, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

  A slow, sinking feeling settled into my stomach. Of course.

  My brain stalled, scrambling for a way out. "Uh, I don't golf."

  His grin widened, sharp at the edges. "Oh, you don't have to play, sport. Just have to be present. Good men, good conversation. A great opportunity for you."

  Which meant networking. Schmoozing. Probably with people who had way too much money and way too little concern for things like ethics. The same men who made sure things in Sunnydale ran smoothly, or at least ran his way.

  I forced a smile. "Sounds... fantastic."

  He chuckled, already turning for the door. "Meet me downstairs in twenty. We'll take the car."

  And just like that, my peaceful Sunday morning was over.

  I waited until I heard his footsteps retreat down the hall before I let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down my face. Golf. With my father. And his inner circle of well-dressed, well-connected bureaucratic vultures.

  ***

  The morning sun bathed the manicured greens of the Sunnydale Golf Club in a golden glow, the air crisp with the scent of cut grass. The course, exclusive and pristine, was as carefully maintained as the town itself-neat, controlled, and devoid of surprises. Just the way my father liked it.

  I followed my father after offering brief greetings to the staff, keeping pace as we made our way to the trio waiting at the first hole. My father carried himself with effortless confidence, while I remained watchful. The men ahead weren't just fellow golfers—they were his associates, if you could call them that. Their livelihoods didn't just thrive in Sunnydale; they flourished under Richard Wilkins III's good graces.

  "Ah! Mornin′, fellas!" my father greeted them with that ever-present warmth.

  Police Chief Hansen, a stocky man with a perpetual sunburn, gave a silent nod, adjusting his hat before stepping back to let the Mayor take center stage. He wasn′t the kind to engage in small talk unless necessary—his job was enforcement, not conversation.

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  Howard Prescott, councilman and owner of Sunnydale Plaza—or, more relevantly, Megan's dad—was already mid-laugh at something the man beside him had said before we arrived. It was the kind of laugh that lingered just long enough to seem polite, but not a second more.

  "Ah, Mr. Mayor! A fine morning for a game, wouldn't you say?" His grip on his club was a little too tight, knuckles white against the leather, but his smile didn't falter. Then, with a quick glance in my direction, he added, "And young Richard! Learning the ropes, are we?"

  I returned a polite, neutral smile.

  The other man was William Chase, a real estate developer with a less-than-sterling reputation. There were plenty of rumors swirling around his business practices, but the one that stood out to me was something I remembered from another life—his inevitable fall from grace. Cordelia Chase's father, who strutted through Sunnydale with wealth and influence, would one day make headlines for tax evasion, dragging his family into bankruptcy and scandal.

  Unlike Prescott, Chase didn't immediately greet my father. He was lining up his shot, laser-focused, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  "Good morning, Mr. Mayor," Chase said absently, taking his swing. The ball arced smoothly, bouncing neatly onto the green. He exhaled, finally turning toward us with a quick grin—sharp, calculated. His eyes flicked toward me.

  "You any good at this, kid? Or is your old man keeping all the talent?"

  I shrugged, gripping the straps of the golf bag "I manage."

  My father chuckled, stepping forward for his turn. "Lovely form, Bill," he commented, setting up his shot. "I hear it's been a good quarter for real estate."

  Chase's grin tightened. "Steady as ever."

  "Steady is good," my father mused, adjusting his stance. "Consistency keeps things nice and predictable." His swing was effortless, the ball sailing further than Chase's. No gloating, no need for it. He simply turned, brushing off his slacks before shifting his attention.

  "Howard, how's business?"

  Prescott straightened, as if preparing for an interview. "Sunnydale Plaza′s doing well. Had a bit of a trouble with an outsider trying to set up shop, but well…after some discussion, they saw reason."

  I didn't need to ask what kind of discussion. It probably didn't involve any lawyers.

  My father nodded approvingly. "Good to hear. Always best when people come to the right conclusion on their own." Turning towards the chief of police, "How are things on your end, Hansen?"

  Hansen let out a low grunt, "We had some folks causing trouble last weekend. Drunk college kids, mostly."

  My father gave him a knowing smile. "Ah, youth. Full of energy, no sense of direction. But I trust you took care of it?"

  Hansen just nodded, rolling his shoulder. His eyes scanned the course like he was trying to spot a potential problem. He wasn′t much for words, but then, he never needed to be.

  I tried not to shift in place, watching the way everyone adjusted their demeanor to my father cadence. This wasn′t just a game—it was a performance, a carefully choreographed dance where everyone knew their place.

  Chase exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He hesitated for just a second—just enough to betray the fact that he knew what he was about to say wasn't entirely welcome.

  "You ever think about making this town a little less, I don't know, closed off?"

  Prescott scoffed before my father could even respond. "Last thing we need is a bunch of out of towners stirring up trouble. We′ve got a good thing going."

  My father smiled, almost indulgently, as he leaned on his club. "Expansion′s a tricky thing, Bill. You let the wrong sort in, and suddenly, everything starts changing. " He gave a small thoughtful pause. "And change isn′t always good."

  Chase′s jaw tightened, but he nodded, like he knew the conversation was over.

  I had known for a long time that my father had control of this town down to the smallest details, but it was always fascinating to see it in action. This wasn′t a negotiation—this was a series of gentle reminders. Prescott and Hansen didn′t need them. Chase though? He was sweating under the collar, and it wasn′t from the morning sun.

  The rest of the game followed in a similar vein, and by the time we were through the last hole and walked to the clubhouse, the conversation had thinned into easy pleasantries. Deals had been reinforced, boundaries reestablished. Everyone knew their role, and my father, as always, had left nothing to chance.

  The staff was already waiting as we approached, greeting my father with a respect that bordered on reverence. Drinks were set out, a light lunch prepared, every detail arranged exactly as expected.

  Hansen excused himself first, muttering something about work to be done, though he lingered just long enough for my father to give him a final nod. Prescott stayed, ever eager to bask in proximity to power, engaging my father in idle talk about city council matters that didn't interest me.

  That left Chase.

  He held his drink in one hand, turning the glass slowly, as if contemplating something he wasn't sure he wanted to say.

  "Bill," my father said pleasantly, tapping his fingers on the table, "I do hope you're not still chewing over our little talk back there."

  Chase blinked, snapping out of whatever thoughts had occupied him. He forced another grin, but it sat heavy on his face now.

  "Of course not, Mr. Mayor," he said, lifting his glass before draining it in a single gulp. "Just thinking about business, that's all."

  "Good man," my father said, his smile widening. "You're an asset to this town. I'd hate for you to lose focus."

  The meaning sat between them, unspoken but undeniable. Chase understood. I could see it in the way he nodded too quickly, in how his grip on the empty glass tightened before he set it down.

  Lesson learned.

  Prescott chuckled, oblivious or simply choosing not to acknowledge the shift in tension. "Well, another fine morning out, gentlemen! I dare say we should do this again soon."

  "Indeed," my father agreed, rising from his chair. "Always a pleasure."

  Prescott left soon after, and Chase didn't linger much longer, making his own quiet exit. I didn't need to watch them go to know that neither had forgotten anything about today.

  My father exhaled, stretching his arms before looking at me. "Well, son," he said, tone light, "what do you say? A morning well spent?"

  I studied him for a moment, then glanced toward the course where Chase had walked away, his shoulders a little heavier than before.

  "Depends on what you were trying to achieve," I said finally.

  My father grinned, clapping me on the back. "That's the spirit. Always thinking ahead. Speaking of which, I hear you've been keeping busy with the school paper."

  I nodded, already anticipating where this was going. "Yeah. Just something to do."

  "Good, good. Idle hands and all that." He adjusted his cufflinks, then gave me a knowing look. "You'll make sure it's something worthwhile, won't you?"

  There it was. The unspoken expectation.

  I forced a casual shrug. "I'll do my best."

  "That's all I ask." His voice was light, but I knew better.

  We stepped outside, the sun climbing higher into the sky. The morning had been long, but the day was far from over.

  And tomorrow, school would start again, and the school paper would be waiting.