Touch The Fire

2 : The Five

" Power isn't always controlled. Sometimes it wakes up—hungry, reckless, and aching to be used. "

***

By lunch, my head's still spinning.

After English, Justine cornered me in the hallway and declared we were sitting together for lunch because, in her words, "there's too much tea to sip alone." Honestly, I'm grateful. The questions in my head are screaming, and I need someone who seems at least slightly interested in giving me answers.

The cafeteria is buzzing, trays clattering, laughter echoing, someone somewhere blasting music through a Bluetooth speaker. I spot Justine near the glass wall by the courtyard, sitting like she owns the place, legs crossed, hair glossy and perfect despite the humidity. I weave through the chaos and drop into the seat across from her.

"Hey," I say, exhaling like I just survived something.

"Finally!" she exclaims, jabbing a chip at me like she's accusing me of something criminal. "Why didn't you tell me you were a Dumore?!"

I blink. "Because... I didn't think it mattered?"

She looks at me like I just told her I don't know what Wi-Fi is.

"It's just a last name," I offer, pulling out my sandwich.

She snorts, almost choking on her drink. "Just a last name? Clara, the Dumores are one of the five families who built Wildecliff from literal dirt and tree roots. You're basically town royalty."

I pause mid-bite. "What?"

"Don't play dumb. I assume you're well off?"

I hesitate. I mean, yeah, we live in a three-story house with too many guest rooms and a staircase that curves like a movie set. But that's from Dad's job, not some ancient vault of inherited gold bars.

"We're... comfortable," I say cautiously.

"Exactly what my mom says when she's trying not to sound obnoxious," Justine laughs, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "Okay, clearly you have no clue what's going on here. Let me break it down."

I nod, relieved and a little nervous. The information floodgate is opening.

"There are five founding families," she says, ticking them off on her fingers. "Dumore, obviously. Then Bradshaw, you'll meet one in a sec. The Walkmans. our English teacher, yeah, he's one of them. The Hallewells, that's me. And the Turners." Her voice flattens at the last name like she just tasted something bitter.

I connect the dots. "Jake?"

"Bingo." Her lips curl like the name itself leaves a bad taste. "His family basically took over when yours left."

I frown. "My dad never mentioned any of this."

"Of course not. Adults love to keep the juicy stuff hidden under lock and trauma." She pops another chip in her mouth. "But yeah, your family used to be a huge deal. Like, main character energy. When the Dumores left, the Turners swooped in and started pulling strings like we're all puppets."

That checks out.

"Do you seriously not know anything about your roots here?" she asks again, brows creased.

Our roots, Clara, are buried deep within another world.

Dad's words hit me like a punch to the chest. I remember the way his voice dropped when he said it. Like it mattered. Like it meant something. But of course, he never explained what that meant. Just another cryptic whisper, another door slammed shut before I could ask more.

"Apparently not," I mutter.

Justine looks at me sympathetically, slight disappointment flickering across her deep brown eyes.

I force a smile, but something cold settles in my stomach.

He must have a very, very good reason for keeping me in the dark. Right?

Except, if that were true, wouldn't he have told me something by now? Anything? We uprooted our lives... again, to come to this town, and he never once mentioned that we were basically royalty around here? Never said, Hey Clara, by the way, our family helped build Wildecliff, and everyone still knows our name?

Not one word.

He's always been quiet about his past, always brushed off questions with vague answers or changed the subject entirely. And when I was younger, I accepted that. I figured maybe it hurt too much. Maybe something happened here, something he didn't want to relive.

But now?

Now I'm starting to think the opposite. That it's not pain he's avoiding, it's me.

What else hasn't he told me?

I keep hearing his voice echo in my head—

Our roots, Clara, are buried deep within another world.

At the time, I thought it was metaphor. Poetry, or trauma, or both. But now, it feels literal. Tangible. Like there's a whole damn history carved into this town, and our name is right in the middle of it.

And I'm the last to know.

Anger flares low in my chest. Not the violent, dangerous kind that makes things float or c***k, but the quiet, bitter kind. The betrayal kind.

Because if he's hiding this, what else is he keeping from me?

Does Margot know? Has she always known?

Am I the only one stumbling around in the dark, while the people closest to me just nod along with Dad's silence?

God, it makes me feel stupid.

I glance out at the courtyard, watching the wind scatter golden leaves across the pavement like little secrets. Secrets everyone else seems to already know.

"Dylan!" Justine suddenly calls out, and I turn in time to see a guy approaching. Brown tousled hair, lean frame, hoodie sleeves pushed up, and a grin that's both lazy and lethal. He's got that laid back, California casual look that somehow works even here, in a town that feels like it's stuck between seasons.

He slides into the seat next to her and throws me a smile that could melt asphalt.

"Dylan, this is Clara Dumore," Justine beams like she's just introduced royalty to royalty. "Clara, meet Dylan Bradshaw."

Another founding family. Of course. His dark blue eyes catch the light like sapphires, and his freckles are scattered like stars. There's something familiar about him, like I've seen his face in a dream I can't fully remember. I don't like how that makes my stomach twist.

"So the Dumores have returned," he says, locking eyes with me. "I thought it was just a rumor."

I return the gaze, but warily. "Nice to meet you. Are you related to Jake Turner?"

He barks a laugh. "Straight to the point. I like that."

I shrug, feeling the heat crawl up my neck. I hate how charming he is. "No point wasting time."

"Yeah. Unfortunately," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "His mom is my dad's sister. But we're... not close."

He says it casually, but there's a shadow in his tone. A history. I file it away. His face has the same angles as Jake's, but his expression is softer, less guarded.

Jake's got brick wall energy. Dylan's more like an open door with wind chimes.

Before I can ask anything else, the cafeteria noise shifts, like the collective mood tilts. Dylan glances toward the entrance, and his jaw tightens.

"Speak of the devil," he mutters.

I look over my shoulder.

Jake. He's walking like he owns the floor tiles, leather jacket sharp against his white shirt, hair wind tousled like he's in a shampoo commercial. Beside him is another guy. Olive skin, wild curls, and a mischievous confidence that radiates off him like perfume.

They're headed straight for our table.

"Don't look at him," I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. My fingers curl around the edge of the tray. I'm not ready. I didn't take a pill. If he pushes even one button, I might blow.

Justine mutters something under her breath and folds her arms. Dylan straightens, eyes narrowing.

"You're in my seat."

A hand lands beside my arm. I don't know who it is, anger and annoyance has my vision blurred. His voice is smug and theatrical, like he's in a play only he understands. For a second, I feel the red spark rise in me.

Then I turn, and stop.

Not Jake. Just curly haired chaos with a grin.

"I'm kidding," he says with a laugh that disarms more than it should. "Heard what happened in English. Wish I'd seen it. Standing up to this i***t takes guts."

Jake exhales through his nose, avoiding eye contact with all of us. He's stiff, shoulders high, jaw clenched. It's like being here is physically painful for him. The tension between us snaps into focus, sharp and charged.

I fold my arms. "And you are?"

"Tate Walkman," the curly haired boy says, sliding in beside me. He grins like we've known each other for years. "And yes, our delightful English teacher is my uncle."

Of course. Everyone is related.

He holds out his hand. I hesitate. Something about him feels... magnetic. Dangerous in the way cliffs are dangerous, you want to get close, but you know the fall would kill you.

Still, I reach out.

The moment our hands touch, warmth floods through me. Not surface level warmth. No. It's a flood. Like being wrapped in sunlight and nostalgia and something that feels like relief. My heartbeat slows. My muscles loosen. I don't feel angry, I feel good.

Too good.

Justine snorts. Dylan side eyes me. But I can't move. It's not natural, it's too precise.

Something's wrong.

I pull my hand back. The warmth vanishes instantly. Tate's brow twitches, just for a second.

"Hmmm," he murmurs. Not to me. To himself.

My heart hammers.

"Let's go. I'm f*****g bored," Jake snaps. His voice slices through the moment like a blade. He doesn't look at me. Doesn't look at anyone.

What's his deal?

Tate throws me a crooked grin before Jake practically shoves him toward the doors. Classic big dog energy. Jake lingers behind him, just for a second. His eyes flick between us, then land squarely on me. He tilts his head slightly, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

Here it comes.

"Careful, Dumore," Jake says, his voice sharp and laced with mockery. "Keep throwing around that attitude and someone might mistake it for a personality."

It hits like a slap, dressed up as a joke.

I freeze for half a heartbeat, staring him down while my stomach tightens. But I don't flinch. I don't give him the satisfaction. I just smile, tight, controlled, slow, and raise my eyebrows like, That's the best you've got?

Jake holds my gaze for a beat longer than he needs to. Then he turns and strolls away, hands shoved in his pockets, casual as ever.

And that's when I do it.

A single thought. A whisper of power behind my ribcage. I let it leave my body. Reaching out, mentally wrapping that energy around his ankle.

I don't lift my hand. I don't move a muscle.

But Jake's foot catches on absolutely nothing, and he stumbles. Not just a little. It's a full, graceless jolt forward that makes him knock his hip into a chair, loud enough to make three nearby kids jump.

He swears under his breath, spins around, scanning the floor like it betrayed him.

He doesn't see me watching.

But Tate does.

Dylan, too.

Their heads tilt in sync, like two wolves who caught the scent of something not quite right.

Jake recovers fast, too fast, and keeps walking, straight out the double doors like he didn't just trip over air. But I catch the twitch in his jaw as he leaves.

"Oh my god," Justine mutters, slowly turning back to me. "That was... weird."

"I know," I say innocently, biting into a macaroon. "I thought athletes were supposed to be quick on their feet."

Justine snorts. "No, really. He never trips. Never. He's like some kind of... ninja."

Tate's eyes are still on me, studying. Not hostile, but curious. Cautious.

"That was odd," Dylan says, quieter. "Did you see the way his weight shifted? It wasn't natural. Like he got yanked sideways."

I force a shrug, blinking up at him with my most casual who, me? expression. "Maybe he's human after all."

Dylan doesn't buy it. Not fully. His brow furrows as he leans back, eyes narrowed like he's watching a chess game no one else knows is being played.

But no one says anything else.

The topic dissolves under cafeteria noise and the clatter of trays.

Still, I can feel it in the air. That tiny ripple I caused, that flash of control. The power still buzzes in my fingertips like a secret I'm not ready to share.

It felt good. Too good.

I'm not sure if that scares me... or thrills me.