“Then I’m not kicking in the door of a perfectly legal residence because the hedge is too straight.”
They argue in low voices. The officer wants to push; the mages dislike potential fallout. At last they shove a notice through the letter-box—occupier to contact the Ministry of Magic within fourteen days—and retreat, vowing to return ‘with proper paperwork.’
Beryl drifts off the console table and hovers above the notice, her point twitching.What do you reckon?
They will be back,I say,and next time, they will have permission to break things.
I sit with that. The Ministry tightening its grip. Neighbours whispering arson. New walls on the horizon. Death notices piling like fallen leaves.
Harriet and her family already live in the Magic Sector—visas, checkpoints, forms in triplicate. One more rule and she may never cross this border again.
We could always kill whoever knocks,Beryl offers.Nice, simple solution.
No,I answer, though the notion tempts me. Killing the odd shifter or vampire who stumbles into my jaws is one thing; slaughtering officials on the Human Sector doorstep is quite another. The full weight of the new order would crash down.
So what—sit tight and hope they forget the weird house on the map?
I stretch awareness along telephone wires and paper trails—Ministry memos, sector maps, property registries.
No,I decide.We move.
Beryl grows still.Move where, exactly? Planning to sprout legs and stomp off down the road?
Not quite.
I tell her what I have learned after months of research:
A strip of land sits between the two shifter walls—an uneasy, mixed-species buffer zone officially designated a joint commerce and enterprise area. Humans, shifters, vampires, and mages may live and work there under shifter protection.
The Enterprise Zone.
On a quiet street, an empty corner lot waits beneath a single oak tree, its roots curled deep in good soil. The paperwork still readsvacant residential plot—pending development.
That close to the shifters?Beryl says.Are you sure that is wise?
The shifters should leave us alone; humans and the Ministry are less inclined to mind their own business. The Enterprise Zone border is practically militarised.
There are vampires in that zone too,she points out.You really fancy being between a wall of wolves and a nest of leeches?
If the wolves want to keep their little strip of peace intact, they will not let anyone torch a magical house on their doorstep.I can file flawless paperwork and weave perfect wards. You can stab. Between us, we manage.
Beryl hardly stays here anyway; she is always off working with otherhunters.
She hovers, vibrating with unease.And how exactly are you getting there?
I have been thinking about that for years. I can already fold my awareness through paper, slip along filaments, bend physics in small, local ways. If I can shift consciousness, why not matter—at least the matter that is me?
Like a magical snail. Theoretically possible. Utterly reckless. The magic required will be enormous; it may take years to recover, if I recover at all.
Magic,I reply.
You might die,Beryl says bluntly.
I recall the Ministry officer promising to return with a warrant. I could easily make that paperwork disappear, but the neighbours speak of arson, and the rising anti-magic rhetoric is in every local paper.
Staying here and waiting to be cracked open feels like the greater danger. I am powerful, yes, but not infallible. A concerted group of magic users could still seize control of me—like the ones employed by the Ministry.
I would rather risk myself than be caged a second time.
