Within hours Harriet, Mary, and the new grimoire depart. Beryl streaks away, hunting her monsters.
I wait for the small hours, draw in every brick and beam, fold the building into my filaments?—
—and move.
Chapter Nine
One Year Ago
A boy sitson the kerb opposite my gate, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he sketches me in chalk: the front bay window, the curve of the garden path, the oak tree. When he draws the chimney too tall and runs out of room for the smoke and clouds, I surreptitiously enlarge the paper.
His little sister hops from paving stone to paving stone, careful not to tread on the lines.
“Come on, Noah,” she huffs. “Mum said not to linger by the spooky house.”
“It’s not spooky—it’s cool.”
Three adults cross the road rather than pass my gate; one glances up and shivers.
Thirty-eight years ago this was little more than a graveyard of burned-out shells—riot-scarred streets mottled with half-finished construction and scaffolding. A rough sort of place, where a magically appearing house, of course, did not go unnoticed.
The Ministry of Magic wanted to investigate the anomaly, but the shifters never permitted them to enter their sector.
I have come to respect the shifters deeply. Their Alpha Prime unites a business community of mixed derivatives with remarkable skill.
Instead of the quiet residential street where I nestled for more than a century, a modern city has emerged—buzzing, beautiful, alive. The entire area has blossomed into a vibrant blend of sleek skyscrapers and riotous greenery, flowers in every imaginable hue—impressive even to me. It is wonderful.
Vehicles are banned; apart from the occasional delivery van, people walk or cycle. The streets bustle with life, and they seem happy. Yes, problems remain—vampires still hunt at night—but the shifters are fiercely protective of the vulnerable, especially pure humans, and their vigilance makes a difference.
The place satisfies the nosiest parts of me and is the first location I have everchosen.
For years everything is normal—my version of normal, at least—until I make a mistake.
I know I should not have done it, but I had to save her, I had to, and I do not regret it.
Last week, a woman, bitten by a shifter, crashed into my gate.
Lark was bleeding. Dying. Like Beryl, she had all the derivatives in her blood, and I might have performed a little magical tinkering.
I plucked out the shifter fragment in her blood, did something I certainly should not have, and… well, I healed her. I twisted the magic a little more than usual and, to make it work, gave her a small slice of myself. Then, to replace and fill in the gap, the magic gave me a small slice of Lark in return.
Then she left—or rather, ‘left’ is the wrong word. I easily found out where she lived, in an apartment building down the road, so I tucked her into bed as though nothing had happened. I lied to myself that everything would be all right.
Yet every action has consequences.
That lesson is hammered home when the mage arrives.
The children see him and run for their mother; I cannot blame them.
White-blond hair. High cheekbones, pale skin. Pale celadon-green eyes, such an unsettling green, the exact shade of greenware pottery. Tall, all lean muscle, dressed like a hunter in black combat trousers and a T-shirt.
He stands beneath the oak tree, leans against it, arms folded, one leg propped, head tilted as he stares straight at me, at my wards, assessing. Curious, dangerous.
His magic resembles spiky black tendrils. It coils around him like smoke, bleeding from his skin. He keeps his power locked down tight, yet it still leaks. He is that powerful—so powerful I dare not reach out with my magic; he would feel it the moment I did.
I watch him.
He watches me.
