I walk on as though my foot were dry, denying them their amusement. The chill seeps up my leg, but I refuse to limp.
A knot of shifters loiters near the doorway. I tuck my arms in, clutch my bag close, and slip past them without a word. John enters behind me, hat clenched in both hands, fingers worrying the brim.
Inside, an unfinished hallway greets me. A staircase rises on the left; to my right are two doors—one likely the front parlour, the other perhaps a dining room. Straight ahead, I imagine, must be the kitchen. Bare plaster and raw timber give off a chalky, resinous smell.
It is a modest little house, the sort built for a working-class family, tight, practical, and just enough.
The front parlour reeks of rotten spells. William appears; John nods curtly and withdraws—no doubtheading straight home. No one wishes to be caught out after dark. Night is when the vampires hunt, and no one wants to be their next meal.
I offer William a small smile. His lower lip trembles. He is pale and sweating, with a dark ring staining his collar. His thinning, mousy brown hair sticks up in odd directions, as though he has dragged his hands through it one too many times.
“William, are you well?” I ask softly, unwilling to alert our unsavoury hosts to his distress. The dread coiling in my gut tightens. I want to leave.
We are surrounded.
Without conscious thought, I draw power. I am tired, but my magic comes willingly. The well of power inside is abundant, more so with fear and determination riding me. It coils in my chest like a filament of fire pulled from the very air, hot and bright.
There is paper in my bag. There is paper in this house. Documents, maps, and architectural plans. I summon them, readying them, just in case. In my mind’s eye, words quiver on distant pages, waiting.
“So,you’rethe paper mage,” a man says, stepping from the shadows.
He is a ritual mage—I sense it at once, the prickle of foreign power brushing against mine. Dark hair, pale skin, and a villainous moustache veil his thin upper lip. I detest such facial hair. Father always said a gentleman ought to be clean-shaven.
“I always wondered which of your family wielded the magic,” he continues. “Didn’t expect it to beyou. A woman.”
He seems to be the leader, but he is not bright; the simplest enquiry would have exposed the truth, so he must be from elsewhere. The secret of my magic is poorly kept. Most people know full well who I am.
“An old woman.” His laugh is harsh, mirthless.
I resist wrinkling my nose in disgust. Old? Who is he calling old? He is no spring chicken. I am a respectable forty-three, barely halfway through life.
Pure magic users who survive childhood often reach their eighties, while shifters—on paper—can live for centuries, provided they are not too busy murdering one another. Vampires can live for millennia.
Some call us ‘derivatives,’ humans with something extra. True humans still outnumber us. We are hardly poised to conquer the world, though the vampires have lately been doing a bloody good job—one poor neck at a time.
The mage sniffs, awaiting my reply, but I remain silent. William parts his lips; one glare from me shuts him up. Sweat beads on his brow, a droplet slides from his temple, catches in his sideburn, then slips beneath his collar.
“I’ve work for you,” the mage says at last, drawing something from his coat.
“No.”
“Pardon?”
“No, thank you. I do not like you,” I say quietly. “I only work with people I like. You are rude, and I shall do no work for you.”
The shifters who surround us laugh, low and cruel.
William lets out a squeak of protest, trembling behind me. “Hestia, I beg you—be sensible. Do as they command,”he whispers, voice quivering. “Please... they shall kill me as well.”
“Oh, hush, William, you are not going to die,” I say, my voice steely. Not while I have breath in my body. “We do not work for disrespectful thugs.”
My magic flares, and the paper hones itself.
“You’ll step into that circle,” the mage says, gripping his wand. He levels it at me; its tip glows red with a primed spell. The light pulses, eager.
“Circle?”
The shifters step aside, revealing a ritual circle on the floor, with candles flickering in the breeze drifting through the empty window frames. Chalk lines, symbols, and sigils knot together in intricate patterns.
