“It is a house,” she replies flatly. “A sentient object, not a person. It should have been destroyed the first time people started whispering about it. You cannot interrogate it. Now stand aside and let us work. There are other threats you can chase.”
Meredith’s gaze is fixed on me, a hungry expression tightening her features. She turns and claps her hands. “Right, everyone, let’s begin. You all have your jobs.”
The Magic Hunter drags a hand through his hair and glares.
I cannot tell whether he means to protect me or dismantle me piece by piece—likely the latter. To him I am merely a curiosity, an abomination.
It should not hurt, yet it does.
But he called me‘her.’ A slip of the tongue surely.
The coven lay out their trap—sigils and lines of power, weaving a net meant to crush, bind and silence me.
And I realise, with a cold, sinking dread, that I may not get away this time.
My magic is thin, fractured. I do not wish to frighten Beryl or Fred with the truth, but my reserves are pathetic. After saving Fred, I have only embers of magic left.
Three hours pass before their preparations end—thirteen anchor points, precisely spaced—and the chanting begins.
Ancient cadences pound against my foundations; pressure blooms behind every pane of glass. A circle ignites, and white fire races along the street, creeping up my wards, its strands tunnelling inward until a single filament flickers millimetres from Fred’s face.
She reaches out, fingertips hovering over the strand.
Do not touch it,I warn.
She jerks away. Outside, my walls quake; furniture slides; plaster cracks into hairline fractures across the ceilings.
In the parlour, Beryl spins, frantic.
I could nip outside for a bit of stabby-stab. Quick, quiet. We hide the bodies, pretend it never happened. Then you ward the whole street; they will not have the numbers to send another team.
That is not who we are,I tell her. Had I wished to, I would have snapped their necks hours ago.
Her glow dims.We are not people; we needn’t play by their rules.
True,but we do not murder them for doing their jobs.
Then what?
Protect Fred. Finish your hunt and take revenge on the vampire who murdered your family.
So you are giving up?
No. I am fighting,but I will not kill them even if they are trying to kill me first. And neither will you.
The spell outside tightens. White power pushes deeper, hunting the heart of me, probing the wound the moustached mage once carved. They are not trying to destroy me—Meredith lied; they aim to control.
My wards snap inward like taut elastic, abandoning street and garden. The neat lawn browns, shrivels; flowerbeds collapse to dust. Curtains vanish. Furniture—my sofa, the family photographs in the front bedroom, Harriet’s favourite lamp—vaporise to feed my magic.
Fred and Baylor race downstairs into the hollow shell I have become. Only Fred’s possessions upstairs remain; the rest is bare timber and dust.
Outside, the circle flares brighter; with less of me to grasp, it bites harder at what is left. Heat licks my joists; runes only I can see crawl across the exposed plaster like glowing ivy. A low-frequency hum builds until even Baylor whines and paws at his ears.
I wrap my lilac magic around the invading spell and push.
It is like forcing back a waterfall with bare hands.
The circle bucks; the thirteen anchors blaze as the casters pour in more power. For several dreadful seconds, the pressure wins, probing for a core to hook and drag free.
