Now he plays the white knight.
He shows no suspicion—yet.
Should he learn who I truly am, I will be dead.
“There’s a track ahead; we have a vehicle. It won’t be long.” He slips his wand away—the hovering globe of light remains—and draws out a phone. “Excuse me, I just need to make a call.”
Such a polite monster.
A soft beep sounds. “Dayna? The emergency team missed a woman, unconscious, hidden in the trees. I’m bringing her in. Could you find me a specialisthealer? She’s all right, just stunned and frightened.” He pauses, listening to the tinny reply, wholly untroubled by the fact that he is carrying me while he chats.
“No, I don’t know; she hasn’t said much, and I don’t wish to press her. A female healer would be ideal.” He listens and winces. “Yes, even Jennifer. Thanks, sis. Bye.”
Phone pocketed, he trudges on, boots whispering over crushed leaves.
At the vehicle, he settles me into the front seat, disappears, then returns with a blanket and drapes it over me. I whimper when he leans in to fasten the seat belt.
The Magic Hunter gives me a sad little smile, closes my door, and walks around to the driver’s side.
I have never been in a car before. I study the unfamiliar interior. The muted glow of the dashboard, my fingers plucking at the seat fabric. I understand the mechanics: combustion engines, pistons, gears. I watched the prototypes roll out and every refinement since, yet I never imagined I would sit in one, especially beside my enemy.
I need a plan.
Why was I wandering in the woods? Amnesia might buy time, though not much. Since the Sectors formed, every citizen is tested: fingerprints, DNA, magic signatures, species. No hiding, no escape.
Could I seek help from those I once aided? The idea chills me. I have never asked for help—only given it, unquestioningly. To pull them into danger would be cruel.
What I mustnotdo is panic. Should I falter, the Magic Hunter will sense the crack. He is clever, dangerous, unsentimental; I doubt he will look past his rigid black-and-whiteview to the rainbow shades of my existence. I still hear him call me an abomination.
For now, he answers his own questions, which suits me. The fewer lies I juggle, the safer I am. If my magic returns, matters improve. I hold a fortune the Ministry knows nothing about, and everything is for sale if one knows where to look.
I can save myself—provided I keep my nerve.
“We’re meeting a healer and another team further along,” he says, starting the engine.
The car hums to life, dashboard runes glowing as some unseen enchantment smooths the ride over every rut. No wonder Harriet wished to preserve her knowledge—born a century too soon, she might still help a technomancer become a star in this age of mage-engineers.
If I outlive the Hunter and the Ministry, I may yet carve a life in this borrowed skin. Tears sting; I amfreeof my brick prison at last.
“Are you all right?” Lander asks, brow furrowed.
I wipe my cheeks—odd, brand-new skin now tight from the salt of my tears—and nod. “Just… overwhelmed,” I whisper, truthfully.
He accepts my word without pressing.
As he threads the car between trees, I tug a loose lock of hair. Grey. Smoky, not the brown I once had. It is as though I have been cleaning out a hearth and got cinders in my hair. The ley line has not granted me a lengthy lifespan then, but I will take the years on offer.
I recall from films and television that most cars have small mirrors. I lower the sun visor, flip the cover, and catch myreflection.
Oh. Well… that is not me. I was not expecting my old face—I know that body has long since turned to dust—yet I am still surprised.
The face is young, mid-twenties to thirties, perhaps, and smooth.
The way I feel inside, I expect a reflected version ofThe Screampainting; instead, my features are blank, as though the muscles have yet to learn expression.
The eyes are lilac, not hazel, the hair smoky grey, the lips full. It seems the ley line has blended the finest traits of my lineage.
Did the magic do so deliberately? Magic is strange. Finicky. I did not intend to alter the appearances of Lark and Fred when I saved them, yet the same happened. A magical anomaly—perhaps the magic restoring us to a prime cellular age.
