I want to ask whether he is all right, but silence feels wiser. He clearly dislikes Jennifer and, shamefully, I am pleased. I blame the rude healer. It has nothing at all to do with the Magic Hunter.
“According to Jennifer, you’re extremely healthy,” Lander mutters, starting the engine, and we pull away with an abruptness that makes my stomach dip.
I do not know whether he is angry at the healer… or at me. Does he want me to be more injured? Or does ‘healthy’ mean something dangerous in his head?
I am not about to analyse him. That way lies madness. Instead, I nod politely and stare out of the window.
“So,” he says after a beat, “Jennifer picked up traces of your magic, but there’s no record of you in our system.”
Ah. She is not merely a healer. Jennifer’s wandwork was more than medical; she has already logged me. It was a stealthy identification check, most likely carried out with the device in her hand.
He does not ask a question, so I ignorehim, fiddling with Fred’s jumper as the scenery changes. The forest recedes, giving way to glowing buildings. Wards shimmer across their façades, magical adverts rippling over sleek white surfaces—beautiful, alien, disorienting.
Sleek skyscrapers gleam, their glass and steel skins etched with faintly glowing runes fed by invisible currents of magic that pulse through the sector like electricity. Ivy-clad cottages nestle beside futuristic towers, their chimneys breathing enchanted smoke into the dark.
Lander keeps his eyes on the road. “What’s your name?”
Oh, good grief. A name. Of course. I had not even thought of that. What on earth should I call myself?
I can no longer be the woman I once was. Hearing that name—thinking it—tightens my chest. Being murdered tends to do that.
That was a dead name. That woman died. I was House, and now I’m not. There is grief in that. For all my resentment, I was something. Someone. Needed. Now? I do not know.
I remember Fred teasing me about names. She rattled through a list, hoping I would pick something beyond House. Laughing at my disinterest, she said, “Harper.” A name beginning with H, a nod to what I was. Fitting.
“I’m Harper,” I mumble.
It feels right.
He hums. “And where do you live, Harper?”
Rules, legalities, bureaucracy—he’s fishing.
“I, um… I am between residences,” I say, as though uncertain. Not a lie. Then I clamp my mouth shut. Let him assemble the pieces; he seems the type who needs every one.
“Between residences,” he echoes, tasting the words. He nods slowly. “And your family?”
My mind flickers to Fred, Baylor and Beryl, safe somewhere far from this car, far from Lander’s questions. If he is here with me, they are not being hauled to a black site to be tortured.
Beryl will protect Fred and Baylor.They will protect each other. And Fred’s vampire… he will not let the humans or the Ministry keep hold of her for long. They are safer away from me.
“I have no family,” I tell him. “They are dead. I have no one.”
He offers no condolences, asks nothing further, just nods, knuckles whitening on the wheel.
I continue to stare out of the window.
“Well,” he says after a beat, voice clipped, “considering you had a house drop on your head, I still have questions. You’re a witness.”
My heart thumps.
“So perhaps,” he continues, “you can stay with me while we sort this out.”
“Pardon?” I turn and stare. Did he just?—?
The Magic Hunter wantsmeto stay with him.
Why can’t he behave like a normal person? Why can he not drop me at the nearest hotel instead of insisting I remain and answer his questions?
