“Good gracious,” I mutter, blinking spots, “perhaps a little too much energy.”
I try again, halving my power, yet the chamber still blazes like midday sun behind closed lids. Frustration coils in my chest. Perhaps using a focus is foolish. Perhaps I am the problem. I have not wielded a new wand since training, though every magic user is taught focus work and duelling; our parents insisted we learnt to protect ourselves.
I used to be very good.
Maybe I simply possess too much magic.
On the bright side, the building has not exploded.
With careful restraint, I finally shape a perfect luminous sphere. It hangs above my palm, steady. I send it to the ceiling, then create three more in succession, sending them to every corner and banishing every shadow. Satisfied, I roll my shoulders, tighten my grip on the wand, and turn to combat practice.
I must decide precisely how to neutralise Meredith’s people: kill, maim, or merely subdue?
Preferably not kill—if I can avoid it.
Electricity is too lethal; I discard it. Instead, I practise a secure, non-fatal binding spell, then drill several counters to fire and water—the lazy choices against a paper mage. I refresh my command of air and earth as well; the magic snaps into place with the surety of old muscle memory.
I have plenty of tricks up my sleeve—spells I could not cast while I was House, because my mission then was to keep my existence secret and everything quiet. That is no longer the case. I need not stay silent, nor must I shrink myself so that others can feel better about themselves.
Before Jeff left for the weekend, he showed me the camera system: off-site storage, external monitoring. Indelible footage—no one can claim it doctored. If a fight erupts, the service will alert the authorities and preserve evidence. It will not guarantee my safety, but accountability is sometimes the only weapon that matters.
I spend the day and well into the night preparing spells for every eventuality. Quick-access charms will catch them off guard. Let them come in blind.
Meanwhile, I monitor Ministry personnel. No one expects a paper mage to monitor technology. Even so, trueover-caution would have kept their written correspondence as sparse as Lander’s.
Lander.
Lander is silent—no traceable messages, which troubles me, yet tomorrow’s strike does not fit his style.
I do not trust the Magic Hunter, but I still want to see him. Ridiculous, really, when all this began with his quest to destroy me. Yet a foolish, girlish part of me still finds him irresistible, even though I am two hundred and five years old and far too old to be swayed by appearances.
I leave the bunker and, turning the corner, walk down the path to the chapel’s front door. In the small car park, a police car waits.
I am glad I removed the outer wards so people can reach the property; otherwise I would now be explaining my protective enchantments to an officer in the dark.
As soon as I appear, the policeman climbs out of the marked car. He is a large man, wearing no uniform—only an ill-fitting brown suit. He tugs at his sleeves as he waddles towards me. The sun is setting; it is after ten.
Why is he here so late? Late visits from authority rarely bode well.
“Good evening,” he says, his voice low and measured.
I nod, fixing my gaze just past the tip of his nose so he feels I am making eye contact. “Good evening, officer?—”
“Detective,” he sneers. “Detective Wallace. And who might you be?”
“My name is Harper.”
“Harper what?”
“Harper… House.” The words escape before I can think. Why did I choose that? I could have picked anything. Yet it feels right—odd for a surname, but fitting. I have spent the last few days trying to shed my past, yet ‘House’ is who I am, and who I will always be.
“House,” he repeats, arching an eyebrow. He flicks open a small notebook, finds a blank page, licks the tip of his pencil, and writes down my name. “And what reason have you got to be here, Miss House?”
“I live here. I own the property.”
“You do, do you?” His eyebrows climb higher with disbelief.
“Yes. I inherited it… along with the family business.”
