Snack Thief settles on my shoulder, nudging beneath my chin, warm and insistent. I kiss the top of his head, feathers silky against my lips.
“The detective was updating Meredith with my details,” I tell him. “Tomorrow is going to be interesting.”
“Bad,” Snack Thief croaks in his peculiar raven voice.
“Yes. He is.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I can scarcely believeI chose the surnameHouse. In hindsight, it was hardly a masterstroke, yet they are already coming for me, so what does it matter? Perhaps I can turn Meredith’s confusion—and her mounting frustration—to my advantage.
They now have my details and one of my companies—the one tied to this property. Yet every firm I own stretches back centuries, and laws vary by jurisdiction and derivative, so I am not concerned.
If Meredith wants to play paperwork games, she is welcome to try. I have had longer to practise.
I gather my tools from the storeroom and arrange practical items around the graveyard. Snack Thief perches on my shoulder, watching as I lay out spells and buckets of strange substances, each placed with deliberatecare. To anyone else it would look like gardening equipment or forgotten cleaning supplies.
Back inside, the raven hops from chair to chair, his black eyes fixed on me.
When everything is ready, I embrace practicality and the modern era. I swap my pretty dress for dark green, wide-leg trousers, a loose tunic top, and the soft boots I conjured this afternoon. The fabric sits differently on my legs—still odd, still unfamiliar—but it allows movement, and movement matters.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, thoroughly unladylike, but it is only the raven and me. My new wand rests across my knees while I close my eyes to meditate. Not the stillness kind. Meditation has always been the time when I do my best thinking. I need to double-check every preparation.
Snack Thief emits a low, inquisitive croak.
“I need to see what they are planning.”
He hops to the nearest chair, feathers ruffling, as if settling in for the show.
It does not take me long.
“They are coming early morning,” I murmur. “A raid at six o’clock. Thirteen of them—the full coven.”
They chose early morning because almost no one ventures out at night if they can help it—even magic users fear vampires. Unless you are Detective Wallace. Dawn is a liminal hour, and people do love to do ugly things when the world is half asleep.
I dig deeper, sifting through the magical threads and analysing their specialities. I did a quick check a few days ago, when they first came for me as House, but thistime I take my time, peeling back layers. No one stands out as especially powerful.
Not even Meredith.
Most of the coven are competent witches and wizards: well trained, decent enough with wands and potions. They draw on the ley lines to fuel their spellwork. A wand is the usual focus, and the sight of one almost always signals formal instruction.
They have one necromancer. I am glad I took the time to ward the graves and make preparations. Sharon can raise up to a dozen bodies at once. She can also animate birds, rats, and mice—ideal for spying, small enough to slip through cracks and vents. I shiver.
The coven’s mages are stronger, but without any rare, specialised talent. The elemental fire mage might be trouble, though. Elemental manipulation—earth, air, fire, or water—and transmutation, like turning water into ice, are always difficult to predict. A talented mage can turn even mundane things into weapons.
At least none of them is a mage who focuses outward, into the living world. Animal mages, for instance, can nudge beasts with a thought. The good ones borrow teeth and wings and claws as easily as breathing. I have not met a truly strong animal mage in over a century, and I would very much like to keep it that way.
No healers, either. A talented healer can mend anything from minor cuts to shattered bones—and some can break those same bones with a flick of a finger and a smile.
I am too keyed up to sleep, so I continue to meditate. I monitor their correspondence, review the spells I know,rework old enchantments, and recall half-forgotten rituals until my mind feels sharp enough to cut. It helps.
Snack Thief stays with me. I feel oddly bonded to the raven; his antics are absurd, and he has not stopped eating.
“You will be too heavy to fly if you keep eating like this,” I tell him without opening my eyes.
He answers with an indignant warble, offended on principle.
“Do not say I didn’t warn you,” I tease.
