Just before sunrise—around 4:30 a.m.—I rise and stretch. My joints crack in protest, and my shoulders feel tight from hours on the floor. I check the cameras.
I am not the only one who’s been up all night.
Detective Wallace is back and has been parked outside the whole time, a dark shape in his car, as if he is guarding a secret rather than enforcing the law.
I glance at Snack Thief. “You need to go. Find somewhere safe.”
He flaps his wings and settles stubbornly on my shoulder.
“No,” I say softly, “somewhere safe. Things are about to kick off, and this place will be chaos.”
He ruffles my hair and begins grooming me, beak working through strands with brisk, proprietary fussing.
I sigh and stroke the back of his head. “All right. But be careful.”
We slip out through the front door. The lights are off—no tell-tale glow to betray our movement. I ease the door quietly shut and move, wand in hand, towards the line of trees on the left side of the property. Weaving between graves, I drop into a shallow dip, body low, chin resting onfolded arms, wand still in my grasp. Damp earth seeps morning chill through my sleeves; the smell of soil and cut grass fills my nose.
Snack Thief settles in the branches above me, a shadow among shadows.
Then we wait.
At six o’clock they arrive, once again dressed in their ridiculous ceremonial robes. I wonder whether wearing them makes them feel justified, as though fabric can turn attacking an innocent into righteousness.
Detective Wallace speaks to Meredith and then leaves, tyres crunching over gravel as he retreats.
The coven examines the chapel wards, two of them already bickering in hushed but heated tones. Meredith storms up, plants her hands on her hips, and joins the argument.
I watch, very still.
They lack the time for an elaborate ritual, the kind that needs days to prepare and hours to anchor. The chapel is too well warded, and without the sanctioned apparatus they used when they tried to destroy me as House, they have no chance of prising me out. Such a set-up demands both time and permission.
They have neither this morning.
Meredith points to one of the wizards carrying a large case. He drops to his knees and, with two clicks, flips the catches open.
They huddle round, peering inside.
Whatever is in the case makes me feel odd, like my magic has suddenly noticed a predator.
At Meredith’s prod, he dips his hand inside andproduces an object—rounded glass, flat-bottomed, something suspended within.
A paperweight.
They have come armed with glass magic.
This spellwork was devised to restrain paper mages’ power. In theory, once a document is written and a single weight set upon it, no paper mage can see it or alter a word. Use several at once, and they deaden our craft completely.
An entire case of them is exceedingly dangerous.
I huff under my breath as each coven member claims a paperweight and stations themself around the chapel, waiting for the signal to trigger the glass-bound spell. Even inert, the things seem to drink the air.
I am in trouble.
Chapter Twenty-Three
At least thepaperweights suppress only active magic, not work already laid—a small mercy. They plan to sever me from my power, yet they must still break my wards to drag me from the building.
Their fatal miscalculation? The paper mage they hope to trap is not inside at all. I am hidden behind them.
