Only when Richard lies motionless do I realise my whole body is shaking. My knuckles throb; my breath rasps in short, jagged bursts. This was so much easier when I was a House.
Sirens wail in the distance, drawing closer. The camera company must have summoned reinforcements from the Magic Sector—and, by the pitch, they are not dawdling.
Meredith’s voice turns icy. “Let’s go.”
Leaving eight disabled coven members behind, they retreat to their cars. My shoulders sag with relief. Moving the paperweights has exhausted me. I collected all but the final three.
And then I see him.
Lander Kane.
He came with them?
He stands before the chapel, wand raised, a spell glowing at its tip. As Meredith’s people vanish into their vehicles, his gaze locks on me.
I stare back, uncertain.
The spell flares.
Shocked, I am too slow to dodge, yet it does not strike me; it skims my hair and shoulder like a breeze, close enough to make every follicle lift.
Heart racing, I whirl.
Behind me lies a mage I had not noticed, sprawled on the ground. He must have been creeping up from the rear. A paperweight rolls from his slack hand.
With a thought, I flick it into the containment case and look back at Lander.
Did he miss?
No.
I have seen his magic—pinpoint precise, sharpshooter accurate. He meant to hit the mage.
He saved me.
“I—” My mouth goes dry. “You saved me,” I murmur, barely audible as he approaches.
“Of course I did.” He lifts a hand, fingertips brushing the edge of my jaw.
I lean instinctively towards him, my shoulder brushing his chest, and the contact is both comfort and danger, a warm press that makes my traitorous body want more.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
I nod, still stunned, still trying to make my lungs remember how to work.
He smiles, and it looks wrong on a man like him—too gentle. “I enjoyed the trick with the voice. Clever.”
Before I can respond, wings flutter, and Snack Thief lands neatly on Lander’s shoulder. The raven affectionately ruffles Lander’s white-blond hair, utterly familiar. Both of them stare at me.
The world tips.
“He is your familiar,” I whisper.
Lander shakes his head. “No. He isn’t. Familiars haven’t been seen in over a century and a half.” He strokes the bird’s sleek feathers with absent ease. “His name is Arthur.”
Spiky black tendrils swirl about him, curling upArthur’sfeathers like smoke.
“Wh… what type of mage are you?” I ask, scarcely breathing.
